That Sporting Life

She knew how to drive, but chose not to. That hardly diminished her value and her abilities in his estimation. That was fine with him. He didn’t at all mind timing his day to suit the hours she chose. They hadn’t any children, had no intention of ever starting a family. They were just fine, the two of them, able to spontaneously do as they wished, enjoy all the recreational and travel pursuits that appealed to them.

Working at a bank, but pursuing a university degree, attending after-hour classes several times a week kept her busy enough. Her studies took up enough of her time. And he was inordinately proud of her, of her determination to gain her degree. He encouraged her, spoke boastfully to any of his colleagues who knew her about how well she was doing. His intelligent capabilities quite rivalled his. They were quite the pair.

The days she attended after-hour classes he tended to while away the working hours by actually postponing attending to his work. Instead, he embarked on a circuit of rounds, dropping off to see various of his colleagues on other floors, other sections, intent on maintaining his workplace social network. And just to exercise his sheer love of banter, of departmental gossip, of discussions with respect to new opportunities. He loved to network, to socialize, to gather new people into his sphere of acquaintance. And you never knew who might turn out to be useful or influential at any time.

Late in the afternoon he would drift back to his desk, begin to attend to his own work. After the building had emptied almost at an eye-blink rate - everyone but him anxious to leave, get home to their families, look to their leisure pursuits - he was still there, working industriously away, clearing up his files. He worked overtime. And all that overtime added up, for him. The additional time-and-a-half, even though he knew perfectly well it was generally frowned upon, became addictive. Even if his superior had to defend his inflated pay in response to the deputy minister’s pointed observations. The department had been asked to cut its operating budget especially with respect to overtime.

But he knew he was a valuable asset to his section. He knew he would be protected. Austerity needn’t affect him. (He had received a bit of a scare when his superior’s secretary who had access to her boss’s email account, had emailed a chastising warning about all the overtime he was accumulating, saying he wouldn’t be able to cover for him indefinitely, and recommending that he cease and desist. He’d noted, belatedly, that those whom he himself supervised had gathered around his cubicle, and, noting his expressing on reading the email had burst out laughing. Which was when it was revealed to him that this had been a bit of a practical joke.)

He laughed with them. It was no secret, and he had never attempted particularly to hide what he was doing. And no one in a supervisory role over him seemed to be sufficiently concerned to discuss it with him, so he felt more than justified in continuing his little practise. He would leave the building just as the evening cleaning staff arrived. Responding to his own clockwork, picking his wife up at the corner entrance of the university quadrangle beside the business administration building.

It wasn’t all work for them, by no means. They were both avid sports buffs. For him, more than for her. His was a fascination with extreme sports, actually. He loved motorcycles, and drove one. A sidecar for her. They both enjoyed mountain biking. And they became bored with the mountain biking trails set aside for bikers, separate from those meant for hikers, and couldn’t care less when irate hikers, sometimes with startled and wildly barking companion animals, would berate them as they sped past after having come up unexpectedly, silently behind the hikers, on trails they knew held signage warning bikers to avoid. Trouble was, those just happened to be the trails that were most spectacularly exciting to someone on a bike. And the park wardens did little to patrol the area and to apprehend those that flouted the rules.

He enjoyed and relished the rush he felt hearing the (patent-protected) roar of his Harley-Davidson, which his wife had affectionately named ‘the beast’. They rarely missed an opportunity to enjoy Motorcycle Week by ripping down the interstate highways to Laconia in New Hampshire, where the adventure-gregarious couple loved to mingle with the motorcycle crowd. Meeting up with enthusiasts from all over North America, and as far as Venezuela (where the Venezuelan bikers complained about non-government-subsidized gas pumps) and they got to see exotic, unorthodox, anti-establishment, but happily civil, counterparts in an atmosphere of friendly rivalry.

They, unlike many that arrived in their thousands, thundering down the highways in scattered groups, rain or shine, were properly suited up with leathers and impact-saving helmets, in a state that had no highway safety laws insisting on such, and where buckling up 'because it’s the law', was meant for minors only; the state whose motor-vehicle license plate logo “live free or die” more than adequately expressed their mass credo. Fact was, there wasn't a year that went by that some poor dude driving along the White Mountain highways didn't get to meet his maker when he lost control of his bike on rain-soaked roads, waterplaining beyond control.

