The Repsol Honda CBR1000RR is a limited edition road bike created to celebrate the successful branding partnership between the Repsol YPF oil company and Honda Racing Corp. The bike reflects its heritage in part by reproducing the racer's color scheme. More importantly, it exploits technical developments from the racing world like an inline 4-cylinder motor that redlines at 12,500 rpm. Perhaps most important to the middle-aged back and seat, the suspension is designed to nullify road surface irregularities, transforming the 172 hp beast into a silky-smooth rocket ship. A used 2005 in mint condition with low mileage can be had for about $10,000. But if you stumble upon an architect with a bad case of road rash and a wife who wants him to get rid of the damned bike before it kills him, and you're willing to wear him down on the price because of the giant scrape on the gas tank, you can do a lot better.
Ever since House bought the bike, he'd been waiting for the right weekend to do the 60-mile loop to Round Valley State Park, an ambition that was repeatedly thwarted by bad weather or patients who stayed inconveniently sick until Monday. This Saturday dawned warm and sunny, and by virtue of getting up before noon and getting out the door before the phone could ring, he managed to get out on the road without delays or interference.
Traffic was heavy, but of a different quality than the weekday commuter type. Drivers didn't take it as personally when he blew past them; no one seemed inclined to smear him on the pavement or against another vehicle as he weaved around the elephantine SUVs and earth-bound minivans that dominante the automotive landscape. There was a certain amount of hot-dogging with a sportscar here or there; other than that, the four-wheelers seemed content to cede him the road, and House made the most of it as he merged onto 31 North and opened it up a little.
People who don't ride bikes don't understand people who do, in part because bikers tend to talk in terms of torque and horsepower and rpm. This leads the uninitiated to conclude that it's all about numbers and power, and the bikers never correct them because (A) they don't care what non-bikers think and (B) there are no words for what they experience when they're screaming down a highway with their facial features rippling in the wind and all that raw power underneath them, fully at their command. The noise, the speed, the wind, and the vibrations wipe the mind clean—for those moments there are no bosses, no cell phones, no way to make plans for the future and no point in worrying about the past, just forward momentum and an endlessly receding horizon.
No suspension system can cushion a bum leg indefinitely, however, and by the time he reached the park and had a hotdog and coke, House was ready to head for home. He started down 206 South, already mentally gathering his dirty clothes from behind the bathroom door and under the bed and trying to remember if he had enough detergent or should buy some on the way back. It was depressing. The day was still sunny and mild, and he was going to spend it in the laundrymat, guarding his jeans against the predators who steal other people's stuff and sold it at the used clothing stores that had sprung up around town.
When he reached the exit for the town where Carolyn lived, House hesitated for less than a second. Then, instead of continuing on to Princeton, he turned off the highway and headed for the farmhouse.
As he drove up Carolyn's road, House saw a woman in a polo shirt and breeches riding a grey horse in the ring at the horse farm. In the same way that geese are said to recognize landmarks from the sky, he perceived that the woman was Carolyn, and pulled into the driveway for a closer look.
The noise from his engine must have startled the horse: It spraddled its legs and threw him a look of alarm. In what House considered a very foolhardy move, Carolyn lifted her legs and delivered a powerful thump to its sides with both heels. The horse shot forward, spun around, and faced House from the other direction, making strange whistling noises through its nose. Carolyn booted it again, and the horse bucked hard. Not only did she stay in the saddle, House could see she was laughing. He tried to remember if Carolyn had ever shown any signs of mental illness.
Another double kick and the horse took off at a brisk trot, head high, still whistling. Carolyn turned it in a wide circle and kept urging it on. The horse began to lower its head. The whistling stopped. Now she had to work to keep it going. At last she allowed it to walk, directing it past the spot where House sat idling.
"Rev the engine!" she called, as they passed.
"What?"
"Rev it!" Carolyn yelled, and made a twisting motion with one hand.
House opened the throttle. The engine roared. The horse jumped sideways and whistled. Carolyn turned it in a circle and yelled "Again!" as they went by. House obliged. This time the horse only tipped its ears in his direction. On the third pass it kept its head down, a look of resignation on its face. Carolyn brought it to the center of the ring and stopped; she cued House for another blast of engine noise, which the beast studiously ignored. She patted its shoulder and dismounted, and led it out of the ring and over to where House was sitting. He turned off the engine.
