Ian spent days building the ox cart which turned out quite beautifully. I watched through the kitchenette window and assisted at times. It was fun, until it did not roll, and when we could not figure out why, I lost interest for a time. I began my walk to work the next day and heard a tremendous sound from behind. It was Ian. He was driving the ox cart with the two oxen pulling it as they were trained in infancy to do. Ian’s smile was wider than the wagon’s width. He sat tall in the front seat, black curly hair blowing and his blue eyes blazing bright. The wagon works, I thought, “It rolls!” I shouted to Ian.

Ian reached his hand out to me and I used the step to get up into the ox cart and sit on the wooden bench. Ian hoisted his foot up on the edge and yanked the straps and yoke to the oxen and off we went in the grinding glow of the homemade ox cart. It rolled unevenly and slowly. In the bed was Ian’s bike and buckets of milk sloshing around splashing onto the bales of hay Ian poised to keep the buckets from tipping over. I sat as proudly as Ian. When we got up a short hill and met the challenge of going from the dirt road onto the paved one, I couldn’t believe Ian. His convictions can be so obscure, unconventional and meager but manage to meet with the highest expectation of many an ox, myself included with the bovine.

When we got to the market, I jumped off the wagon and finished the way to the factory on foot, needing time to think. We were not going to make it on the money the quilts or the milk will supply. We do not need or ask for much from our lives, however, the upkeep and cost of the animals would not be covered by the factory. I explained this to Ian when he got home from his ride and swim. Ian said when the triathlon was over he would figure out a way to manage our future. I drew many designs that night showing a progression of bicycle wheels starting out with thick wagon wheels turning up the side of the bed into sleeker looking racing wheels. The edges were bicycle tassels that used to hang from my old tricycle as a girl, bright red and white ribbons and an Italian looking finish-line flag coming down to split the middle of the quilt. I passed the idea by Ian who pointed out that the word, “Cinzano,” would look good on the flag, I agreed.

The day of the race came quickly after many rides on the ox cart and finally learning how to milk the cows so I could do it the day of the race instead of Ian. It was not something I enjoyed as well as Ian. I noted this cleanly and clearly that I would not be quitting my job for the love of it, anytime soon. Duly noted was Ian’s response. I walked to the route of the triathlon and watched as the bikes sped by and noticed Ian right away from the colors he wears, black with a yellow patch on his left arm. He rode hard and fast and was ahead of many people. He swam in the Bay of Gibraltar to the Straits of Gibraltar and got back on land to finish the long marathon run. I had time to take the car to the finish line and wait for him to cross.

When the winner crossed the finish line, Ian came across soon after. He placed fourth amongst a small crowd of athletes and that was a fine showing, indeed, I kept repeating this to Ian. He was exuberantly tired and had swollen toes and a slice across his shin which was bleeding. I held his bike up with my left hand and raised my other hand high in the air, clench fisted, while Ian was getting his picture taken on the platform with the other triathlon finalists. Ian stood tall and clean shaven all over his body including his head and I beamed with love for Ian.