Velodrome

Rumors had circulated about it, this home, fantastic in its pomposity, since even before construction had concluded. Now there was the ogling, the unsavory hectoring, building a domicile with these features, dimensions and capacious girth.

The home, though not beautiful, was so magnificently massive that it commanded a begrudging respect. A single family dwelling of this size. What the hell. It was asinine, such a thing. At the very least, it was expected that it housed assholes. They'd have to be assholes to occupy such a behemoth. Egomaniacs that absolutely took themselves too seriously. But wow, the size!

There were so many bedrooms and bathrooms that nobody really knew the final tally. It's fully built-out basement with home theater and auxiliary media room, roof top deck plus a roof-top full basketball court, a garage large enough to host a high-end antique racing car show, if desired, but at the moment it was not. So large, was the home, that a professional footballer could stand at one end and was unable to huck a football in the air to the other end. Beyond reach both in length and width.

People would drive from all over to witness this monstrosity of magnificence. They knew nothing of the owner or family within. They knew only that the home was certainly an exterior shell hiding the weaknesses of a very shallow human, or family of humans. Nobody was really sure, of course, because the inhabitants did not commingle with outsiders. In fact, they didn't really mingle. They kept to themselves, like they're too good for everyone else. What assholes, those who reside there, right?

The laughter was wonderful, loud and inviting, the total lack of restraint. Four of them. Father, mother, two youngsters plus a dog. The laughing, not at each other, but at all of themselves, each enhancing the ebullience of the others. Magnanimous laughter enjoying their camaraderie.

They lived there, this family. In the house that purportedly contained assholes, these were the purported assholes. But, all they really were was ridiculous. They would be defenseless in the face of that accusation, not that it would bother them. Though they would likely giggle, especially the little ones.

The laughter slowly cascaded to a close. The father, still catching his breath after all that gregarious harrumphing, offered a precautionary suggestion. "Almost ready, you fun bugs. Get another drink, catch your breath . . . and here we GO!" Closing the sentence with an alarming amplitude of decibels amply diluted by laughter. 

He was riding a bicycle, the father, in the house! In the fantastically too large domicile he commenced at what most would definitely denote a too fast rate of speed. 'Why is he riding indoors? And riding at an outdoor rate of speed? But why's he inside,' they would certainly ask, and they would be correct in its asking.

Meanwhile, his speed escalated as he blew past the coat closet, wet bar, pair of elevators, and sports room. The bicycle zipped down the hall, through the family room, office, continuing through the laundry room, eventually letting out into the grandest of large garages for a 180-degree turn, then back in through the kitchen, down the hall, through another family room before eventually egressing into the polished floor of the jai alai court where they would turn again to continue their cycling loop.

Trailing dad were the two youngsters on bicycles of decreasing size. Smiles as large and wide as their young faces, hair plastered to their sweaty foreheads, riding hard to keep pace. Momma followed behind the children, a slight worry in mind. Not of accidents. The lot of them were helmeted, fully decked out in personal protective equipment of elbow pads, knee pads and wrist guards. Accidents would happen, have happened, and will happen again. She worried they might get discouraged if they couldn't keep up with their father. Really, the guy had no restraint and would get lost in his own personal delights on these indoor rides. But no, nonsense such worries. The children, again, already laughing reveled in the chase. The joys of bike riding. The joys of riding indoors, and being fully sanctioned to do so. They were well practiced by this time. This had been their evening routine for weeks and they'd become quite good and agile, the nimble lot of them. 

The mother, smiling and lovely, buoyed by her halo of golden hair. This was the sensible one. When her husband had first proposed a bicycle ride, the whole family, she thought 'How wonderful.' His proposal, though, was not yet played out. It was not a normal bicycle ride being proposed, as unveiled by the additional details that tumbled from his mouth. There would be the pushing aside of furniture, clearing hallways of all loose carpets and most artwork from the walls, throw rugs gone, sculptures from the hallway tables, tables from the hallways. All the extra large double-doorways would be opened. (You build a dimensionally fantastic domicile of this size, you do not door it with single-serving doors.)

The look on her face listening to her husband blather on. Her patient grace, staring into his face waiting for the give, the wink betraying the joke. It did not arrive. There was no joke in it. A proposal of sincerity. She loved this man. She also knew beyond a doubt, as much as she loved him, that he loved her with a beautiful reciprocating love that outdistanced even her own generous issuing of the same. Disbelief accruing, yet undecided. 'What am I missing? What is he talking about, an indoor bike ride?' 

She was sitting on a hallway end table, hand resting comfortably on an expensive vase, her legs poking out from her sunflower yellow sundress, the one with prints of foxes in playful animations. Her feet dangling off the floor swinging back and forth, legs like two beautiful opposing metronomes, patiently waiting for it to pass, if it would. Then his big finish.

". . . because look at this place," he said with arms outstretched, eyes open wide, though not wide like a crazy man. Eyebrows arched and a generous smile, then going forward. "This gigantic ridiculous home. It's ours and it'd be a shame to treat it with untouchable reverence. Let's not waste this. And besides," bringing his arms in, hunching slightly to speak with her eyeball to eyeball. "And besides," he continued sotto voce, a hand resting gently on each of her thighs, his frisky lopsided smile. "We'd be assholes to do such a thing, the untouchable reverence. Look, I can be an asshole, but not most of the time. You're not. The kids are sometimes, but they'll outgrow it. Let's make the most of this fantastic beast of a home with it's too big hallways and impeccably straight uncluttered straightaways one after the other. We Iive in a phenomenal place like this. We cannot waste it. We mustn't." He then booped his nose to hers as if to punctuate his point.

She smiled. She loved him and his idiosyncrasies. Pausing to consider her options, not rushed and a non-awkward silence loomed. He was putty in her hands. They both knew it, but he didn't know that she knew it. She was his moral compass. He, of course, needed such a steady weathervane as this, a reliable means to adjudicate his occasional, though, grandiose cases of whimsy.

"You want this to be our own personal hippodrome," smilingly teasing him, an effort to clarify before deciding.

"Uh, actually, and you should know this, that's where they race hippos," correcting her, he thought, accentuated with two raised eyebrows on his forehead as if pleading, 'You do know this, of course, right?'

She knew, of course, but was amused at his misplaced admonition, so she gracefully allowed a reprieve from issuing her own unto him. 'How did he get along and function before me,' rightfully went the thinking. Then the reward of yet unspoken consent.

She kissed him on the lips. Not slow, nor was it hurried, and was then prepared to make a statement. Knowing the response was at hand, he withdrew to his full height kindly relinquishing her personal space.

"OK, but if we're going to do this, we'll all need new bicycles. They'll be our indoor bikes. We'll have a family outing this evening to get them. But first, dinner. Come. Chicken pot pies." Without awaiting a rebuttal she deftly dismounted the table with a grace that spoke to the vestiges of her athletic adolescence, and walked down the hall toward the dining room. He watched her move down the hall and his heart went pitter pat. It wasn't just because of the pot pies.

That was two months ago, the scene of inception.

"Dad, I'm tired. Can we stop riding bikes now and swim in the pool, please," asked the youngest. 

"Two more laps. Come on. Catch daddy," he yelled back, then accelerated, the kids giggling, pedaled harder at the challenge.

He rode, mouth wide open, the sweaty mess, and he was yell-laughing with joy. An overriding thought playing out in his head, a sincere recurring mantra of gratefulness, 'How fortunate am I. This is my life! This is my life!'