Alberto #2

When I started making a serious go of cycling, I made a conscious decision to get rid of stuff in my life that wasn't working: friendships with people who weren't really friends; alcohol; excessive eating; late nights; and sex. Without going into too much detail, that final decision was the result of a couple of extremely disappointing incidents during 2008 which made me wonder exactly where my priorities were. So. No guys, no booze, no being Bridget Jones.

That does not mean, however, that I'm dead or oblivious. I participate in a sport where guys wear tight Lycra, after all, and while Spanish guys will never be known for being burly and ripped, one notices things. The way the light will illumate a particularly well-toned calf; watching an arc of cyclists take a downhill curve, barely touching the brakes as they form a perfect line of velocity. And then there's Alberto.

No, not that Alberto. (I think I saw THAT Alberto last weekend and I must say that, in addition to being far too young and probably too rich -- now that he's won damn near everything under the sun --nah. Just, nah.) Alberto lives a couple of blocks from me (he was one of the first to say hi to me and ride with me to the clubhouse back in February.) Most people probably wouldn't consider him good-looking in a classic sense but by God, can he ride. Boy, has he got legs and does he know how to use them. Yeah, he buys his gear at Decathlon. But no other guy in the club has the guts or the legs (or the tan) to wear white culottes and look damn fine in them.

I may be boring and celibate and sober but I'm not DEAD.

Thinking of both Albertos does get me up hills on a regular basis, but only Alberto #2 cheers me on. Only Alberto #2 has given me his phone number (which I have hesitated against using because I don't want to cause problems in case he's not the one picking up the phone on the other end.) Only Alberto #2 let me draft his wheel going up San Pedro a couple of weeks back and had no idea (or if he knew, he didn't let on) that I stuck so close to his back wheel just because it was a joy to watch him dance on the pedals, to make it look so effortless. Even today, as we were coming down from El Vellón, there was a moment where there was a short but intense uphill segment and like a ballet dancer, he balanced himself slightly on the brake hoods, arched his back, and pulled himself and the bike up the hill like something out of a Degas masterpiece. There are faster, stronger, tougher cyclists in the Chamartín, but none who I enjoy watching as much.

Still, I have no choice but to keep temptation in check. I work from the assumption that every man in the Chamartín is either married or seriously involved with someone. I push hard, don't let myself get too fall behind, make an effort to be a pal or a good team member because I don't want a repeat of the AG situation where the unnegotiatble condition of being a female - not one I can change or mitigate - comes back to slap me upside the head and haunt me for months to come. I tell myself that no man has the right to try to separate me from my cycling (and that I have no right to expect one to do so.)

So far, I've been pretty good with the early bedtimes, and I don't go too nuts over sugar. With a couple of notable exceptions, I haven't missed alcohol at all. But this is a tough one to keep in check. So it's either learn to be faster and keep up with the group he rides with, or learn to squelch any kind of pining before it gets out of hand.