Of Machismo and Myth: Lesbians and Subarus
The Macho Man Chronicles - Volume 2
Scene 1: The Road to Traverse City
The Silverado purred like a contented lion as it roared west on US-131, the steady thrum of the Duramax diesel mingling with faint strains of country music from the Bose speakers. Frost-tinged farmland stretched out on either side of the road, dotted with faded red barns and silos standing stoic against the biting wind. For their fifth consecutive trip to experience The Iceman in Traverse City, Dave and Robbie had opted for a scenic route, trading the monotony of I-75 for the winding, pine-lined roads near Cadillac.
“Look at this place,” Dave said, gripping the wheel with a reverent nod toward the horizon. “Pure Michigan, Robbie. You can’t beat it.”
Robbie leaned back in his seat, picking at a bag of jerky he’d bought at a gas station near Midland where they’d exited the interstate. “I’ll give you that. This is God’s country up here. Almost makes you want to put down roots and buy a hunting cabin.”
“Almost?” Dave smirked.
“Well,” Robbie said, grinning as he flicked a crumb off his hoodie, “Beth probably wouldn’t love the idea of me becoming a full-time Troll. But yeah, I could see it. Build a cabin, get a dog, maybe a snowmobile.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Dave said, glancing in the side mirror. The bikes mounted on the Thule rack caught his eye—his full-suspension Salsa and Robbie’s Specialized Epic Evo Comp, both carbon-framed, glistening under the pale November sun. “You gotta admit, our rides look pretty damn good back there.”
“Damn right they do,” Robbie said, craning his neck for a look. “Those bikes are cooler than half the dudes we’ll see on the trails tomorrow.”
“Half? Try three-quarters,” Dave quipped. “Though I’ll say, every year the gear gets better. Remember that guy last year with the neon Cannondale and mismatched socks? Guy rode like his life depended on it.”
Robbie laughed, shaking his head. “Looked like a highlighter pack exploded on him, but he passed me on that sandy stretch like I was standing still.”
“Sand trap gets you every time,” Dave said, turning the volume up as Chris Stapleton’s Tennessee Whiskey filled the cabin. “Good thing we’ve been training.”
“Training?” Robbie raised an eyebrow. “You mean the two gravel rides you dragged me on in October? Pretty sure stopping for pumpkin spice lattes halfway through doesn’t count as hardcore prep.”
“Hey, I burned calories getting off the bike to order,” Dave shot back, grinning.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Robbie returned, smirking.
The Silverado climbed out of a shallow valley, snow-dusted pines flanking the road on either side. Another Subaru zipped past, its roof rack loaded with gear.
“Another Subaru,” Dave said, nodding toward the car. “That’s, what, the tenth one we’ve passed today?”
“Gotta be part of the club,” Robbie replied, squinting at the driver. “You see that haircut? Classic buzz-under-layer combo.”
Dave chuckled. “Why do you think they love Subarus so much? Is it the all-wheel drive?”
“Nah, it’s the tribal connection, man,” Robbie answered, smirking. “Subarus are basically the unofficial car of their tribe. I swear the marketing team must lean into it.”
Dave raised an eyebrow. “You think Outback means...?”
“Dude,” Robbie cut him off, grinning. “Let’s not overthink it.”
As they crested a hill, a green Subaru Forester came into view, chugging up the road with a kayak strapped to the roof.
“Forester,” Dave said, pointing. “You think that’s code for Big Bush?”
Robbie snorted. “Probably. And Crosstrek? That’s gotta mean scissoring.”
Dave said, still chuckling. “But it tracks. Subaru’s basically got a thesaurus in their marketing department. They’re probably brainstorming the next one right now: ‘Subaru Harmony.’”
“‘Subaru Solidarity,’” Rob chimed in.
“‘Subaru Unity,’” Robbie finished, smirking. “And then their slogan could be, ‘Because love is love—and also all-wheel drive.’”
They both howled with laughter, the Silverado bouncing slightly as Dave let the wheel go for a second to wipe his eyes. Ahead, the shimmering expanse of Grand Traverse Bay came into view, flanked by the quaint streets of Traverse City.
