In my garage: 12 bikes, eight helmets, four wheel bags and 2 million water bottles. Now you're waiting for the sentimental line about family togetherness or fitness, after which I'll declare it all priceless.

But it's not priceless! These items are all hideously expensive. I have detailed daydreams about trips to Italy and daily massages - all the things we (I) could buy if we liquidated this stockpile of bicycle gear. But my husband, Jerry, the insatiable cyclist, would file papers at the mere suggestion.

He denies there are that many bikes in the garage. But I know. I counted. There's one upstairs I didn't include in the total, because I momentarily forgot about it.

And I just found out, after a little badgering, there are three more at hubby's work. But they mean nothing. They're old, vintage bikes. He's going to fix them up and sell them. Uh huh. They have wheels. They count.

And now Jerry is introducing cycling to our 8-year-old son, Tyler. Which is good, I guess, but I feel kind of left out. I came home yesterday and no one was interested in the movie I rented for us or the groceries I'd bought for dinner.

Tyler was trying out the new bike Jerry had bought for him - number two for Tyler. One for me. The rest of our bike stockpile belongs to you know who.

Maybe I should take up cycling. You know that old adage, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." There are plenty of women cyclists - strong, muscular women - whose backsides and legs must have finally stopped screaming.

But Jerry and I have tried riding together before. Actually, I ride. He races. I enjoy the view. He tries to have a heart attack. If I stop pedaling and coast, he says, "Are you coming? What's wrong? Why aren't you pedaling?"

Sometimes cursing ensues - by me, usually, if I'm not winded - and one of us leaves the other. It is always some version of this.

Still, maybe I could get into it this time. It's something we could do together. As a couple.

"If I got good, we could go on one of those cycling trips together to Colorado," I say.

Then I see it: The fear, no, terror. He's trying to figure out how to applaud the idea so as not to hurt my feelings while blasting to pieces the actual possibility that I might become the ball and chain he has to drag around on the bike.

OK, I get it. I know him well enough by now. I guess having me along on a ride would be akin to having him along on a writer's retreat. Shudder. Or the mall.

It's good for couples to have time apart. Then each person has things to talk about when you're together again. That sounds feasible.

What a relief. My backside and legs would have never stopped screaming anyway.