Here’s a Man With Both Wheels Firmly on the Ground

We’re waiting in line for the Ferris wheel, our daughter in tow, when Richard tells me to check out the couple standing to our right.

I turn. I look.

“Yeah?” I say.

“The legs, the legs. Look at their legs,” he says.

So I look again. They’re a good-looking couple, youngish and blond. They’re both wearing shorts. They both have nice legs.

“Yeah?” I say. And then it hits me. The man’s legs are as shiny and smooth as his wife’s. I detect not even the suggestion of hair. It looks like the guy gets his legs professionally waxed.

My husband’s grinning. He thinks it’s great. He wants that to be us.

“Oh my God,” I say.

So it has come to this.

Frankly, I thought Richard’s fascination with bicycling would go the way of his previous flings with computers, afternoon basketball games, John D. McDonald novels and soap operas. These passions were torrid while they lasted, but ultimately they did not. Last, that is.

“I think I’m going to shave my legs,” Richard says.

“Oh my God,” I say.

This has been going on for months, this pushing, this testing of the limits. I think that having a husband with shaved legs is the limit.

“It really helps if you fall down,” Richard says. “Hair gets in the way of cleaning wounds.”

You know where he gets this, of course. His fellow biking cultists. These are the men, there are about six in Richard’s cell, who rise before dawn to hit the pavement pedaling by 6:30 a.m.

Not only do they appear to believe this business about shaved legs, but they program such propaganda into susceptible minds like that of my husband. Richard was a man in search of an outlet--what our ancestors used to quaintly call a hobby--and they zeroed right in.

At first, the changes were subtle. OK, he needed a new bike. I could understand that. I’m always up for shopping.

He looked around, comparison pricing. Finally he settled on a Trek, a brand I had never heard of, but then again, I was willing to concede that the only bicycle name that rang a bell with me was Schwinn.

I have since learned that among biking cultists, riding a Schwinn is the bicycle equivalent of swimming with a nose plug.

Then Richard met Marcel, who owns a nearby bicycle shop. Marcel, who used to ride professionally in Europe, is a man of strong opinions.

His opinion of my husband when he showed up for his maiden ride with the big boys was that he looked like a hobo. The Trek was hardly worthy of comment.

Looking back, I think this must have been the turning point, kind of like the scene in the movie where the coach tells the kid that he’s too scrawny to play pro ball and that besides, he’s got his jersey on backwards. By the end of the movie, the kid is not only playing pro ball, he’s lined up $2.5 million in commercial endorsements.

So here’s how this macho motivational therapy worked its magic on Richard.

Next thing I knew, my husband, a khakis-and-oxford-cloth man who had previously shunned cotton T-shirts as too form-fitting, began sporting skintight Spandex shorts and jerseys in garish colors. Advertising, for coffee and banks and bicycle manufacturers, clung to his body.

He subscribed to several bicycle magazines. He joined the Orange County Wheelmen. He became a frequent caller to the bicycle hot line.

And, of course, he bought a hand-made Italian bike and all the accouterments. The latest to arrive in the mail--no kidding--were stencils of his bike manufacturer’s logo that he had ordered from Italy.

That’s right, the man has gone off the deep end--with his bicycling helmet on.

Now, I don’t want to seem like too much of a whiner about all this. The truth be known, biking has given Richard a new lease on life. He feels great and looks terrific.

Just the other evening, when he pulled the car into the garage and the headlights illuminated his fancy Italian bike, Richard was moved to say that he truly loves bicycling. I tell you, it nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Yes, it’s true that my formerly frugal husband has spent an inordinate amount of money on his quest for biking excellence. He’s stopped telling me what things cost.

Yes, lazy weekend mornings are a thing of the past. If we eat breakfast together on a weekday, it’s only because rain or illness has kept him from riding, which means he’s in a foul mood.

And, no, I can’t remember the last time our bedroom was free of the odor of Ben-Gay.

But all things considered, in my book, bicycle riding beats all of Richard’s former obsessions hands down.

Although, as far as I know, Richard never once thought of shaving his legs while he was watching “General Hospital.”

Dianne Klein’s column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Klein by writing to her at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7406.