“We really need to stop this,” Robbie said with a chuckle. “We’re going straight to hell for even thinking this way. But, hey, stereotypes run deep in this space. Who knows how much of it’s even true? You know, Dave, I don't really care. But it’s like Bigfoot sightings—once you notice, you can't stop looking. Plus, it's fun to be right.”
Dave rolled his eyes, but grinned. “You’re impossible.”
As their laughter subsided, the shimmering expanse of the Grand Traverse Resort came into view, flanked by the Bear – one of Nicklaus” signature designs. Robby marveled at the tiered greens, grassy roughs, moguls and mounds. He recalled a Golf Digest article once touting this course as the 18th toughest course in North America.
The lot was packed with hundreds of trucks, cars and of course all types of Subarus. Most sporting bike racks filled with virtually every mountain bike on the market. Fat tire bikes, 3.5’s, full suspension, hard tails, 29’ers, and amazingly several tandems with nubby tires.
"Well," Dave said, pulling into the packed parking lot at the Grand Traverse Resort, “here’s to another year of freezing our asses off for fun.”
Robbie stepped out onto a patch of crisp snow, relishing the familiar crunch under his Merrells. A cold breeze bit at their necks.
“And beer,” Robbie added, grinning as he zipped his jacket. “Nothing like Bell’s beer to make you forget how bad we’ll suck on the trails tomorrow.”
Scene 2: The Iceman Expo
The entrance to The Grand Traverse Resort was a towering blend of glass and stone, its lobby a cathedral of polished marble floors and oversized fireplaces crackling warmly. Dave and Robbie pushed through the revolving doors, the dry, heated air wrapping them in a stark contrast to the frigid November gusts outside. Bikes hung on racks behind SUVs and crossovers in the sprawling parking lot, a preview of the scene below.
“I swear, every year this place gets fancier,” Dave muttered, glancing up at the chandeliers and soft, ambient lighting.
Robbie chuckled, nudging him toward the escalators. “Yeah, they probably put in another wing just to house all the Subarus.”
The Expo sprawled across a massive conference hall in the basement. As they descended, the hum of excited voices and upbeat music mingled with the distinct aroma of new tires and brewing coffee. The energy was palpable—an adrenaline-charged prelude to the next day’s race.
The Expo Layout
At the bottom of the escalator, the scene unfolded like a bustling village market. Booths were lined up in perfect rows, draped with banners touting everything from lightweight carbon components to recovery drinks promising miracle results. Bright LED lights reflected off the polished frames of bikes perched on display stands, and the occasional sound of a freewheel clicking added to the atmosphere.
Bells Brewery’s booth anchored one side of the hall, complete with taps pouring amber and golden ales for thirsty racers. Nearby, a Clif Bar table handed out samples of their latest concoctions, the bite-sized squares carefully arranged in pyramids. Toward the center, Einstein Cycles—Traverse City’s pride—showcased a fleet of titanium mountain bikes adorned with “Demo Me!” signs.
Dominating the entrance was Subaru’s booth, a towering structure with a glossy white Forester parked at the center, flanked by racks of bikes mounted to the car’s roof. A banner stretched across the back, boldly proclaiming: “Subaru: Built for Adventure, Loved by Cyclists.”
Dave spotted the Bell’s booth on the far side of the room and tapped Robbie on the shoulder. “Beer first. Priorities.”
Robbie grinned. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
The trek across the crowded floor took them past familiar sights—a table laden with spare parts from their local shop, KLM Bike and Fitness, manned by a couple of guys they recognized from group rides.
“Dave! Robbie!” one of them called out, raising a hand.
“Hey, we’ll swing back!” Dave shouted. “Beer run first!”
The packet pickup table was set up next to Bell’s, where racers formed a steady line to collect their numbers. Behind the table, volunteers wearing cheerful smiles handed out manila envelopes. Each envelope contained a race number printed on a stiff, waterproof placard to mount on handlebars, a map of the course, and a trio of black zip ties.
Dave tore his open on the spot, lifting out his number and holding it up like a trophy. “3578. That’s got podium vibes.”
