I did something I probably shouldn’t have done.

I stopped in the shop yesterday right before they closed. I made sure Ruth wasn’t there, and I grabbed the clipboard with the names of everyone signed up for the class. I took a photo of their names, emails, and phone numbers.

I called them all up, one by one, and offered them $300 each to not show for the class. They all agreed to my deal, and if things go how I plan, Ruth and I will be alone for the entire class.

I arrive five minutes early.

Shit, I’m never early. I decide to circle around the block and see if there’s anything cool nearby.

It feels damn good to be on a bike again. I spend at least an hour every single day working out—usually in my private gym. I jog in Central Park maybe twice a week, but something about being on a bike feels right. Maybe it’s nostalgia, or maybe it’s just the feeling of blowing past all the cars jammed up in bumper-to-bumper New York traffic.

The Fixed Gear is near the edge of Chinatown. I usually avoid Chinatown—it’s often packed full of tourists, and you can get better Chinese food in Flushing anyway. It seems like Brooklyn has bled into this area more than Chinatown though—there’s a bunch of coffee shops and places offering “artisan” variants of basic foods like donuts or scrambled eggs. I stop in at a coffee place called The Coffee Snob.

The guy standing behind the counter is wearing a collared white shirt and black slacks, but he’s got tattoos going all up his neck. There’s one single table in the place with two chairs, and I’m on the only customer.

He just nods at me, and I look up at the menu. There are only three choices: Espresso, Latte, and Cappuccino. No prices are on the menu.

“I’ll get an espresso,” I say.

Without verbally acknowledging me, he goes to work. He grinds the beans, tamps them, and pulls the shot fast and efficiently.

Before I know it, he’s got a shot of espresso on the counter for me.

“How much?” I ask, reaching for my wallet.

“You decide,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him, but he just looks down at the cup.

“Alright,” I say.

I take a sip, and it’s fucking fantastic. It’s better than any espresso I’ve ever had, and I’ve had good espresso before. The layer of crema is thick, and the pure taste of the coffee hits me like a bullet, leaving no bitter aftertaste.

“So I pay you what I think this is worth then?” I ask.

He nods.

I slap $100 down on the counter, and his eyes actually widen a bit at that.

“I invest in good businesses,” I say, leaning in toward him. “If you opened a shop like this uptown…”

“I’m the coffee snob,” he says. “I can’t trust anyone else to do it like this—”

“That’s a bad business model. You can’t expand if there’s only one guy.”

He shrugs. “I’m the coffee snob. It’s my gimmick.”

“You really think you can’t train someone to do this 70% as good as you, 80%?”

“Look, man,” he says, sliding the $100 off the counter and holding it up to me. “Would you have paid me $100 for something only 80% as good? 80% as good doesn’t cut it. You’d probably have just given me five bucks if it wasn’t as good as it was.”

I laugh, realizing he has a point.

Either way, something 80% as good would still make a killing uptown. I take out my business card and put it on the counter. “If you change your mind, call me.”

“I won’t,” he says, grinning.

I get back on my bike and head to the Fixed Gear, and I realize I’m late, but only five minutes or so. Being fashionably late usually works out, but not when I’ve paid the rest of the students not to show up. Now I’ll just look like a jackass.

I open the door, and a big guy with a beard grunts at me.

“I’m here for the class,” I say.

He points toward the corner, and I see Ruth standing in front of a handful of empty chairs. She’s still got the thick glasses and the dorky haircut, but she’s wearing a fairly tight tank top and a short skirt. She’s even got knee-high socks on that make her legs look even longer. I catch myself staring a bit, which is absurd considering that I regularly fuck supermodels.

She looks up at me and smiles nervously, then waves.

I smile back, trying to ignore all the empty chairs.

“Did I miss the class?” I ask. “I thought it was—”

“No,” she says, “Just... very low attendance today.”

“Oh,” I say, “We can wait for more to show—”

“I think you’re it,” she says.

I lean my back against the wall, then I grab one of the empty chairs and slide it a few feet forward. “No problem, let’s go.”

She starts lecturing, but it’s very dry and to the point. She’s basically just listing off stuff as if she were reading from some kind of New York State bicycle law handbook.

I listen patiently for about ten minutes, but I realize I’m completely zoning out. I catch myself just checking out her legs a few times. And her tits. When I look back up I see her blushing nervously at me.

“Hey,” I say, interrupting her lecture.

Her eyes widen, and she looks down at me confused.

I stand up. “Didn’t you say we’re going to go for a ride at the second part of class?”

“Yeah,” she says, “But I’m not done…”

“I’m a visual learner,” I say. “Since I’m the only student, you should adapt the class to my learning style.”

“Uhh, okay,” she says nervously chewing her lip.

“Let’s go then,” I say, grabbing hold of my bike.

Ruth grabs her bike from the back and straps her helmet on. “Wilson, I’ll be back in thirty.”

The bearded guy just grunts at her.

We get outside, and I notice when I’m standing next to her that her arm is still pretty cut up and bruised.

“Hey,” I say, tapping her forearm. “Is your arm okay?”

She bites her lip and looks at me. “Yeah, it’s getting there.”

“What happened exactly?”

She opens her mouth a couple of times to respond, but no words come out.

“If it’s bike safety related,” I say, “you can use it as a teaching aide.”

I laugh, but she looks seriously at me.

“Okay, you’re right,” she says. “You know the left and right turn hand signals for bike riders?”