"Is it hot?" Carolyn asked, pointing to the bike. "I'd like to let him sniff it."
"He'll burn his nose," House assured her, not liking the idea of horse snot on his fenders.
"Maybe later, then," said Carolyn. "He's got to stop spooking at everything that goes by."
"He's a nice-looking horse," House said cautiously. The beast stretched its neck toward him, softly flapping its lips. House drew back, just out of reach. The horse craned forward, and he drew back again until he was almost lying on the back fender.
"He's a nice horse to ride," Carolyn conceded, not seeming to notice that the nice horse was trying to french kiss her old friend, "but he can be a real dickhead sometimes."
Satisfied that House had nothing for him, the horse lunged at the grass around Carolyn's feet. She shoved him away and slapped his shoulder. The horse bared his teeth and snapped at her. Carolyn drew herself up, eyes blazing, and walked straight at the horse's head, shouting "Don't. You. Ever. Do. That. Again!" The horse stood its ground for a nanosecond, then began to back away from her. Carolyn kept coming at him, still barking, "Don't. You. Bite. Ever, ever EVER," until the horse sighed and began making chewing motions with its jaws. Carolyn immediately relented, scratched it behind the ears, and led it, docile and eager to please, back to House.
"Well," he said. "I'm impressed. Can you teach me to do that? It could come in handy when Cuddy tries to enforce my clinic hours."
Carolyn laughed. "Horses are pretty simple creatures," she said. "They really only have two questions: Do you have food for me? and Where am I in the pecking order? As long as you're consistent about saying 'I'm the boss' and backing it up, they'll go along with that."
"And how is that different from office politics?"
"Good point." Carolyn turned toward the barn. "I've got to get him untacked and cooled out," she called. "You want to come along? I'll introduce you to my sweetheart horse."
Lacking a more compelling alternative, House parked the bike and followed her into the barn, standing well off to the side as she removed the saddle and bridle and rubbed the horse's back and chest with a rough towel, then a rubber curry, then a stiff brush. "This is Jack, by the way," she said, grunting a little as she worked the curry. "He's 13. I'm trying to turn him into a dressage horse, and he's resisting with everything he's got." To House's horror, she bent over one of his big, iron-shod feet and worked at it with an evil-looking hook. "I'm wearing him down, but we may both be using walkers by the time he's ready for competition." Carolyn repeated the operation on the other three feet. Jack not only did not seem to mind the hook, he thoughtfully lifted each foot as she reached for it.
Carolyn put a halter on Jack and led him outside. The horse danced alongside her, ears pricked, tail up. "He knows it's treat time," she explained. They halted, and Carolyn fed Jack bits of carrot by holding them at his elbow, hip, foot, and between his front legs, encouraging him to stretch his neck and back muscles. "Horse yoga," she told House. "It's amazing how a little stretching can keep a horse supple. Cherokee is 21 years old and he can still pick a baby carrot off his hip. I've seen horses half his age that can't do that."
They led Jack to a paddock where three other horses stood regarding them with interest. Released, Jack ambled over to a dusty spot, sniffing and pawing. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground.
House was alarmed. "Is he okay?"
"Oh, yeah," she said. "He's just got an itch." Jack was on his back now, all four legs in the air, writhing in the dust. "I spend 20 minutes a day cleaning him up," she complained, "and the minute I let him go, he wallows like a pig. I don't know why I bother." Jack rose to his feet and shook himself like a dog. Then he sauntered over to the water trough and drank deeply.
Carolyn sighed with fake exasperation and led the way to an adjoining paddock with three more horses. One of them, a jigsaw puzzle of white and brown patches, started toward the gate at her approach.
"This is Cherokee," Carolyn said fondly, reaching out to scratch his neck. "He's my good horse." She glanced over at Jack to see if he registered this; Jack looked back briefly, water dripping from his muzzle, then continued drinking in a manner that suggested her preferences were of no concern to him. "He knows I'll feed him anyway, because he makes me laugh," Carolyn admitted.
"You'll put up with anything from a male if he has a good sense of humor?" asked House.
Carolyn raised an eyebrow. "Not anything," she corrected. "But a lot. It's a weakness." She haltered Cherokee and brought him out of the paddock. The horse promptly began eating grass as if he were starving instead of shiny and rather fat.