Robbie snorted, pulling his out with a dramatic flair. “3403. Obviously superior. Plus, I don’t need a good number for an excuse.”
The Subaru Booth
After securing their beers—smooth Two Hearted IPA’s —they wandered back across the hall. The Subaru booth was impossible to miss, with its towering display screens cycling through videos of rugged trails and mountain vistas. A pert woman with cropped, dark hair and a navy Subaru jacket stood near the Forester, chatting with an older couple while handing out branded water bottles.
Dave nudged Robbie. “Think that’s her? The director?”
Robbie squinted. “Short hair, fit, Subaru jacket...definitely her.”
As they approached, the woman caught sight of them and smiled.
“Welcome to the Iceman Expo,” she said, extending a hand. “Julie Wells, Subaru Marketing Director. You guys racers?”
Dave shook her hand first, noting an unexpected firmness in her grip. “Dave. And this is Robbie. Yeah, we’re racing tomorrow. And honestly, we’re big fans of what you guys do for the event.”
Julie smiled wider, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, Subaru loves the Iceman. Bikes and Subarus go together like peanut butter and jelly. What are you guys riding?”
Robbie, never one to miss a chance to brag, gestured dramatically toward the Specialized bike booth. “Specialized Epic Evo Comp. Full carbon. Fast enough to outrun a Forester.”
Julie raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “And you?” she asked Dave.
“Salsa full-suspension,” Dave replied. “Also carbon. Rides like a dream.”
Julie nodded approvingly. “Nice. You’ve got good taste.”
Bonding with Julie at the Subaru Booth
Julie leaned casually against the Forester, her hands resting lightly on the hood. “So, is this your first Iceman, or are you veterans of the chaos?”
“Veterans,” Dave said, puffing his chest slightly. “Fifth year running. It’s become a pilgrimage at this point.”
“Yup,” Robbie added, taking a sip of his beer. “Two things keep us coming back: the race and Bell’s on tap. Though Subaru sponsoring the whole thing doesn’t hurt. Are you into mountain biking too?”
Julie’s eyes lit up, and she straightened up with a grin. “Absolutely. I’ve been riding for years. Just got a new Santa Cruz Blur—full suspension, carbon frame. Weighs about as much as a feather and climbs like a goat.”
Dave whistled appreciatively. “Santa Cruz, huh? So, you’re legit.”
“Gotta keep up with you Iceman veterans somehow,” she quipped, crossing her arms. “Honestly, though, the Iceman’s one of my favorite events. The energy, the people—it’s incredible. And, of course, it’s a great excuse to drink beer and geek out about bikes.”
Robbie chuckled. “You just described our exact priorities for this weekend.”
Julie’s smile widened. “Does that list happen to include bourbon and cigars, by chance?”
Dave and Robbie froze mid-sip, exchanging a look before turning back to her. “Uh, yeah. That’s basically our religion,” Dave said, breaking into a grin.
“I knew I liked you guys,” Julie said, her tone warm but teasing. “I’ve got a soft spot for bourbon myself. Especially something smoky—neat, of course.”
Robbie set his cup down dramatically, pointing at Julie as though she’d just revealed the secret to life. “We’re officially friends now. You’ve got taste, Julie.”
Julie laughed, the kind of genuine, full-bodied laugh that made people lean in to hear more. “Appreciate that. Let me guess—Macanudo or Arturo Fuente for cigars?”
Dave raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. Though Robbie here’s been dabbling in boutique brands lately. He likes to pretend he’s a connoisseur.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Robbie shot back. “The real key is pairing, and I stand by my choices. What about you, Julie? You into cigars too?”
Julie nodded. “When I get the chance. Work keeps me busy, but a good cigar and bourbon combo after a long ride? That’s my idea of heaven.”
A Connection Forms
The trio lingered by the Subaru booth, their conversation flowing effortlessly. They swapped race stories—Julie shared an epic crash during a singletrack race in Utah, while Dave recounted getting a flat tire two miles from the Iceman finish line a few years back. Robbie, not to be outdone, launched into a tale about narrowly dodging a deer during a training ride.
“You guys are trouble,” Julie said, shaking her head but clearly enjoying herself.
