“I’m Dale Presser.” He indicated the woman standing beside him, who was in her late thirties or early forties, Abby guessed, tanned and cheerful-looking, with the glow of someone who’d spent much of her summer outside. She had a round face, and her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that probably fit neatly under her helmet. “My wife, Kayla.”
“The old ball and chain!” Kayla Presser’s smile was cheerful, more open and less guarded than the one her husband had produced. She wore a short-sleeved purple cycling jersey, cycling shorts, and low-cut purple socks, and looked fit, but not intimidatingly so. The boys also wore black Lycra cycling shorts—Abby imagined there’d been a fight to get them into the close-fitting, padded garments—and tee shirts. “And these are our sons,” Kayla said, pointing at the two boys, who towered beside her. “Ezra’s fourteen, and Andy’s sixteen. They are both delighted to be here, and not back home playing video games with their friends. They can’t wait to put their phones away and get out in the fresh air.”
That got some smiles and an I-feel-your-pain nod of commiseration from Lily. Abby would have expected grumbles and rolled eyes from the boys themselves, but Andy, the older one, smiled at his mom, while Ezra made a show of handing over his phone. Andy was taller than both of his parents, skinny and freckly, with bright blue eyes, with a nose that dominated his face, hands that seemed too big for his arms, and enormous feet. He reminded Abby of her brother at that age. Simon would eat and eat and eat and still be hungry—Abby remembered enormous bowls full of pasta or cold cereal, entire half-gallons of milk and sleeves of Oreos disappearing in an afternoon. Ezra was built more along his father’s lines, a little shorter and broader.
“First bike trip?” Abby asked and wasn’t surprised when Kayla answered for the family.
“Dale and I used to bike together before we had kids,” she said. “This is our first trip with the boys. We’re glad to be here.”
“We’re glad to have you.” Abby watched as Andy sidled toward Morgan and said something that made her smile. Good for you, kiddo, Abby thought.
“Next!” Abby knew she could postpone it no longer. She braced herself, remembered every encouraging thing Lizzie had said to her, and pointed at the two men she’d avoided looking at, the ones she was already thinking of as the Inevitable Bros. She’d been on rides with guys like them before: fit-looking men with expensive equipment and haughty attitudes. Frequently, these men were former high school or college athletes looking to relive the youthful triumphs they’d notched before time and knee replacements slowed them down. These were the riders who’d inevitably dismiss her tips about ignoring their devices and noticing their surroundings; the guys who would always choose the extra mileage options when they were offered and then spend meals comparing splits and climb times, cadence counts, and resting heart rates. They’d make travel plans with the goal of checking big climbs and centuries off some kind of imaginary list—although, for all Abby knew, the list might be real, and every young-to-middle-aged male cyclist in the country might have been issued a copy. For all the enjoyment they seemed to be getting, these riders might as well have stayed in their basements, grinding out the miles on the Pelotons they always had （and which they’d always let you know had been acquired before they got trendy and, subsequently, untrendy）。 Guys like these, in Abby’s experience, were the demographic least likely to believe that women in general, young women in particular, and young, fat women most of all, had any pertinent experience, skills, or expertise. They did not, as a rule, join in group rides that went at Abby’s pace, and when they did, they would ignore her, argue with her, talk over her, or treat her with a polite condescension that was somehow worse than scorn.
She was unsurprised to see that today’s Bros both had top-of-the-line road bikes fitted with high-end components and skinny leather saddles that made her tender bits ache just to look at. But maybe this was a good thing. Maybe, Abby thought, she wouldn’t need to hear them comparing their heart rates over lunch. Maybe they wouldn’t even stop for a lunch break, and they’d just throw down some salmon jerky and a Gu at a red light, before racing away at eighteen miles an hour. Their loss.
And their choice, Abby reminded herself as she tried to consider the young men objectively. One Bro was Black, in his early thirties, a little stocky, a few inches under six feet. His brown skin had reddish undertones; his hair was clipped short. He had dimpled cheeks and a cleft in his chin and wore a gray-and-white jersey, a gold wedding band, and steel-rimmed glasses that he’d pulled off and was polishing with a cloth he’d taken from his back pocket. He gave Abby a friendly smile. Maybe not so bad, Abby thought.