"Cherokee is 21 years old this year," Carolyn repeated proudly. House gathered that this was an accomplishment, and murmured admiringly. He reached out gingerly and patted the nearest flank. Cherokee swished his tail. Something peculiar was starting to happen between his back legs.
"Oh, good, he's dropping," exclaimed Carolyn. "Greg, quick; does his penis look funny to you?"
"How should I know?" House asked, blanching. "I'm not a horse doctor."
"A penis is a penis, Greg."
House stared at the horse's equipment. It looked like a section of fire hose. A very long section. "If you really believe that, you've been out of the dating scene too long."
Carolyn made an exasperated noise. "Why do men fixate on size?"
"It's the poor man's way of keeping score. What am I supposed to be looking at, besides reasons to feel inadequate?
"Sarcomas," Carolyn said, gulping the word a little.
House squinted at the organ in question. "Looks clear to me," he said.
"Wonderful. Now, do me a favor and look at his rectum?"
"Carolyn! Jeeziz!"
"Please."
House sighed and moved to Cherokee's posterior. He lifted the tail and peered underneath it. "Good to go here, too," he said, dropping the tail. Cherokee showed his gratitude by whisking it in his face.
"What a relief," said Carolyn. "You always worry with a white horse, and now that Cherokee is getting older, I worry more."
"You know what to look for?"
"Yes," said Carolyn, "but I'm always afraid I'll miss the early warning signs."
House stood back and admired the old horse. "He looks like a nice old boy," he admitted.
"Do you want to get on him?" Carolyn asked.
"What—ride him?"
"Sure! There's a Western saddle in the barn; it's the owner's husband's, but she lets me use it. Come on, you'll love it." She led Cherokee toward the barn and House, feeling uneasy and intrigued in equal parts, followed.
Inside the barn, Carolyn handed him Cherokee's lead rope and disappeared into the tack room. House stood holding the rope as if it were a live snake, staring at Cherokee, daring him to move. Cherokee gazed back with a look of mild inquiry. Carolyn reappeared, a piece of paper and a pen in hand.
"You need to sign this," she said, and took Cherokee down the aisle to where she had tied Jack.
House read the heading: it was a release form. He scanned the text:
"I acknowledge that horseback riding is a dangerous activity and involves numerous obvious and non-obvious inherent risks that may cause serious injury, and in some cases, death because of the unpredictable nature and irrational behavior of horses regardless of their training and past performance. I acknowledge that a horse may, without warning or any apparent cause, buck, fall, stumble, rear, bite, kick, run, make unpredictable movements, spook, jump obstacles, step on a person's feet, push or shove a person; saddles or bridles may loosen or break—all of which may cause the rider to fall or be jolted, resulting in serious injury or death."
How was this an appropriate activity for an essentially one-legged physician with a sedentary lifestyle?
House looked down the aisle at Carolyn, who was lifting a synthetic cowboy saddle onto Cherokee's back. She looked cheerfully unaware that she was putting one of her oldest, dearest friends in mortal danger. He thought briefly of Jack bucking, spinning, and leaping around the ring. He looked at Cherokee, who appeared to have fallen asleep. What tricks might an old horse play, "without warning or apparent cause?"
House considered quietly walking out of the barn, pushing his bike down the driveway, and riding away. Then he realized he would really rather risk serious injury or death than let Carolyn know he was scared. He signed the release form and, with a deep sense of foreshadowing, dated it.
Carolyn approached with Cherokee, who was wearing the saddle but no bridle. He still had his halter on, and the short lead rope had been replaced by what looked like a very long leash. "Ready?"
"What about reins?" asked House.
"You have to earn reins," said Carolyn. "For now, I'll keep you on the lunge line."
"Lunch line?"
"LUNGE line. This way I can control the horse's speed and direction, and you can concentrate on getting your heels down and going with the motion."
"What do I hold on to?"
"You don't hold on." House looked askance. "Okay, if you really have to, you can grab the horn. But try not to. It's not about holding on, it's about balance."
She handed him a helmet that looked wholely inadequate as protection. Feeling doomed, House put it on and followed her into the ring to a set of plastic steps. Carolyn positioned the horse so its left side was toward the steps and invited House to climb them.