“You’re not so innocent either,” Dave replied. “I mean, come on, Subaru sponsoring a mountain bike race? Feels like you planned this entire event just to tempt us.”
Julie raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a smile. “And what if I did? Would it have worked?”
“Clearly,” Robbie said, motioning to the Bell’s cup in his hand. “We’re already hooked.”
An Invitation with Intent
As the Expo started to quiet down, Julie glanced at her watch. “Well, I should probably go check in with my team before they think I’ve run off for good.”
“Before you go,” Dave said, clearing his throat, “what’s your plan after the race tomorrow?”
Julie tilted her head, intrigued. “Survive, mostly. Maybe hit up the post-race party for a bit. Why, what’s up?”
Robbie leaned in slightly. “We usually swing by the party, but we keep it chill. Grab a beer or two, soak in the vibes, then head out for a proper meal. After that? It’s all about bourbon and cigars.”
Julie’s eyebrows rose, her interest piqued. “So, the real post-race celebration is after the official party?”
Dave shrugged. “That’s how we do it. There’s this cigar and bourbon bar downtown—it’s a little off the beaten path, but it’s got great selection and atmosphere.”
Julie smiled, considering the offer. “Sounds like my kind of place. You’re not planning to drag me into some bro-y cigar circle, are you?”
Robbie grinned. “Not unless you want to lead the circle. You’d probably outclass us anyway.”
Julie chuckled, pulling a card from her back pocket and handing it to Dave. “Send me the details. If I’m still standing after the race and can pry myself away from my team, I just might join you two.”
Setting Up the Next Day
As Julie disappeared into the crowd, Dave and Robbie lingered by the Subaru booth.
“Tell me that wasn’t a date invite,” Dave said, watching her go.
Robbie shook his head, taking another sip of beer. “Not a date. A bonding opportunity. Totally different.”
“Bonding with bourbon and cigars.” Dave smirked. “Same thing.”
Robbie elbowed him. “Let’s not screw this up. We’ll keep it classy tomorrow. No getting sloshed at the post-race party. We Uber to the bar, enjoy the night, and play it cool.”
“Cool,” Dave echoed. “We’ve got this.”
They toasted their beers, the clink of plastic cups a humble prelude to their grand plan.
A Theory at Stake
As they drove back to their Vrbo, the Silverado humming along the winding Traverse City roads, the bikes on the Thule rack bouncing gently with each curve. Robbie, gripped the oh-shit bar of the Silverado with one hand, and stared ahead thoughtfully.
“She’s cool,” he finally said, breaking the comfortable silence.
Dave nodded, flipping the Spotify channel to his favorite country mix . “She likes bourbon, cigars, bikes...hell, she even gets our dumb jokes. That’s a rare find, Robbie. Rare.”
“Think she’s…” Robbie hesitated, letting the words hang in the air like the faint aroma of exhaust.
“A community member?” Dave finished, not even glancing up from the race guide.
Robbie sighed. “Yeah. I mean, she might be. She definitely fits some of the, uh...outdoorsy Subaru lifestyle.”
Dave finally looked over, smirking. “You’re dancing around it like we’re trying to be delicate. It’s not a bad thing, man. She’s awesome, lady lover or not. And besides, if she is, it doesn’t change anything.”
“Agreed,” Robbie said quickly. “But if she is, this might be our one shot to figure out the Subaru thing.”
Dave leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “The Subaru thing.”
“Yeah, you know,” Robbie gestured vaguely, “the model names. The code word thing. Like, do women-who-like women actually love Subarus, or is it all just in our heads? Is ‘Forester’ really a euphemism for...you know, Big Bush? And don’t even get me started on the Tribeca.”
Dave let out a hearty laugh. “You think she’s going to spill all the industry secrets over a bourbon and cigar? ‘Hey, Julie, nice weather, great bikes, by the way, are Subarus lesbian code machines?’”
Robbie rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say it like that. Obviously, we’d approach it respectfully. We just want to know if there’s any truth to it.”
Dave shook his head, still grinning. “You’ve been obsessing over this for years. YEARS. This is about more than Subarus, isn’t it?”
