I just want it to be spring again…

The Bicycle Experiment (coda): Cabin Fever

I generally hate this time of year. As a daughter of Spring (April birthday), I’m at my weakest. My city has been covered in snow for the better part of the past couple of months, so I’m not getting as many miles in. Cyclocross season has been over for a month or so and road season seems so far away, but not so much that I don’t need to start training. I’m either cooped up at work or in my apartment, or fighting the cold and storms to get from one to the other on my beater bike. Worse yet, it seems that the forest is devoid of game, as I have no new targets to hunt. So, you know what this means… Despite the failure that was the most recent bicycle experiment, I still find myself thinking about that dirty lad on two wheels whether in the dark of night, or trying to stay awake during dull meetings at work. It’s gotten so bad that I’m tempted to go to a bar or coffee shop, pick out the first guy I see with good, strong-looking legs and take him home only to ask him to put on a kit and brag about the time he podiumed at a race despite a broken rear derailleur before I ravish him.

The most recent fantasy takes place before a race during a course pre-ride. Once again, he’s chased me down in the woods and we’re in a secluded area a bit off the path.

I hasten to unzip my jersey and slide off the suspenders of my bib shorts. “You better hurry, they’re going to call staging for my race.”

“Not a problem.” He pulls my hair and starts kissing me while his hand slides between my legs. I’m so wet at this point that I’m surprised that I didn’t completely soak through the chamois on my shorts. “I just want to see how much I can make you come in that amount of time.”

He spins me around and I brace against a tree. I feel his cock enter, slow, teasing.

“Please.” I say. “Fuck me harder.”

“Since you asked nicely…”

He increases speed and I feel his hand trace around my waist followed by his fingers strumming against my clit. This is not going to take long, I think as the wave starts cresting already. I just hope that I’m not so loud that we get caught. The last thing I need is a DQ before I even start my race. Some cyclists are spinners, where they ride in the smaller ring of their crankset at a faster cadence. Others are mashers, choosing the big ring at a slower cadence. Based on how hard and fast he’s fucking me, I have no way of knowing which one he is. I reach behind me and rake my nails against his hard, muscular thighs. I hear him groan for a moment, biting my shoulder, but proceed even harder and faster. Fuck, I love it when he goes hard. I remember watching him ride up a steep hill that most other racers were carrying or walking their bikes. The thrust of his hips, his straining leg muscles forced the bike forward as he dripped with sweat, breathing heavily. Fucking me from behind while we’re in the woods just seems so animalistic, primal.

I’m vaguely aware that they’re calling staging for my race.

“Come for me.” I order.

“You didn’t ask nicely that time.” He pulls my hair.

“You can either come now or I leave to stage while you stand there with your bibs around your ankles and a raging erection.” I figure I’m making an excellent point here.

He obliges me as he sends me over the edge again with a few hard thrusts and his hands grasping at my breasts and hips. I can feel a few panting breaths against my neck and shoulder followed by a few gentle kisses. As he withdraws, I feel his hand continue to rub and stroke between my legs.

“Let’s see if cum is any better than chamois butt’r at preventing chafing.” He says, giving my ass a slap as I try to get my kit back on. No one has ever said male cyclists were the most mature, but that sort of juvenile humor is kind of endearing.

My heart is racing as I hurry to the starting line. Fortunately, as a new racer, I’m usually placed near the back, so I get there in time. Along with rushing to get there, my heart is pounding from the knowledge that I’m dripping wet from him, wondering if anyone saw us rutting off the path.

The women’s elite racers get a minute headstart. I’m swimming in my adrenaline-soaked headspace when the whistle goes off for my race. I manage to stay with the group until the first really sharp turn. That doesn’t matter. I brake slightly before going into an off-camber section. I remember something he once said, “Brakes are for cars.” Of course, it would never occur to him to slow down, but I’m not as seasoned of a racer as he is. I’m afraid of losing control. I’ve already ceded enough control to him. That momentary distraction was enough to cause me to nearly go off into the course tape. I lean hard to the left and unclip, pushing off with my left foot and correcting my turn before I crash right into the tape stake. Focus.

When I get to the runup, my stomach sinks in dread. Of course, there are more spectators here to heckle. Not to mention so many other racers are stopping and getting off their bikes, causing a bottleneck. I see a familiar kit near the top of the hill and decide to take a page from his book and try riding up the runup despite all better judgment. My quads are screaming at me and I’m wheezing like an old vacuum cleaner, but I keep going. They say look where you want to go, but I can’t take my eyes off of him as I am standing in the saddle.

He smirks as he puts his fingers to mouth and licks them. It was only minutes prior that those same fingers were stroking me, making me tremble and cry out his name while he was fucking me. I keep pushing forward, still hypersensitive from our encounter. I can feel my clit rubbing against the nose of my saddle even with the chamois. I see his tongue lap against his fingers and that about sends me over the edge.

Other riders who had the sense to dismount on the runup have about passed me, but I don’t care. All I can see is that cocky smirk, that gleaming tongue against those dextrous fingers. I can’t believe I almost made myself come with my bike, although it would fall in line with a friend of mine’s joke: “El, I don’t think there’s anyone or anything you can put between your legs that will ever give you the same amount of satisfaction as any of your bicycles.”

I burn through the first couple of laps, but by the third, I’ve slowed down despite cranking it with everything I’ve got. All I want is to finish this race and not get lapped by the lead rider. Yet all I can see is him taunting me on the hill. I don’t know what felt better, him fucking me or the burn in my legs from riding up the hill when all logic and reason would have dictated otherwise.

Fourth lap, or “laaste ronde” if we were in Belgium. I think he may have actually qualified for Belgium one year. I feel like I’m about to throw up and I’m considerably less graceful in my dismount, running over the barriers and remounting. Yet I’m so close. The off-camber sections are practically old hat at this point, but that runup still looms. Could I do it one more time? I’m not even looking at him this time since I really need to focus, but I can feel his eyes on me, challenging me to ride all the way up the hill, to not care that I’m practically coming in front of everyone as I do (or at least practically making the same sounds as I push myself).

Once I’ve finished the race, spent, panting, heart pounding as I walk my bike to the parking lot. I see him standing by his truck talking to some people. Or, more accurately, I can hear him before I even see him considering how loud he is. I’m practically leaning against the frame of my bike as a crutch as I drag myself up to see him.

“You looked good out there.” He pats me on the shoulder.

I stare at him much in the way I imagine a lion looks at an antelope. I still can’t say anything since I’m trying to catch my breath. I’m dripping in sweat, kit all dusty from riding in the dirt, and probably look terrifying, but I don’t give a fuck. I grab him by the fabric of his jersey and kiss him, not giving a fuck about who sees. I put my bike in his truck and then throw him in, closing the door behind me. I’m glad it’s the covered windowless sort as opposed to the flatbed type. I’ve had enough observation for today and I want to show him that I still have at least a round or two of riding left in me…

Well, there you have it. I’m going a bit mad here so either the weather or my sexual prospects better improve soon.