2011 Piccolo Suissi Prologue (Part 2/2)

(Missed Part One?)

The prologue started. I was the sixth man to leave the starting ramp, the first from our team. It wasn’t Ton following me around the course, it was Jens, who was the team doctor, recall. The car didn’t have a mechanic sat in its back seat. Jens assured me he had a spare bike and could swap out a wheel if I needed it. I was getting shafted.

My legs burned like fire and I used that fire as a propellant. I turned big round revolutions, putting out so much power it was like I was dragging the bike around the course with me. I was fearless. A 90-degree corner came up and somewhere I could imagine Ton would be yelling from the car for Liam to slow down because it’s a sharp turn, but I pedaled right into the bend and shot out of the other side. For a moment the following car’s engine was distant behind me, lost through the corner, and then it roared back up to my back wheel.

For all my bluster with Tex the previous night, I had the following seven words swirling around in my head: Nobody knows Liam is better than me.

It was true. They all thought that they knew. They’d assumed. But only I knew I’d plateaued and Liam had gotten better, so much better that he was talking about winning a grand tour. Only I knew for sure. If we were going off of assumptions alone, then something else was true: I could fool them into thinking otherwise.

My mouth was open so wide like a funnel to catch the air straight into my lungs. The effort began to hurt me all over, and I pictured it hurting Liam here too. Then I pushed harder. We were kids and I was ripping his legs off. If he wanted to beat me today he’d have to ride out of his comfort zone.

The only way I could come out on top was if I absolutely destroyed his time. Then he’d have to pretend to his glamour model girlfriend that he was pleased for me, and big me up in front of her and the team and the media. It wouldn’t piss him off for long, but it’d get to him. Probably for as long as it took for word to get to him that I was fucking his ex-girlfriend.

I crossed the line fastest so far. Big surprise when I was only the sixth starter. Now I had to wait for almost the entire field to complete the course before I’d find out whether I’d beaten Liam. From the finish line I was directed to a hot plastic marquee behind the podium and made to sit down in front of a television showing the race, with a camera filming my face. I was told whoever was leading had to sit here for reaction shots and to be accessible for podiums and the like. I put on my sunglasses to hide behind.

My lead in the prologue held. The sun lumbered slowly across the sky in an arc. Shadows moved and grew. And finally, I slipped from the top spot. With a camera in your face to record you, it’s hard to know how to react to anything. I chose to applaud. And when my replacement arrived to take my seat, I hugged him and shook his hand. I expected this would play well on the television. There were seats for second and third too, but I felt let off the hook. The cameras didn’t care about the guys sat in those other chairs. I could do what I wanted and look where I wanted, which at this moment was at Rhianwen Jones arriving near the start line, just down from where I was sat. She leaned forward against the barrier with her back to me. I could see the seams of her underwear beneath her jeans and wondered if she’d gained weight.

Another guy finished and squeezed between me and the leader, so I had to move down one chair again. Soon I’d be freed from this duty completely. Liam started, and immediately somebody else finished and took over the lead and we all played musical chairs, with me out of the top three and ejected from the media tent.

Friends, I ran back to the team bus to see Liam’s ride. A shaggy man shoved a microphone in my face and asked for an interview. No, I told him, I don’t do interviews, without even breaking my stride.

Liam wasn’t on the screen when I arrived at the bus. The rest of the lads were conversing quietly while they watched the screen, Tex in among them. I sat alone and waited to see Liam’s ride. And then there he was, in glorious close-up. His was a face of anguish, a murderous rage at the air in front of him, which he chewed down on like a piece of meat. On a course so short, it’s really just speculation when you try to presume who’s riding faster than who. To me, Liam looked devastatingly fast.

A couple of minutes later, Rhianwen Jones stepped onto the bus. She stood side-on from me and looked up at the television. For a moment, her profile stole my attention. For longer than a moment, perhaps, but then my concentration on the race renewed.

“Did he win?” She said, to nobody in particular.

The cameras returned to Liam on cue, who turned the corner with 300m to go. He was already slower than the leader. The other boys on the bus released exasperated noises. By the time he crossed the line he was in 14th place, and when the final few riders had finished after him, he was 17th overall. I’d finished seventh. That night I slept well.

