Just minutes after the click of Jonna's boots fades in the hallway, Nick listens and hesitates, hoping he is not imagining Gilmore's quick step in loafers outside his door.
The familiar salt-and-pepper-topped head pops in through his door, which Jonna left ajar. "I'll meet you in front of Bishop Hall at four, Dr. Fenton," says Gilmore with a grin. "You still feel up for the ride? I heard from Cliff James you freaked out a little yesterday; and I saw you hop into that ambulance with the medics—nice escort, doctor."
"To be honest with you," says Nick, "I need today's ride more than ever. I knew from my last checkup I don't have any heart issues. The tests they ran on me at the hospital last night showed that. You know I've had a lot on my mind, lately."
"No shit?" says Gilmore.
"But I have to say, I just met with young Jonna Kenall; that kid gives me hope we may be able to teach one or two young people to think before we retire, Jim. And whatever I have going on as far as anxiety these past couple months always feels better when I direct my thoughts to what I care about, or when I get on the bike or go for a walk. I know Marsden will tell me the same thing in our next session: common symptomatology for depression / anxiety."
"If you have to see a shrink, and in your case I think you're doing the right thing; as I see it you could not have made a better choice than Marsden."
"The doctors last night suggested I stick with the lorazepam and maybe an anti-depressant along with it, to help me level out and sleep better, too. I'm seeing my regular doctor after work today, to see what he thinks."
"Sure. Your sessions with Marsden might work better if at least for a while you cut out the highs and lows your anxiety's causing."
"As much as you know I don't want to be part of the great American pharmaceutical culture, Jim, I think you're right."
"No worries, Nick. And you're sure you're up for a roll this afternoon? If you croak and flop off your bike I'm not dragging your fat dead ass home."
"You better just worry about keeping up, Jim."
They agree to meet around 3:45 at the faculty outbuilding where they both store their road bikes, near Bishop Hall, the Emerson gymnasium and a short roll from the south campus bike path.
As Gilmore closes the office door behind him, Nick feels the general fear he knows to be in his head rise up, as the Ativan he took this morning starts wearing off. Then, he wills the fear away, as he thinks instead of how he's lucky to have friendships like the one he shares with Jim, complementing his love for Emily and Alex.
Nick grades papers from the rest of the students in the class Jonna takes with him, runs out to grab a turkey sandwich around 12:30, and then returns to his office to pick up his notes before the 1:00 start of his American short story seminar at Calvin Hall across campus.
* * *
The remaining three hours of Nick's day seemingly evaporate. He whispers an amen to himself, thinking how at least eight of the fifteen kids in his short story seminar actually read the Hemingway and Raymond Carver stories he assigns them, and that they submit decent narratives of their own. The other seven kids he will tolerate and award with Cs for their minimal effort, because they're paying customers.
Right now, sleepy but feeling himself again, the Ativan worn off, he just wants to ride. Gilmore is already in the locker room, and half-dressed when Nick arrives. As Gilmore moves to exit the locker room and get aboard his bike, the Look-pedal cleats of his cycling shoes clicking on the tiles, Nick pulls on long spandex tights. He then dons a long-sleeve top and a neoprene jacket before pulling on his cycling gloves, snapping his helmet chin strap, putting on his shades and stepping into his own cleats; boarding his bike, he snaps into its Look pedals.
"Lead the way, sweetheart," says Gilmore as they roll out onto the campus south-edge bike path, both their aluminum and carbon fiber Cannondale frames creaking, gears popping satisfyingly as they pick up the pace.
Nick smells the grease in his wheel bearings, feels the Indian summer breeze on his face, senses the lactic acid beginning to build in his quads as he stands up in his pedals and accelerates, the bike path curving downhill into a long straightaway. He feels for the moment as he did when he and Emily first found their groove in bed. He is free.
For the moment.