Robbie shrugged, a sheepish grin creeping onto his face. “Maybe. It’s just...I’ve never had the chance to ask someone who might actually know, you know? And she’s cool, and I feel like we could actually talk about this without coming off like total idiots.”
“Well,” Dave said, tapping the dashboard with exaggerated thoughtfulness, “if anyone can steer a conversation into weird-ass territory and make it sound normal, it’s us. So, let’s not screw it up tomorrow.”
The Plan
By the time they reached the Vrbo, both men felt a mix of nervous excitement.
Dave cracked open a beer from the fridge as Robbie sprawled out on the couch. “So, here’s the game plan: we’re not prying, and we’re definitely not stereotyping out loud. We keep it light, fun. If the Subaru thing comes up naturally, great. If not, we leave it alone.”
Robbie nodded, lifting a bottle of water to his lips. “And no asking her directly if she’s a lesbian. We don’t need to know. If she wants to share, fine. If not, we’ll just enjoy her company.”
“Right,” Dave said, raising his beer. “Here’s to a night of cigars, bourbon, and not being total dumbasses.”
Robbie clinked his water bottle against Dave’s beer. “And maybe, just maybe, finally solving the great Subaru mystery.”
Scene 3: Race Day: The Bell’s Iceman Cometh Challenge
Dave and Robbie stood on the frostbitten tarmac of the Kalkaska Airport, their breath visible in the crisp November air. The starting area buzzed with energy as waves of riders prepped their gear, exchanged last-minute tips, and nervously joked about the challenge ahead. Five thousand riders of all skill levels, from eager juniors to seasoned pros, were gathered for the Iceman, ready to tackle the legendary thirty-mile course.
Wave 18 was called, and Dave tightened his gloves, adjusted his helmet, and gave Robbie a quick fist bump. "See you at Timber Ridge," he called out as Robbie, slotted in Wave 20, grinned and replied, "If you don't crash first!"
The whistle blew, and Dave pushed off with his wave, wheels crunching against the packed dirt road. The initial miles were a rush of adrenaline, riders jostling for position as they pedaled through the winding two-tracks. The Pere Marquette State Forest unfolded around them like a painting, its trees standing stark and bare, their branches laced with the remnants of an early frost.
The Challenges of the Trail
Dave felt strong as he powered through the dirt roads, his tires spitting gravel. The course twisted and turned, revealing technical climbs and narrow sections where every decision mattered. Around mile 10, a deep rut caught him off guard, sending him sliding onto his side. The crash was minor, but it sent a jolt through him. He scrambled up, brushing dirt off his pants, and rejoined the race, adrenaline masking any aches. “Pads saved me again.” Dave thought to himself.
Meanwhile, Robbie, starting a few minutes later, faced his own battle. Just past the Williamsburg Road crossing at mile 17, a sharp turn on a loose dirt descent sent his bike skidding into a small sapling. Robbie managed to avoid serious injury, but he landed hard enough to feel it in his shoulder. "Keep moving," he muttered, adrenaline pushing him past the sting.
The Williamsburg crossing was a welcome checkpoint, a brief glimpse of paved civilization before the forest swallowed them up again. As Robbie and Dave approached the Vasa Nordic Ski Trail, the course’s most iconic section, they both knew the toughest climbs and fastest descents were ahead.
The Push to Timber Ridge
The Vasa trail lived up to its reputation—rolling hills, steep climbs, and sweeping curves that demanded every ounce of focus. Both men dug deep, legs and lungs burning as they crested the final major incline. The sound of cowbells and cheers from spectators became louder, signaling the finish line was near.
By the time Timber Ridge came into view, Dave was drenched in sweat despite the chilly air. He glanced at his Garmin bike computer mounted on his handle bars —2 hours and 14 minutes. Close, but not quite the elusive two-hour mark. He crossed the finish line with a grin, proud of his effort despite the crash. Moments later, Robbie came flying in at 2 hours and 17 minutes, his signature beard streaked with dirt and his face lit with exhilaration.
The post-race area was alive with celebration. Riders hugged, swapped war stories, and shared the joy of finishing. Dave and Robbie grabbed waters, posed for a quick photo in front of the Iceman banner, and then made their way to the Bell's beer tent for a celebratory pint.