And sail-boarding, they both loved that. Loved the choppy water on a windy lake. To get out there, regardless of the weather, and challenge nature with their skills in handling their sailboards. Manoeuvring them close to upset for that extra heart-thumping excitement of danger, and then skilfully turning them around just when it seemed a collision would be inevitable. But area lakes were tame. And they loved to go out to Cape Hatteras several times a year - spring and fall - to challenge nature at her most merciless. Extreme weather warnings, approaching storms did nothing to cool their - particularly his - ardour for meeting the danger that nature meted out to the unwary and the unexperienced. He needed that challenge. To feel fully alive, to feel his veins bursting with the effort of controlling his sailboard in the face of huge, tossing, frothing waves hitting the far shores, and the puny board and sail, and the human intent on controlling both. His wildly beating heart, even the headache that would overtake him as he challenged weather and lake conditions exhilarated him beyond belief. Later, he would be flooded with a great wash of supreme satisfaction, of accomplishment, of pride in his own arrogance that he had faced the worst that nature could throw around and had handily survived.

He brought back lots of videos to show to his colleagues at work. He felt challenged to do that too, in light of the fact that another of his colleagues boasted about his mountain climbing prowess, and always brought in too many photos and videos of clambering well above the tree line in some pretty inaccessible places, where mountain peaks marched in lock-step one against the other, accessed by his determined colleague. Who faced off some fairly intimidating weather conditions in ascending some of those peaks, but nothing really in comparison, he felt, to what he managed to do, in the open, raging waters tossed around on his sailboard and coming out the other end of peril through sheer, heady adventure.

In some ways he was a traditionalist, however. He owned an SUV, the biggest, most expensive that General Motors produced. And prided himself on servicing it himself. Light mechanical maintenance (despite the cautions in the warranty). He didn’t sweat the small stuff, like changing oil, that kind of thing. He’d always done it, always would. Just as he looked after ‘the beast‘ pretty much on his own.

He’d been thinking about getting a sport car, too. Plenty of room in that double garage. Sitting beside the new house they recently bought. The houses spaced fairly far apart, in a part of the far-flung reaches of the city newly amalgamated to include the suburbs and beyond. Beyond was where they bought their new home. Situated on their own one-and-a-half acres. The house, built of solid brick, with a turret no less, and a grand, sweeping staircase. Built 40 years ago, on a prestigious piece of real estate, named Forest Pine Heights. The house had needed some refurbishing, and they’d get around to it all, eventually. It had been a steal, actually. They’d been hunting around for a while, were glad to sell their much smaller tract house in a near suburb, to take possession of this beauty.

One thing she did that he didn’t, was run. In the evenings, when they got home from work, she’d go out for a short run in the neighbourhood. One good way of getting to know your way around. She became a familiar sight, pumping her arms and legs, running without stop for an hour, before slumping back home again. On the week-ends, after a leisurely late breakfast, she’d go out for an hour’s run. He’d be busy puttering around with something, usually in the garage.

On this occasion he was changing the oil in the SUV.

When she returned from her run, she wondered why he hadn’t yet finished, wasn’t in the house. So she looked into the garage, and there he was, still in there.

The big vehicle had slid off the ramps he had run the two front wheels up on. Something he had done countless times before. Not just with this vehicle, but all the predecessor-vehicles they'd owned over the years. He knew what he was doing, he always felt confident that he was functionally capable and careful. And he was, most certainly.

It was just that times time something went awry. Unexpectedly. He had no time to react. The vehicle had somehow managed to slide off the ramps. The SUV slammed backward. And it had backed him into the closed garage door. Seeing him crushed, half-slumped, the vehicle pinning him, she slowly, casually turned back into the house and numbly dialled 911.
It seemed to her as though she was a disaffected onlooker to some peculiar event, as though she was watching a film, something on television. Everything looked strange. She felt dazed, recognized nothing familiar, even though this was her own house, and that was her husband out there in the garage of the new house they were so proud of.

His colleagues were shocked to hear on the local news that evening that someone they were so familiar with had made the news. His tragic death left his widow with a large house to rattle around in. She would have to become accustomed to driving herself around.

And people reading about the misadventure in the next day’s newspaper silently told themselves - those who still did their own oil-changes - that it might be a good idea to consider having it done at the dealer’s or the corner garage.