Strathmere

The Strathmere bridge was four-point-six miles from where they were staying in Ocean City and, of course, four-point-six miles back. That's almost ten miles, Beth, his wife was quick to point out whenever he brought it up.

"You have to be nuts to think you can ride a bike that far. Not after what you've been through.

"It's all level, Beth," Jack would say. "Except for the bridge."

She hated sounding bitchy, but she couldn't help it; she was afraid Jack might actually try it. He just wouldn't give up sometimes.

"And even the rise up to the bridge," Jack shook his head dismissively. "It's only like this," and angled his hand, palm down slightly off level. "Ya want me to get some exercise, don't ya?"

She knew better. He wasn't ready for that much of a ride. Not enough time had passed. The horror of the emergency room after his heart attack was still with her: the oxygen mask tight on his face, the clammy skin, the blue eyes bright, beseeching. For a while that afternoon, she thought she might lose him.

Jack figured she was right, but didn't want to hear about another thing he couldn't do - even a stupid bike ride. Not getting the partnership was bad enough - something he richly deserved after thirty years of top-notch service with Beecham & Abelard. Miles Beecham, soothing as always, had placed the partnership decision squarely on the heart attack, but that, Jack knew, was a convenient way to neutralize a rival. "We love ya too much, Jack, to put you under this kind of pressure. You've given us too many good years," Beecham told him, arm thrown around Jack's shoulder. It was just before vacation. They made Jack a special partner - with no perks and nebulous duties - and that angered him even more.

"There'll be other chances to make partner," Beth argued as they headed down the Garden State Parkway for vacation. "I'll bet it is the heart attack, just like he said. You want to be a dead partner?"

"Beecham is a conniving son of a bitch. I'm all recovered. The diet and the gym. I'm in great shape."

"You're so damn thick, Jack." She glanced over as he guided their Volvo along with the traffic that flowed that summer day through the great pine forest. How long they had been together and how much she loved him. Yet she knew his ambition and how hurt his feelings were.

The first few days passed quietly in Ocean City and the vacation seemed to be working its magic. They had been coming to this Jersey Shore resort for years and kept coming after their three children had grown. There had always been leisurely bike rides along the alleyways between Central and Asbury, Ocean and Wesley, ice cream at Tory's, and dinners of steak and lobster at The Crab Trap. One afternoon, Beth planned to meet friends for lunch and could not talk Jack into coming.

"Come on, don't keep brooding. I'll be back at four and we'll have happy hour. Remember, Dennis and Ann will be here tomorrow with the kids. They'll cheer you up if I can't."

He looked up from his book. "I'm not brooding. I'm just trying to read this god-damned book."

Once alone, he soon became restless. He stalked about the cottage like a caged animal, made a sandwich, half-finished it, opened a beer but couldn't get it all down. "We love ya too much, Jack." That smug bastard. A bike ride would calm him down some. Maybe just stretch his legs a bit and get back before four so he wouldn't have to listen to Beth.

Ocean City grows quiet from north to south, from the bustle of the boardwalk with its rides and shops and crowds to places where folks just sit on porches and decks and enjoy the day. At Thirty-Fourth Street, though, the park was teeming. Jack hopped off the bike and felt OK, nothing out of place, just a bit sweaty, that's all. On a tennis court, two men volleyed with grim determination, while on a nearby basketball court, shirts and skins ran in a single pack for the ball as teammates yelled encouragement. An elaborate castle complex lay on the other side of a bordering chain-link fence, where children ran gleefully along suspended walkways to turrets. I'll bet none of them has to worry about their damned hearts, thought Jack, and decided to go a bit farther.

He passed a handful of sullen teenagers on skateboards, a women in a bathing suit with four little ones trailing behind her — leading them to the beach like a mother duck with her brood, then a man about his age stood at the open trunk of a car, meticulously working sand off a beach chair with a brush as a plump woman nearby watched.

The fear started as a worry, that tiny gremlin of uncertainty that gnawed at his thoughts some days. Don't. You can't do this. You're going too far. You're not a fit enough a rider. The obvious question swirled as he pedaled through the beautiful blue afternoon, as street after quiet street slipped by. His legs grew sore, but that was to be expected; he was, after all, no long distance rider.