A Quiet Resolve
While sipping their beers, Dave turned to Robbie. "Two hours might not be ours this year, but we're not far off."
Robbie nodded, raising his glass. "We'll get there. But for now, let's enjoy the moment—and the fact that we made it through in one piece."
Their conversation shifted to the night ahead. A proper meal and a visit to the cigar and bourbon bar were their reward for a day well-raced. And with Julie joining them later, the excitement was far from over.
Scene 3: BBQ, Bourbon and Revelations
Back at the VRBO
Dave and Robbie trudged into the cozy Vrbo, sore but buzzing with the energy of race day. The rustic cabin was warm and inviting, with a fire crackling in the corner. They kicked off their dusty shoes, and Robbie collapsesd onto the couch while Dave grabbed waters from the kitchen.
“Two hours and seventeen minutes,” Robbie groans. “The climbs after Williamsburg killed me.” Dave laughs, tossing a bottle of water at him. “At least you stayed upright. I I’m still finding dirt from that wipeout on the Vasa trail.”
After quick showers, they take a moment to relax. Dave scrolls through photos from the race while Robbie stretches out, dreaming of barbecue.
“Blue Tractor,” Robbie says. “Brisket, mashed potatoes, and beer. Let’s not mess around.”
Dave nods. “And then Nolan’s. Gotta finish this day right.”
Before they head out, Dave grabs his phone and scrolls through his contacts, stopping at Julie’s number, which she had shared with him at the expo.
“You think she’ll want to join us?” Dave asks, showing Robbie the screen.
“Definitely,” Robbie says, grinning. “Let’s see if she’s as cool off the trail as on it.”
Dave sends her a quick text:
Hey Julie—great riding with you today. Robbie and I are hitting Blue Tractor BBQ for dinner, then Nolan’s Cigar Bar. You should join us—drinks, cigars, and banter on us.
A few moments later, his phone buzzes with her reply:
You had me at BBQ. See you guys there. What time?
Dave shows the screen to Robbie, who gives an approving nod. “Game on,” Robbie says.
Dave types back:
7 PM at Blue Tractor. Look for two guys who look like they lost a fight with the trail.
Her reply is immediate:
Can’t wait. And don’t worry—I’ve got worse post-race stories to share.
Dinner at Blue Tractor BBQ
The Blue Tractor BBQ is alive with post-race energy. Riders still in their race gear swap stories over plates of ribs and beers. The scent of smoked meats fills the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses.
Dave and Robbie settle into a booth and immediately order brisket plates and pints of Bell’s Amber Ale. When Julie walks in, she spots them immediately and waves, her smile lighting up the room.
“Made it,” she says, sliding into the booth beside them. “Smells amazing in here.”
“You’re just in time,” Robbie says, motioning to the server for another plate and pint.
When the food arrives, they dig in, the perfectly smoked beef brisket and creamy sides eliciting groans of approval. Between bites, they swap race stories, with Julie recounting a harrowing near miss with another rider on the singletrack.
“This,” Robbie says, raising his glass, “is why we ride.”
Julie nods, clinking her glass against his. “And for the post-ride indulgence.”
Dave smirks. “Don’t get too comfortable. Next stop’s Nolan’s. Time to see what you’re made of.”
Arrival at Nolan’s Cigar Bar
Nolan’s Cigar Bar is the epitome of laid-back luxury. Warm leather chairs, wood-paneled walls, and the faint aroma of tobacco create an inviting atmosphere. Behind the bar, shelves lined with bourbons and scotches gleam in the soft light.
Dave and Robbie head straight for the humidor. After some deliberation, they grab their usual Nubs and a third one for Julie.
“You think she’ll go for it?” Dave asks.
“She’s gotta,” Robbie says. “It’s a rite of passage.”
When Julie walks in, she spots them near the humidor and walks over with a grin.
“Nubs, huh?” she says, eyeing the cigars in their hands.
“Only the best,” Robbie says, handing her one. “Thought we’d get you started on the good stuff.”
