Life's a jim dandy for Al Foley. He'd put himself into a right-place-right-time situation and it worked out perfectly. Follow through was all that was needed.

Al met Janet last Saturday at an inter-branch softball game. They were introduced by their mutual friend Sarah Murning and talked for a while at the Chili's after-game-get-together. He asked for and with wide eyes accepted Janet's phone number which she had scribbled on the back of matchbook. He thought it was so perfectly romantic.

He called her up that Wednesday and asked her if she had plans that weekend. It was a trick Al learned from a contemporary men's magazine. Wednesday, it said, was the perfect day to call, as it was the perfect distance between weekends and early enough so that casual plans are unlikely. Also, saying "this weekend" as opposed to "Saturday night" leaves all doors open. Janet mentioned that she was actually busy both night, but Al said "Fine, how about Saturday during the day? Are you doing anything then?" Janet said no. Al asked if she had a bicycle and noted that the weather was going to be great. "We'll meet in the park," Al said. He was sure he could hear her smiling on the other end of the line.

The magazine hadn't suggested the Bicycle Date. Al came up with it on his own. He had done it on the spot and it struck him at once as brilliant. They would never say anything in a men's magazine about a bicycle date, but certainly he'd seen something like it in both Glamour and the J. Crew catalogue. His sister had left the former in his apartment last week and he received the prior by post. The bicycle date concept must have seeped in his head without him knowing it.

Al spent Saturday morning in front of the mirror. An hour of grooming is worth two in the gym, he thought. He shaved, clipped his nails, nose hair and goatee. He put on his best underwear (you never know), a clean pair of Dockers, a casual blue shirt and a pair of cream colored socks with brown toes. He lifted his Raleigh 10 speed to his shoulder, the same way he'd seen that guy do it in the granola bar ad. This was gonna be fun.

Janet was almost 20 minutes late, and when she finally got there, Al joked that she nearly fell victim to the 20 minute rule.

"What's that?" she asked.

"It's this thing me and my buddies do," Al explained. "If you're more than twenty minutes late, you get left and too bad for you."

"You would have ditched me if I had been two minutes later?" she asked. Al knew that tone.

"Of course not, I was just kidding. It's only with..."

"Okay, whatever. Let's get going." She hopped on her bike and started riding. Al cursed himself for bringing up the 20 minute rule. Where did he get that? You don't talk about the stuff you do with your buddies on the first date, period. He rode quietly after her.

They picnicked under a tree by the lake, she asked if he brought a blanket.

"No," Al said, "but I've got wine."

"So I'll be dirty and drunk," Janet responded, tucking a black strand behind her ear and smiling. Al didn't know if he was even or ahead. He guessed even.

The only way to make this work was to be confident. The girls love the chase, you just have to show them what kind of man you are and be yourself with no expectations and then if something is meant to happen, it will happen. Spontaneous!

He repeated this to himself in the mirror twice. He was in the bathroom of the cafe they were having desert in. The conversation that had seemed lively enough in the park had come to a screeching halt in this their second stop. A small part of her cuff had gotten chain oil on it and she was distracted and furious. Take her to the show, Al thought, and if she still isn't having a good time, take her home and forget it.

They got back on their bikes, Janet extremely grudgingly, and rode to the show. It was hard to talk on the bikes when they were riding down 7th Ave., and he wondered if it was a bit too far for her. But it was only ten blocks. Surely she doesn't have a problem riding her bike ten blocks. What the point of having a bike if you can't ride ten blocks?

When they got to the show, Al was certain that this girl didn't want to have anything to do with him. Janet had let out an enormous groan getting off her bike and would offered only clipped answers when Al grabbed at topics of conversation in line at the club. Why was he there? Why had he paid the $12 cover to stand with this girl who obviously didn't like him and watch her rock her head side to side to the bounce-y pop white boy funk? Who's idea was it to suggest a stupid bicycle date? It was the worst idea of all time. When I want to ride my bike, I'll do it by myself. He decided he would never do anything like this again.

Janet thought, "My hair's fucked, I'm dirty and I'm already sweating. This guy's never gonna ask me to dance, so fuck it." She threw her left hip forward and followed it to into the small crowd of dancers. It wasn't a dance floor, really. It was just a section of the audience that was moving more than the rest of the audience. She didn't look at Al once as she danced. He watched her dance the entire song with a nearly neutral expression on his face that, if you searched for the subtle clues, read between shame and boredom.

When the song came to a clattering finish, she turned to the stage and applauded. The drummer dug into another mid-tempo beat, heavy syncopated on his piccolo snare. She began to move again and she still hadn't looked at Al. He didn't waited through the first verse, and then slowly worked his way out of the club. If she saw him and came rushing out of the crowd to get him, he would play her for sympathy.

"It looked like you were having a fine time alone," he would say. "I didn't want to get in the way." He came up with a dozen or so more lines of this nature by the time he was back out in the September air and unlocking their bikes.

He looked at the pair of bikes for a minute. They had been locked together in the 69 position. Neither he nor Janet had made any jokes about it when the bikes were arranged as such. Al now wished that he had.

He took time to actively hate Janet's bike, a green, Gary Fisher with thick tires and front suspension. Probably two years old. Ridden a handful of times. Never used practically. Only for infrequent rides along the river. She didn't even have a lock.

When he was sure nobody was looking, he hopped on his bike and flew away quickly, leaving Janet's bike to fend for itself. He smiled to himself, laughing as he disappeared into the narrow spaces of safety, one after the other on his way home. When he arrived, he felt so terrible that he felt like he was going to throw up. He slept that night beneath a towel on the bathroom floor.

Janet had noticed he was not where she had left him after the third song she danced. She was hot, now, and wanted another drink. She snaked through the crowd looking for Al. She waited at the bar and then staked out a spot where she could see the men's room door. After five minutes passed, she found herself walking hurriedly outside, almost worried that she'd see an ambulances and Al on a gurney.

Instead she saw her bike, left unlocked, leaned against a parking meter. She walked carefully toward the bike, shocked that it was still there and feeling something like a thief herself. She walked it quietly for a few blocks. Then, when she felt like her eyes had stopped making stupid tears, she got on and rode home.