At Fifty-Fifth Street, the road turned and rose up out of Ocean City to become the James J. Kirkpatrick Causeway. Legs worked rhythmically. He saw the Rush Chattin Bridge that crosses Corson's Inlet and then the fear armed itself in words and struck: Are you crazy? What is wrong with you? You'll ruin everything. What if you have another heart attack and crash to the ground and die right here writhing in pain while people pass you on their way to the beach? Right here. You'll never see Beth again and she'll bury you bitterly, thinking what an old jerk you are, robbing her of your old age together, just to prove something stupid.

A dozen people fished off the bridge in singles and pairs, but Jack was too frightened to say anything as he chugged past, where, thankfully, the causeway dipped a bit and he didn't have to work as hard. His chest started feeling tight, not really painful, just tight. His legs and back hurt, and sweat flowed freely despite the soft breeze.

The bridge to Strathmere lay ahead and the tightness was evolving into something approaching real pain. If he stopped, he thought, he would be stricken. You're not going to make it, jerk, old man. Four-point-six miles is too far for a man in your condition. Beth would be in a nice, air-conditioned restaurant downtown when the fatal blast exploded.

Legs pumping furiously, he started up the bridge, head down, not wanting to see how much roadway was left. Old man. Old man.

At the crest of the bridge was a tollbooth, an isolated metal box in the middle of the two lanes. Far below and on either side lay a wide, quiet expanse of shiny blue water bordered by sand and intermittent beach grass. Boats and white wake crisscrossed the placid surface.

He stopped, sweating and out of breath, refusing to acknowledge the pain rising in his chest.

"You OK?" asked the attendant, a mildly interested young man with a blue shirt that read "Cape May Bridge Commission."

Jack gulped air but couldn't answer, then saw a sign noting that transactions at the tollbooth were "video recorded." He smiled weakly. If he were about to die, Beth would be able to watch his final moments on tape.

"Mister, you OK?"

"Sure." Jack stripped off his T-shirt.

"Just … a bit… outta … shape."

The bridge ran down into Strathmere, a tiny borough, past the stately Deauville Inn, whose deck overlooked the bay, past the U.S. Post Office ensconced in a small old home, past a trailer park. The road leveled off, and he pedaled along effortlessly.

On his left lay the beach behind sand dunes and a long fence and signs that urged: "Use the path." A plane motored steadily overhead, parallel to the shoreline, towing a banner that said something about pro baseball "7:05 tonight!" To his right, at intervals, were the vacation homes - old squat ones with weathered decks and tall, graceful ones with dramatic rooflines. One had so many windows he could see right through it.

He came suddenly upon a woman carrying a baby who had emerged from a silky sand path through the beach elders. She was young and tanned and vaguely familiar, wearing gym shorts and a bikini top.

"Mr. Connolly!" she said as he passed.

Sweat dripped from his nose, ran down his arms and chest and matted his hair. His breath still came in rapid bursts, but for the first time he realized the pain in his chest was gone.

"Heather. My God, How are you?"

"Good. Good. Gee, Mr. Connolly, I've never seen you so…so sweaty."

"I am that." He thought how pretty she was, how friendly, how little her baby was. She was one of the legal researchers and had been with the firm for about a year.

"You staying here in Sea Isle?" she asked.

"You mean Strathmere."

"Strathmere's back there. You didn't see the sign? Julie, stay still." The child she carried was squirming and saying, "Down!"

"My God, I rode right through it!"

"You know, Mr. Connolly, I probably shouldn't say this, but I heard about that partnership thing. All of us did. It's really lousy what they did to you."

"Well, thank you Heather, that's very nice."

"Don't let it get to ya, Mr.Connolly." Julie had managed to twist around and was now attempting to put her hands in Heather's mouth. "Down!"

"I gotta get her in for a nap."

"Down!"

Jack tipped his head and said "Up!" with a gesture of his hand, and the child buried her head in the crook of Heather's neck. They both laughed. Jack thanked her and figured it was time to go back.

The climb up the bridge was easier this time. His legs felt stronger and he didn't notice the attendant as he sped past. Maybe he wouldn't tell Beth because she would be so mad, but he couldn't wait to get back and see her. Strathmere bridge. Happy hour at 4. Who knew what could happen then?

The bike picked up speed. Ahead and below, the road bent back into Ocean City. Jack raised his arms and, grinning, held them out like the seagulls gliding above.