Duty(3)

“Nah, I'll just put in another order online,” I say. I go over to my footlocker and pull out my clothes for sports. Being on the triathlon team has its advantages, the main one being that I don't have to dress like everyone else does. Instead of the loose jogging pants or standard shorts that everyone else wears, I pull on the full-length padded cycling tights that make sure I don't snag any fabric in a sprocket or chain. “By the way, you got any glue?”

“Yeah, you can use it when you get back,” Cho bitches before pulling on his glasses. “How do the BCGs look?”

Cho insists on calling the glasses by their nickname, BCGs, or birth control glasses, because nobody has ever, ever gotten laid wearing a pair of them. I bet you could put one of those Instagram girls in the middle of Washington Plain buck ass naked except for the glasses, and she'd get no play at all.

“You look ready to go f*ck shit up. Who are you guys playing today?”

“H company today, man. We win, we go to the playoffs. We lose, season's over. We get to the playoffs, and Captain Larson said he's giving the intramural team a week of PMI. Fuck, I could use a week of relaxed room inspections,” Cho says with more passion than he normally does. He catches a lot of flak from the Tac Department about his cleanliness, which I don't think is all that bad. He just seems to have the worst luck in the world of having that one item left out or that one thing out of place when the TAC comes by. “Still, some of the smacks are bitching, saying they're getting too busy for football. Except for Yeager. That guy's a goddamn psycho. God help whoever the f*ck he goes against when boxing comes around.”

“Well, good luck,” I say, grabbing my clip-in riding shoes and heading out the door. I jog down the stairs and out the door, clearing the last three steps to the quad in a jump and taking off. While every member of the triathlon team has an assigned bike, I want to catch the good weather and be well on my way before five o'clock, when the cannon sounds retreat and you're supposed to stop, face the direction of the flag, and salute. I don't really have a problem with it except that it can f*ck up a good training ride.

I get to the room and check in with Captain White, our Officer-in-Charge, and grab my bike. “Where you headed today, Aaron?” Captain White asks. That's a good thing about him—he's willing to treat us cadets like regular people. “Remember, you've got your race in April and that lead-up sprint tri next month.”

“I'm going to go out to Bear Mountain Bridge today, sir,” I reply. “Figure it'll be a good ride, and then on the way back in, I'll do some hill laps from Gillis around Michie and back a few times.”

Captain White nods. “Do those hills in as high a gear as you can. You need to work on your anaerobic power. All that hockey muscle hasn't transferred to the bike as well as I'd like. And if you need more time than that, I've got the static rig ready here for you, too.”

That's Captain White. He knows our times and splits like the back of his hand. I pull my running shoes off and do the Velcro on my bike shoes, borrowed this semester, but I'm hoping to get my own pair next semester. “Hooah, sir. I'm off.”

Snapping my helmet on and putting my sunglasses on top of that, I start off, doing an easy ride toward the Point gates. It finishes my warmups, and by the time I hit the gates and ride out toward the Bear Mountain Bridge, I'm leaning over my handlebars, cranking. I take the course that lets me avoid most of downtown Highland Falls, the town that exists right outside the main gates, which is just too much a pain in the ass with traffic. Instead, I stick to the less crowded route. Up ahead, I see another bike, and I wonder if another of my teammates decided to do the same route I did.

As I get closer, I see that the bike's not one of the Corps' bikes. We ride Diamondbacks, mainly because they're cheap and long-lasting, according to some of the firsties. Not a bad bike, a hell of a lot better than what I rode back home in Michigan, but then again, I took a while to get used to the racing handlebars too. This person though, they're riding a Specialized rig, a bit more expensive than what the US Army is willing to pay for its triathlete cadets.

I pull even and glance over, cracking an easygoing grin. “Hi.”

The other rider barely glances my way. “Hi.”

I can tell from the sticker on the seat post that it's a USMA registered bike. Whoever it is lives here, and it's a she. Still, we're both going a good speed, and the words are ripped from our lips nearly as soon as we speak. “Where you headed?” I say loudly.

“Don't know, just out for fun,” she yells. “You?”

“Bear Mountain Bridge,” I reply, pointing. “You down for pairing up?”

“Sure,” she shouts, taking the lead. She's got good form. That Specialized bike is a lot lighter than mine, and she pulls away quickly. Grinning, I click down a gear and pedal, letting myself get into it. The burn starts in my quads, and I'm loving the feel of it, but sadly, the Bear Mountain Bridge isn't all that far, only eight miles even if I include the long lap around the parade ground, and we're soon watching the bridge approach. In the last quarter-mile, I pull up next to her and keep pace until we reach the limits of the bridge. Since it's a toll bridge, it's a good place to turn around.

Instead of turning though, she stops and climbs off her bike. I slow and circle back, and I see that she’s checking her rear tire. I stop too and get off my bike, surprised by my concern. “Everything okay?”