“Bicycles!” Mary Ann called out as soon as we were near the beach. “Let’s rent bicycles and ride along the strand.”

I was skeptical. Not being particularly athletic was only one of the reasons. I was also not that well-versed in bike riding and immediately was sure I’d run into either one of the walkers on the path along the ocean or, worse yet, one of the oncoming bicyclists. Still, not wanting to be viewed as an inept fool by this lovely woman who seemed able to look past my less-than-svelte body and moderately paying job as a high school band director, I forced myself to nod enthusiastically and say, “Yes! Let’s do it.”

Thirty minutes later, after parking and working up a sweat just getting to the bike rental place, we were all set. She had a yellow women’s bike and I had an obnoxious baby blue men’s one, and we pushed them through the sand to the bike and walking path that was luckily less busy than I had initially envisioned. There were only a few walkers so far and a handful of fellow bikers who were peddling by in a relaxed manner. Perhaps this wouldn’t be the disaster I was certain it would be.

Off we went, me, admittedly wobbly at first, but I was behind Mary Ann, so she could not witness the shaky beginning. She rode off with confidence, and soon I was peddling for dear life just to keep up. I could feel beads of perspiration break out on my forehead and soon was aware of the trickles of sweat under my arms and on my back that I knew would soon drench my white polo shirt. Oh dear. I had not expected to make such a poor showing quite so soon.

Mary Ann turned and waved, flashing her straight white teeth. She really was a beautiful woman, and I felt a surge of energy just looking at her. I would make this work and not ruin what seemed like perhaps the last opportunity to woo a woman as a mate. She continued down the strand with me in hot pursuit. I decided to simply let go for the fear that my profuse sweating would be a turn-off. What else could I do anyway?

I was just getting my sea legs about me, so to speak, when a handsome and athlete man could be spotted coming towards us. He had the look of a seasoned bicyclist, leaning forward as if he were in a race, and he had a steely expression on his face as if he were concentrating on a long-sought win. I wobbled a bit just looking at him, feeling the age-old humiliation of schoolyard showdowns with bullies; they, of course, always leaving me in a pink-faced heap of indignity on the ground after they pushed or tripped me into submission. I just couldn’t let Mary Ann witness yet another moment of public shame.

I took a deep breath, straightened my back, held on to the handlebars with both hands and pedaled as hard as I could. With luck, I would fly by him looking competent enough not to draw his attention.

However, the moment he drew near, I could see contempt crease his face, and I knew I was back in that schoolyard yet again. He sat up on his seat, hands-free from the handlebars, and jeered, “Fatso, get off the strand. You’re so big you’re taking up both lanes.” His loud laugh could easily be heard as he flew by me as if he were the champion and I was nothing but a smear on the path.

Mary Ann was close enough to hear his words and I felt my face and neck grow pink with embarrassment. She pulled off the path and waved for me to do the same. I expected nothing less than to be greeted with scorn and informed it was time to return our bikes and head home. Instead, once I dismounted from the bike, she came over to me and threw her arms around my sweaty neck. “I just hate bullies, don’t you?” she said. “I much prefer more genteel musical types like you.”

I felt happiness well up from my toes. “Thank you,” I said. “Shall we continue on our ride?” She nodded, and I, feeling suddenly like a gallant knight, helped her climb back atop her bicycle.