Should I hate Lyle for causing me a decade of pain or is his willful ignorance its own punishment?

For some people though, willful ignorance is not only a reward, but a goal.

Lyle thinks I hate him, but I don't. I just don’t want to have dinner with him. Or anything else.

Like many pre-2015 relationships , Lyle and I had a lot of laughs before things went south. It was just usual guy stuff; ski trips with a bunch of 40 and 50 year old delinquents, pranks, mall outings and harassing innocent bystanders.

Then two things happened. One was that we got our wives involved and it turned out that they had common history and adored each other.

Somehow, Lyle had managed to marry one of the sweetest, most upbeat, kind-hearted women in the world, almost as wonderful as my own Broomhilda.

The other thing was that with America moving toward a presidential election, political discussions seemed to materialize unbidden.

First, we should get to that decade of pain thing I mentioned in the title.

THE FOUR OF US were riding our bicycles along Chicago's busy lakefront, something which I studiously try to avoid. Bike paths up north run all the way through Wisconsin with minimal traffic and beautiful scenery.

Riding next to me, Lyle asked if I knew the location of a bathroom. As I was pointing in the direction of the men's room, Lyle cut a sudden left turn, catching my front wheel and causing my bike (and me) to slam into the concrete.

Without time to unclip from my pedals, my 200-lb bulk landed on about six square inches of hip. Ouch!

Over the years, something called traumatic arthritis caused the injured cartilage to slowly deteriorate. My range of motion slowly decreased while the pain level continued to increase.

THIS SECTION UPDATED 11/21/23:

Things with the hip went very bad, very quickly in May of 2023, to the point where I realized that I had to do something sooner rather than later.

I made an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon who could see me the soonest and it turned out to be a pretty good call. I highly recommend Dr. Lalit Puri to anyone in need of a new hip.

Recovery was speedy and painless. I was back playing pickleball and riding a bicycle in week 4, back on my motorcycle by the end of week 5. Like everyone else who had a hip replacement says, “If only I’d done it sooner…”

Now, back to the story:

I try to think of this incident as an unfortunate accident, albeit one caused by Lyle's complete disregard for everyone but himself. Granted, there were times that a few cocktails brought his simmering animosity toward me to the surface, so, there’s that.

My problem with Lyle is that I can’t respect him, which precludes most dinner conversation. I find him completely without integrity, devoid of information or the ability to think critically.

There was a time when I told Broomhilda that while I loved Lyle's wife, I could not be around them as a couple. The way he treated her in front of people was despicable and the things he said to me about her made my skin crawl.

He didn't treat his daughter any better and made no attempt to disguise his attitude toward women.

When Lyle’s wife died, he put on a bar-mitzvah level celebration of life, attended by hundreds of people. Some were Lyle’s business associates, most were people who loved his wife.

Over the years, many of the women there had also expressed contempt for the way Lyle treated his wife.

It was a very nice affair, but in my mind, a lot too little and way too late.

Two weeks later, Lyle showed up at our door to tell us about all the dating apps he discovered. Did he really think that his dead wife’s best friend wanted to hear about his dating apps?

Two weeks after that, he showed up with a live (I think) woman. For what, approval from his dead wife’s best friend? Can anyone be that oblivious, insensitive, narcissistic or (you fill in the blank)?

Somewhere around 2015, Broomhilda and I planned a motorcycle trip to visit friends in upstate New York. Hearing our plans, Lyle bet Broomhilda dinner at the restaurant of her choice that she would not make it. I should have unfriended him on the spot.

On what exactly, was Lyle betting?

What would cause a woman on a motorcycle on the open road to be unable to complete her trip? Since running out of gas is an easy fix, he had to be hoping for something much less benign.

Her motorcycle getting sucked under a semi-truck? A blowout at 75 mph? A car running her into a ditch?

Do the words ignorant, misogynistic prick come to mind? I still wonder what disaster Lyle was hoping would befall my wife.

As it happened, about 2-1/2 hours into our first rain-pelted day, Broomhilda's bike developed an oil leak in the right front fork, which cost us a 5-hour delay at a Harley dealer in Sturgis, Michigan.

By the time we got to our planned stop in Cleveland, it was too late to go to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, so we just checked into a hotel, ordered room service and emptied the mini bar.

The rest of the ride was dry and uneventful, the visit mostly pleasant and we returned home unscathed.

At this point, you're probably wondering what restaurant Broomie picked for her reward, but that's where the plot takes yet another iniquitous turn.

Click HERE for the exciting conclusion.