Julie inspects the cigar, rolling it between her fingers. “I’m game. Let’s see what you two rookies have got.”
Drinks and Conversation at Nolan’s
The three are settled in their corner of the cigar bar. Dave sips his The Gentleman, Robbie savors his Zin Master, and Julie, ever the straight-shooter, enjoys her Basil Hayden’s neat. Smoke curls lazily from their cigars as the conversation dances between race stories and their shared love of outdoor adventures.
Then Robbie leans forward, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
“Alright, Julie,” he starts, puffing his cigar. “We’ve gotta ask—what’s the deal with Subarus and lesbians? Is there, like, a secret society we don’t know about? Some kind of... Outback cult?”
Julie freezes, her face utterly serious. She sets her glass down with deliberate care.
“Oh, you guys cracked the code, huh?” she says, lowering her voice. “I didn’t think straight dudes ever figured it out.”
Dave’s eyes widen, his drink halfway to his mouth. “Wait… seriously?!”
“Oh yeah,” Julie says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Outback is, like, entry-level code. It just means you’re out. Like, officially part of the club. But Forester? That’s next-level. That means you’ve been in the game for a while.”
Robbie’s jaw drops. “So... it’s all true?”
Julie nods solemnly. “And Crosstrek? That’s where it gets spicy. That’s code for scissoring.”
Dave nearly spits out his drink. “You’re kidding me!”
Julie shakes her head, taking a slow drag from her cigar. “Oh no. It’s legit. Like, how do you think Subaru marketing keeps crushing it with lesbians? They’ve got focus groups and everything. Subaru knows what’s up.”
Robbie looks at Dave, wide-eyed. “Dude, we’ve been joking about this for years. And it’s all real?”
Julie smirks, swirling her bourbon. “Real as it gets. Why do you think I drive an Outback? Practicality? Pfft. No, it’s the initiation.”
Dave and Robbie sit back in their chairs, completely floored. They exchange looks of disbelief, their minds blown wide open.
“I can’t believe this,” Dave says, shaking his head. “All this time, we thought we were just being idiots.”
“And we were right,” Robbie says, triumphant. “Outback! Forester! Crosstrek! It all makes sense!”
Julie takes another puff of her cigar, hiding a sly grin behind the smoke. She lets them stew in their amazement for a few beats before leaning forward, her expression deadpan.
“Yeah, so... I made all that up,” she says casually, leaning back and laughing so hard she almost chokes on her bourbon.
Dave and Robbie freeze, their faces blank with realization.
“Wait... what?!” Dave says, his voice climbing an octave.
Julie’s laughter spills out like smoke from her cigar. “You two looked so into it! I couldn’t resist. I mean, Crosstrek? Scissoring?! Come on, guys!”
Robbie stares at her, dumbfounded. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Julie says, wiping a tear of laughter from her cheek. “I just invented all of that. But hey, it sounded good, didn’t it?”
Dave buries his face in his hands. “We’re such dumbasses.”
“Big time,” Julie says, grinning wickedly. “But don’t worry—you’re my favorite dumbasses.”
Robbie slumps back in his chair, groaning. “I can’t believe we fell for that.”
Julie raises her glass, still chuckling. “Here’s to being gullible. And for the record, I do drive an Outback. But only because it holds my bikes. No secret code involved.”
Dave and Robbie reluctantly toast with her, shaking their heads and laughing at themselves. As the laughter dies down, the three of them settle back into their chairs, the joke breaking the ice and sealing their camaraderie.
“Next year,” Robbie says, pointing at Julie, “we’re not letting you mess with us.”
Julie grins, raising her glass again. “Good luck with that.”
As they sat back in their chairs, laughing about their gullibility, the night wound down and the cigar smoke thickened in the air. For Dave and Robbie, this wasn’t just about the race or the jokes. It was about moments like these—moments spent with friends, a good drink in hand, and the kind of memories that would last long after the cigar smoke had faded. And as they clinked their glasses one last time, they couldn’t help but smile. Maybe next year, they’d actually crack the code on Subaru. Or maybe, just maybe, Julie would leave them guessing again. Either way, they were already looking forward to the next adventure.