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"Don't Be Such an
Irene"
By Monique Cole
Phil
can almost feel Adam's breath on his neck as they scream down
a steep, ledgy jeep road. Phil endos and Adam has no other choice
but to add insult to injury by leaving tread marks on his back.
"None of this would've happened if you hadn't been such
an Irene," Adam says to his whimpering friend. This expression,
used by my friends to belittle each other, has its roots in a
horror story from my tour guiding past.
Irene and her boyfriend, Bob, were New
Yorkers who signed up for a Moab bike tour to escape the stress
of med school. Irene was late for breakfast the first morning
but, boy, her hair and makeup were impeccable. In a fabulous,
brand-new halter top and shorts outfit, she looked right
out of a "Fat-Tire Fashion" spread in Vogue.
At least it had chamois - she was going to need it. Although
she had rated herself an "intermediate mountain biker"
on the sign-up sheet, Irene revealed she had only ridden a bike
once in the past 15 years. Apparently she had been a hell on
wheels when she was 8.
Bob, on the other hand, fancied himself
a hard-core. "You went on a long ride last weekend, didn't
you," queried Irene. "Yeah, it was about seven miles,"
Bob answered proudly. "Oh boy," I thought with a quiet
sigh, "babysittin' time."
Something possessed me to mention the
difficult Hurrah Pass to Amasa Back loop with its hike up a steep
cliff. Irene said, "That sounds like fun," and started
obsessing about that ride serving as their grand finale. Nothing
I said that week could dissuade her, nor could get her rear end
out of the saddle for downhills. She would sit up, straight as
a schoolmarm, with one foot pointed to the ground and her unused
toe clip raking dust and sandstone.
The dreaded day finally dawned for our
"last hurrah." Irene's brake pads got more of a workout
than she did on the back side of the pass. Frequent stops were
required for lipstick re-application and bike seat adjustments.
Pain in a certain private area was causing Irene to whine on
a regular basis. Poor Bob wasn't gonna get lucky that night.
Our progress was further slowed by Irene's
insistence upon coasting. On the gently undulating trail the
slightest effort could maintain a decent pace, but on each downhill
Irene would coast until her momentum slowed to a stop, then she
would pedal again with a grimace. "Try to keep spinning,
even if it's in a low gear," I repeated through teeth clenched
with impatience. "When are we going to get to the hike-a-bike
section?" she kept asking as if in response.
Irene had that look in her eyes guides
have nightmares about. It says, "I'm going to give up miles
away from the nearest road and you'll have to cart my carcass
out of here on your back." Diagnosing blood sugar depletion,
I forced a Cliff Bar on her. Although I had carried about twice
as much food and water as usual, we were running low thanks to
her 3-mph pace. Worse, a thunderstorm was building on the horizon
as we neared Amasa Back.
After looking forward to this all week,
Irene really wanted to tote her own rig up the cliff. But she
was so painfully slow and the thunderstorm so dangerously close
that I started a shuttle system. I would climb ahead 40 feet
with my bike, set it down, then go back for Irene's bike and
coax her through the steeper sections - even without a bike on
her shoulder she was almost paralyzed with fear. I didn't relax
until we had ridden the spine of Amasa Back and started the rutted
jeep road descent.
Once again Irene had a death grip on
her brake levers. "How about if I ride ahead to get lunch
started and you stay with Irene," I suggested to Bob. After
a six-hour ride that should have taken four, my hunger had increased
in inverse proportion to my waning patience. I barely waited
for Bob's affirmative reply before escaping and surrendering
myself to gravity. By the time the two arrived at the truck,
I had prepared an enormous taco salad, fresh guacamole, and a
platter of sliced fruit. "You did great, Irene," I
said, trying to sound sincere and thinking, "I don't get
paid enough for this."
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