One of the Fingers
by Kim Chinquee
I center myself on the moto, balancing my core. Out here in the open air, on the road, wearing long pants, my ref jacket, whistle, timer, helmet. My driver is from England, not far from where I used to live when I was in the Air Force.
Cyclists use their legs, helping them go forward. It’s my job to make sure they’re not drafting, nor breaking any rules. Also: ensure safety. Today, I’m Head Official.
When I see athletes grouping on the bike course, I tell my driver to slow, follow, and the athletes tend to self-correct, moving single file outside of the draft zone. I’m an athlete myself.
We ride up and down the course: twenty-six miles of vineyards, farms, and hills. Along Lake Cayuga; it’s one of the Fingers. I give my driver orders, and we stop here and there to chat. He’s a retired physicist who came to the US by way of Cornell. I’m a professor myself. He also is an athlete.
It’s a thrill, on the back of his motorcycle, speeding, slowing, speeding, feeling the air, seeing the athletes on the bike, knowing what that’s like. The burn of the muscles. The breath. The hard climbs, sailing through the downs.
We wave to police directing traffic.
Part of this course shares a Half Ironman route I’ve done more than once and will do again next month.
As I start the two-hour drive back home, I listen to a novel on audio, and I imagine myself on the moto, imagine myself on the bike, pushing on the ups, speeding through the downs, the clean breeze on my face, and oh, the beauty of the landscape, and the lake! Again, an uphill and a down one! Faster, faster—wee!
Turning left, I see lights behind me, the police. I’m still wearing my official gear. My hat and shirt and jacket and my whistle.
I pull over, unroll my window, and a cop steps up and asks me for my license.
I say, “Was I speeding?”
“It goes from 55 to 40 down to 30.”
“Oh,” I say, handing my ID.
He says, “It’s not a race.”
Kim Chinquee’s eleventh book is Octopus Arms. She’s Senior Editor of New World Writing Quarterly, Prose Editor of Midwest Review, and Associate Professor of Journalism at SUNY-Buffalo State. She’s a competitive triathlete, a Certified USA Triathlon and World Triathlon Official, and lives with her three dogs in Western New York.
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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “One of the Fingers”? I find it interesting to be riding on a motorcycle monitoring cyclists during races. (As an athlete myself, I appreciate the work, especially on the inclines.) I tried to capture my fascination with that (and the beautiful landscape) in writing. During a race, one is aiming for speed and endurance, whereas, as a driver in a car, one must adhere to the speed limits! I worked on several revisions of this piece, and recently changed the title. And ending, which I hope sings.
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