"Okay, put one hand here, on the withers, and the other on the cantle—the back of the saddle. Good. Can you stand on your right leg for a second? Good! Put your left foot in the stirrup and straighten that leg—like that—now swing your right leg over while you move your hand; excellent! Just like getting on a motorcycle!"
Carolyn lied; it was nothing like a motorcycle. For one thing, he was a great deal farther off the ground; his feet dangled in space, and he could feel Cherokee shifting around to balance his weight.
"Okay," said Carolyn, suddenly disciplinarian. "The one thing I want you to remember at all times is, eyes up. If you are looking up and ahead, your whole body will fall into alignment and you'll be fine. If you're looking down, your head comes forward, your body follows, and you're in an excellent position to fall off. Look at dirt; eat dirt."
This last was evidently meant to be encouraging.
"Look up, Greg. Look up. Let him worry about where to put his feet. Loosen your legs a little. Look up. Okay, Cherokee, walk."
The horse moved forward. House swayed from side to side in a sickening way with each step. This was supposed to be fun?
"Okay, take a deep breath, let it out, and relax your legs."
"I am relaxed, dammit!"
"No, you're not," Carolyn insisted. "I can see it from here. You're totally buttlocked; you're taking a bite out of the saddle with your cheeks. Now, take a deep breath and exhale. Relaaax."
After several moments in which House did not satisfactorily achieve relaxation, Carolyn halted Cherokee and walked over to them. "The main thing is not to clamp with your legs," she said. "When you do that, your butt muscles tense, pushing you up out of the saddle, which makes you bounce, which hurts the horse so he hollows his back, which makes his stride more choppy, which makes you bounce even more. It's a vicious cycle." She laid her hand on his right thigh. "This leg in particular looks cramped up. Don't try to hold on with it; it shouldn't put anymore pressure on Cherokee's side than my hand is putting on your leg."
House tried to comply, but her hand was lying on the crenulated edge of the scar, and he couldn't stop wondering if she left it there because she couldn't feel it through his jeans, or because she was too polite to snatch it away in disgust.
"And another thing—" Carolyn stepped away from the horse and placed her hands on her hips. "Release your pelvis. The more you can let your hips go with the horse's motion, the deeper and more secure your seat." She demonstrated, undulating her own hips in a manner that no red-blooded man could watch without instinctively thinking of something else. House leered.
Carolyn blushed, but affected a no-nonsense tone. "Yes," she acknowledged, "just like that."
Humor had loosened him up (was that her intention?), and as Cherokee began to walk again, Carolyn pronounced his seat much improved. "Want to try a jog?"
House wasn't sure what that meant. "Why not?"
She clucked to Cherokee, who picked up the pace a little. House felt himself moving smoothly, effortlessly through space, as in the days when he had two good legs and could stretch them to cover ground in great distance-eating strides.
Too soon, Carolyn signalled Cherokee to walk. "That looked good!" she said. "You're a natural, damn you!"
"When do I get to gallop?" asked House.
"Whoa, cowboy! You're going to have to work up to that. But if you want to give it a shot, I'd be happy to teach you. With those long legs of yours, you should be cantering by mid-summer. Then we can go on trail rides." Her eyes shone with the fervor of the hopelessly obsessed. "Trail rides are the best."
House toyed with a bit of Cherokee's mane. "You really think I can learn?" he asked, wanting to hear her say it again.
"You're already learning! Oh, this is going to be fun!"
Reluctantly, House dismounted. He insisted on leading Cherokee into the barn himself, leaning against the horse's shoulder for support. He watched closely as Carolyn untacked, asking questions when her explanations grew too arcane, and learned to curry and brush a horse until its coat glowed. They couldn't figure out how to balance him for hoof-picking. "We'll work on it," said Carolyn. House nodded, but he was just as glad not to have to put his face so close to those lethal-looking feet.
The shadows were lengthening as they left the barn, House pushing his bike before him. "Want to come over to the house?" Carolyn said. "I'm just making grilled cheese, but it's really good cheese."
The invitation set off the old alarm. (What does she want from me? What does she expect?) At one time he might have made a lame excuse and fled the scene. Now, House forced himself to appraise the invitation calmly. (She wants to know if you want a sandwich.)
"Yeah," he heard himself say. "A sandwich would be good."
