Jerry said he couldn't sleep...

I wrote this piece in the mid- or late-'80s. I'd been riding for 10 years by then and had met lots of guys more-or-less like Jerry. Guys like Jerry are not exclusive to cycling but are found nearly everywhere. Perhaps you know one.... The style, by the way, is a clumsy tip o' the hat to the late George V. Higgins, who wrote The Friends of Eddie Coyle, among other favorites.

Jerry said he couldn't sleep.

I can't sleep, he said, sometimes until two or three o'clock in the morning. I read old bike magazines. I even read articles about stuff I'm totally not interested in, like touring in India or Indiana or someplace. Or torture-tests of sealed-bearing jockey wheels.

I read old race reports, he said, just to see if they slipped and used my name. Not much chance of that happening, though. If I finished fifth, they'll print down to fourth, is what happens.

Oh, and last night, I reread that article from last year on how to time-trial. You remember, about how you can relax one leg every so many revolutions; that's really useful. If I relax even a little, they'll have to clock me with a calendar.

I sleep worst the nights before races. Not that I haven't ridden enough races to get over getting the jitters. I guess I haven't gotten over my crash, he said. Oh, yeah, I fell on a training ride about a month ago. Put a big dent in my top tube. I thought you'd heard.

This guy hit the brakes in front of me SO hard - like he was trying to stop the whole sport of cycling. I've got no idea why he did that; I think some farmer in Nebraska or someplace chased a chicken out across a country road. This guy thought we should all slow down and ride safe, I guess.

I hit the guy. I was airborne so long I thought they might charge me extra for my bike. Just before I de-biked and touched down, Andy hit me without so much as a greeting. He gave me this world-class bruise that is only now fading, allowing me to sit normally on wooden furniture.

We were somewhat upset, Andrew and I. The gentleman whose abrupt braking had precipitated our misfortune had not fallen. He had, in fact, felt my wheel hit his, he said. He felt sorry I'd been riding so close. I said I was, too.

I rode the bike home, Jerry said, but I didn't get on it much for a week or so, until the worst of the soreness went away.

It's not that I'm worried about crashing at the races, Jerry said. I'm worried about crashing and not having Bonnie around. No, we haven't been spending much time together lately. Well, really we haven't been together at all for a month or so.

I guess I got too used to having her around. Now I worry about things like remembering to eat or to pack my cycling shoes or not to get hurt.

I think she had her fill of the bikie life. Not that I'm so bad. Not, y'know, like some guys who keep their Chevelle engines in the den. Or that tourist who was down at Bob's complaining his wife didn't understand him; he'd heat a pan of grease on her stove to soak his chain. The house smelled so bad their old cat left for good.

Bonnie took her cat with her when she left, Jerry said. I hated that animal when she was here. Once I caught it digging its claws into my NoAccount Wheelman jersey. Now I even miss the cat.

Nobody knows me like Bonnie. She could spot signs of overtraining before I could. Stuff like forgetting to shave, or clean up after myself or carry dinner dishes over to the sink. You know, the kind of lapses you experience from chronic low-level fatigue and post-peak athletic form.

She didn't call after I crashed, but her girlfriend said she told Bonnie I'd fallen and Bonnie was sympathetic. Judy said Bonnie was concerned about me and my equipment. I hope he didn't hurt his precious bicycle, is what she said, according to Judy.

It drains my energy to have to find rides to races every weekend, Jerry said. Oh, yeah, the Nissan; that was her car. We used to take it all around. Like I say, I have to scrounge around for rides now, but I save the money I used to spend to put gas in that car.

I figure I can use the 10 or 15 dollars a month for laying in the store of silk tires I've been thinking about. Not that I begrudged her the money; she's the one bought me my racing wheels last Christmas.

Well, she left pretty suddenly, really, Jerry said. I came home from a 100-miler, it was a Wednesday, and all her stuff was gone. I went to take a shower, is how I knew, and I couldn't find a towel. I looked in her closet and, sure enough, she'd split.

She left me a note apologizing for leaving me without some stuff, like the towels, and the TV, and tableware. Said she was just taking what was hers.

You know, she was with me so long she had bikie talk down cold, Jerry said. In her note she said she'd thought about leaving for a long time; she'd made a firm decision. She asked me not to try to get her back.

Stay off my wheel, she said.

I don't know, though, Jerry said, if she's as sure as all that. I'm thinking about calling and asking her if she'd go with me to that stage race in Pleasantville next week. She could hand up a feed bag like no one else.

Oh, you remember that copy of King of Sports I borrowed from you that time. I'm sorry I took so long to return it. Would you mind if I borrowed it again? I'm completely out of magazines and I get really restless at night without something to read.

The last few weeks, Jerry said, I just can't sleep.