The weather had changed by the morning. Rain lashed down sideways, and filth streamed down the streets and into the gutters. Nobody wanted rain. My legs felt coiled and ready for action, but I was stuck in the middle of a union of riders intent on neutralizing the race until the finish line.

Sometimes these decisions aren’t about safety. They’re definitely not about keeping dry, since we end up spending more time out there when we do this. It’s just that it saps your will. Nobody wants to race on days like this, but there’s no alternative, so you get to the finish line with as minimum fuss as possible.

With fifty kilometres to go, the pace picked up a little. At forty kilometres, it picked up more. We were finally riding at proper speeds and the breakaway was going to be caught, and that’s where I punctured. The race carried on without me. I didn’t try to catch the peloton. It wasn’t a day for caring and the team obviously weren’t going to wait for me. I lost twenty-one minutes.

Facts are one thing, and they soon stale. But speculation and the what ifs are something different altogether. I had been in a good position in this race, better than Liam, and then a mechanical issue had ruined it. What if? It’s a question the journalists and fans would ask here no matter what happened, and then in the next race. All while they should’ve been talking about Liam Greene, bicycling celebrity.

I hadn’t heard back from Amy this whole time. I’d been letting her take her time and keeping my hopes high. Back in the hotel room, I discovered she’d texted while I’d been racing. She must’ve known exactly what times I’d be busy. She dated Liam long enough.

“I’m sorry, but I’m just not ready for this again. I like you. Let’s get together when you’re back in town and we’ll see what happens. But not this again.” This again presumably being a long distance relationship with a professional bicyclist. Or else using the internet to flash to guys who prematurely close their laptop lids.

I wallowed, friends, right there in the room, right next to Tex. My heart sunk like it was on a rollercoaster. It wasn’t like I’d even seen Amy Grass in years, so I don’t know what I expected. She was never going to just be my girlfriend overnight, but there’s no accounting for the heart and the things it chooses to do to the brain.

Things didn’t get better when Liam walked into our hotel room while Tex and I were trying to beat each other at German game shows. He stood in front of the television and we sat up.

“You think you want to tell me what you’re doing with my girlfriend?”

“Amy? But we’re—”

“Rhianwen fucking Jones. The glamour model you’ve been observing so keenly since December,” he said. I could feel Tex’s eyes burning into me. “She’s had enough of it. I’ve had enough of it. You’re mugging me off mate.”

“Mugging you off?”

“In front of everybody. You think nobody notices? The moment she arrives you start rubbing your hands together, and I think we all know what you start rubbing once she’s gone. You’re fucking desperate. Go get laid,” he said. “Because, you know, it’s not going to happen with her. Find someone else to stick in your spank bank. It’s pathetic.”

And he left. Down the corridor, his door slammed shut.

“Well,” Tex said, “That was rude.” He laughed.

The next day and I found myself in the breakaway against my will. Ton and Liam had demanded it. Liam was trying to punish me with a hard day, but what happened is this:

There was a breakaway of eight, including me, and this breakaway of eight, including me, gained time on the peloton, then lost time on the peloton, then inexplicably gained time on the peloton again when each team came to the executive decision not to be the ones to chase us down. For a long time nobody wanted to chase, except briefly the members of my team, who were apparently not averse to preventing their own rider from winning. Even they were eventually subdued by the negative publicity they’d face and the potential hit to absent Hudson’s reputation as a master tactician.

The final quarter of the stage is a blur still. We grew tired and the eight became five. I shook out my legs to disperse the lactic acid. Those few seconds seemed to be the longest part of the race.

I didn’t want to be at the front killing myself and when the team realized I might be there until the finish they didn’t want me there either. When attacks went, I let other people chase because I was just making up the numbers. And then apparently I was crossing the line with my arms in the air. Sometimes the winner is the guy who wants it the least.

Someone from the breakaway took the overall lead. We gained three minutes. It was a drop in the ocean after my heroic time losses from the previous day, and I stayed more or less in last position despite the victory.

“What if he hadn’t punctured?” Said the voice in Liam’s head