After watching Sue compete in Ironman Racine in July of 2013, I spent more time with her riding and running. It was enervating to have a new companion, but then tragedy came along. On a warm Saturday or Sunday morning following a previous night’s long rain, I led her on a ride that included the Virgil Gilman Trail. That asphalt path leads from downtown Aurora out to Sugar Grove. It passes first through urban neighborhoods and then follows a former railroad bed out to a forest preserve called Bliss Woods. As we approached the deepest part of the woods, the trail was still wet from the previous night’s rain. I tore along ahead of her on my road bike still trying to impress her with my riding ability. She followed behind on her Scott tri-bike, but the conditions were less than ideal for that proposition.

We came to a turn and her front wheel caught wet vegetation and down she went. I heard her exclaim “Oh!” behind me and glanced back to see her bike go out from beneath her on a curving downhill trail section. Hitting the brakes, I unclipped and walked back awkwardly on my bike cleats to check on her.

She sat on the ground in partial shock. We hardly knew each other yet and it’s hard to read how badly someone is hurt when you’ve only been out a few times together. Concerned that she was not moving, I crouched and sat down next to her on the trail. Looking to console her, I reached behind her back to put an arm behind her and felt something gooey and sticky on her lower back. Yanking my hand back, I saw a pale yellow substance covering my fingers.

“What’s that?” I asked her, holding my hand out in front of us. “Oh, darn,” she blurted. “That was a good banana.” The skidding crash had pureed the banana she’d carried in the back of her jersey pocket. I was relieved in some respects. That first feel of goo made me think she’d opened up a gash on her back.

She sat there holding one arm with the other. “My shoulder hurts,” she said. We got her back on her feet, and then called for help, heading straight to Urgent Care with our bikes stashed in the back of my Subaru.

We walked into the care center and I sat down in the chairs next to the counter. Eight years of caregiving for my late wife Linda had taught me to wait for the registration stuff to get through and then try to be supportive. Sue walked to the counter and they asked her name. “Linda,” she stated. Then she spun around and told me, “I forgot to tell you. That’s my real first name.”

Huh, I thought to myself, “Same first name as my late wife.” I sat there pondering that as she filled out the paperwork. Sure enough, it read: “Linda Suzanne Astra.” She sat down next to me to finishing out the forms. “Are you weirded out?” she asked? “No,” I smiled. “All good.”

She still goes by the name Suzanne to this day, but our legal information bears the name Linda. But when we got married years later, it didn’t make sense to change her name to Linda Cudworth. Nor did it make sense to change her name to Suzanne Cudworth, as my brothers are both married to women named Suzanne or Sue. That would make for even more confusion in this world.

I cared not that the name Astra was her last name from a previous marriage. I liked her name as it was.

Alas, she’d torn her rotator cuff in the fall that day. Later that year, in November, she had the torn rotator cuff surgically repaired. After the operation, she wore a big shoulder support cushion under her coat. We attended the Illinois state championship football game on a chilly afternoon to watch her son’s team win a state championship. It was an an up-and-down-and-up-again year for all of us.

As we sat together in the stands I put my arm around her to keep her warm and felt the first surges of love between us. A little riding can lead to a lot of romance. Even if there are a few falls along the way.