“Those dorky hand signals that literally no one uses?” I ask, holding my right arm up at a right angle.

Her eyes widen, and she looks down.

Shit, I’m guessing she uses those.

“Sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” she says, “You’re right. It’s the left hand, by the way. Anyway, I used that dorky hand signal, and the guy thought I was going to turn left instead of right, because literally no one knows which signal is which, and then this happened.” She holds out her cut up arm.

“Yeah, I’ve got to be honest, if I were behind someone who did that, I’d think they were turning left too.”

She nods. “So I guess the lesson is... the most important thing when biking in the city is to make sure drivers know what you are going to do. You can’t expect people who drive to educate themselves.”

“The way I bike is probably going to give you a heart attack,” I say, grinning.

“How do you mean?” she asks.

“I’ll show you,” I say. “You can tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

We get on our bikes and ride on Henry Street north along the East River. There’s a ton of congestion from cars and pedestrians.

“I’ll ride in front,” I say, “Just tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

It’s pretty fun seeing her get all worked up, so I decide to ride as recklessly as possible, just to get a rise out of her.

As soon as we approach a red light with a line of ten or so cars backed up, I just roll up onto the sidewalk without signaling at all. There’s a bunch of people on the sidewalk, so I just shout, “Bikes coming through! Bikes!”

Everyone gives us pissed off looks as they jump out of our way, I look back at Ruth and grin, giving her a thumbs up.

The look on her face is priceless. Her jaw is dropped open, and she’s waving her hand at me to get off the sidewalk. “Eric, no!”

I have to look forward again to shout more pedestrians out of the way. “Bikes coming through! Yield!”

I look back at her and see that she’s following me on the sidewalk, but she’s mouthing sorry and excuse me to everyone she passes, and they are all scowling at her.

“Great thing about a bike,” I say back to her, “Is you can go on the road like a car, but when the road is blocked, you can just shift over and be like a pedestrian. The best of both worlds.”

I look away from her before she can respond.

We hit the crosswalk, but it’s a red walk signal, and there are at least a dozen people waiting in front of us.

“See,” I say, pointing up at the green traffic light. “Now we can just act like cars and go on the road again and—”

She grabs my arm. “Eric, please let me go in front.”

“Oh?” I say, “Am I doing something wrong?”

She looks at me dead serious. “You’re doing everything wrong. It’s a miracle you are still alive if you’ve been riding like this.”

“Not like a car can hit me on the sidewalk,” I say.

“Someone could stab you for being an asshole.”

I laugh loud and hard, but she doesn’t laugh, she’s still holding my arm, I realize, and she’s frowning.

“Sorry,” I say, faking remorse because it was worth it to see her reaction. “You’re right, I saw the way everyone was looking at me.”

“This isn’t Iowa,” she says. “You can’t ride your bike around on the sidewalk. I’m going to get in front of you, and you can learn from me the right way to do it, alright?”

I nod, “Got it, teacher.”

I let Ruth in front, and I find myself looking at her ass more than the road. The skirt looks good on her when she’s leaning forward onto those drop handlebars.

We stop behind a line of cars at the next red light, and I pull up beside her. “Shouldn’t we at least move up to the light?”

She shakes her head, “It’s better to stay with the flow of traffic, just because you’re on a bike doesn’t give you the right to pass everyone by.”

“We take up less space,” I say.

“Eric, after seeing how you ride, you don’t get to make any judgement calls,” she says, showing me a little sass.

I put up both hands, “Okay, you’re in charge then.”

We ride on like that, going almost no faster than the cars in front of us.

“At this point,” I say, braking at another intersection. “We might as well just take the train, or buy a car and go as slow.”

She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I only took this route to show you how to handle car-heavy roads. You want to find a route on your daily commute that circumvents most of the traffic. I’d never go down this road if I were riding outside of the safety course. Let me show you.”

She signals a turn, and we turn right at the green light. I follow her down a narrow road with a bunch of cars parked on the roadside. It’s super narrow, but there are very few cars actually driving. The road is surrounded by tall trees that offer a nice amount of shade.

“Better?” she asks, smiling back at me.

“Yeah,” I say, “Much better.”

“It’s the same concept as avoiding Disneyworld on Labor Day and Times Square on New Year’s Eve,” she explains.

I actually have a buddy with a place right on Times Square. We sit on his terrace overlooking everything—all of the excitement, none of the crowds. Not that I’ll tell Ruth that.

“Makes sense,” I say.

We reach the East Village, and I see a Thai restaurant I’ve been meaning to try.

“Hey,” I say, “let’s stop here.”

I jump off my bike and walk it onto the sidewalk. Ruth brakes and gets off, but just looks over at me instead of following.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“It’s lunch time,” I say, and point at the Thai place.

“I have to get back to work though,” she says.

“Just tell them the truth, your student is a total dumbass, and you had to do extensive re-education to prevent him from killing himself on the road.”

“Or the sidewalk,” she says.

“Right,” I agree, and without thinking, I grab her by the hand. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

Her cheeks redden, and she looks up at me, quickly pulling away her hand. “I can pay for myself.”

“I invited you. It’s my treat,” I say with a smirk.

I grab the lock off my bike and snap it onto the bike rack outside the restaurant, Ruth frowns down at me.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“You want to lock it through the spokes too, or your wheel will get stolen”

She takes her lock out and shows me.

I redo my lock, and shake my head. “I can’t believe some lowlife would still a damn bike wheel.”