Striking the Sun Chapter Nine: Provence

Striking the Sun – All Chapters

I’d been expecting a youth hostel at best, but the hotel was luxurious. Its lobby was accented with tumbled marble, and boasted a vast cathedral ceiling, with a glass staircase boldly running up through the center of the building. Two Chesterfield armchairs looked out across a vineyard through a tall window. Between them, despite the area being vacant, sat a rosewood drinks table with two frosted glasses filled with a rust colored drink. An easel sign proudly welcomed journalists to a cycling team launch and the pre-opening event for the finest hotel in Provence.

Nick Lyon was talking to two men wearing jeans and slogan t-shirts at the base of the stairs, and waved me over when he saw me. The wheels on my suitcase rumbled along the floor, echoing through the lobby.

“Here’s Dominic, one of our star riders. Great hotel, don’t you think?”

“I like it,” I said.

“You can quote him on that. And he’s a very discerning chap,” he said. I looked down at my ragged jeans and dirty sneakers. “You gentlemen should take a look at the food menu for tonight while I get Dominic set up,” he said, but when they left he pointed me toward a door and walked away to greet another small group.

Through the door was a long, narrow conference room, with chairs lined up and stacks of cardboard boxes lining two of its walls. Ton Verstraaten opened a box, sighed, then pulled out a packaged jersey, placed it on top, and moved over to the next box.

“Hi Ton.”

“It’s the Dominator,” he said. He looked into the box and smiled, then scooped up an armful of plastic packages from inside and carried them over to the seating.

“It’s good to see you,” I said.

“The business partner is here somewhere, you should try to thank him today,” he said as he began to place a package on each chair.

“You mean Nick?”

”His business partner who runs the hotel. They’re both putting on this event for free.”

“That’s very altruistic of them.”

“You saw the journalists? They invited the UK press over for a free night’s sleep and dinner, plus photographs and interviews with whichever riders they want. Cycle Extra is here, and all the other… the other comics?”

“Magazines.”

“If they interview you, make sure you mention the hotel. Very important. Smile in your photos too,” he said. He upended the box and the remainder of its contents spilled onto the floor next to the chairs.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, no. Your room is upstairs, you’re in with Liam,” he said. “Hey, and remember the name changed. StoolAid now.”

The new team name meant new bikes and kit. Or at least, resprayed bikes, which was more what I was expecting by this point. Resprayed by a friend of Lyon at mates rates, with a kickback of half the difference between what the RSC had provided and the true cost.

In the morning our bikes would return and the new kit would arrive. We’d pose for some photographs, then go for a ride. We’d do interviews in the afternoon. Tonight Lyon was holding court with journalists over an expensive dinner, but we weren’t invited.

Upstairs, the bedroom was expansive, with two king size beds. I threw my suitcase down, pulled out my book, and laid down. I was glad I was rooming with Liam. I’d spent the winter riding with the boys from the club, or else alone, always expecting Liam to turn up one day. He never had. When he walked through the door to our room in Provence it was the first time I’d seen him in months.

He looked different. His legs were still bigger than mine, but they didn’t have any fat on them anymore, just chiseled lumps of meat, skin stretched out so tight you could see the outline of every muscle. Something in his face seemed troubled when he entered our room for the first time. His eyes were glazed over, as though his mind wasn’t in the same place as his body. He was drinking water like his thirst was unquenchable.

“I’ve been training all winter,” he said, without prompting. Perhaps he’d noticed me staring at his thighs. “All over France, anywhere with hills really, bumming a place to sleep.”

“Amazing how many friends you find out you have once you start to make a name for yourself.”

“This guy, Henri Giroud, you know, the French TV commentator?” He said. I’d never heard that name before. “The one from those videos where the guy’s speaking at about a hundred miles an hour over the bike race? He sorted most of it for me.”

“You look exhausted,” I said.

He threw his bag on the bed and filled his bottle from the tap in the bathroom. I watched him chug the entire container, then refill it.

“Can we drink the water from the taps here, do you know?” He said.

“You’re doing my head in. Sit down,” I said.

Liam didn’t settle right away. I attempted to read my book while he rustled and stomped and even adjusted the curtains. He’d finally sat down on his bed when the door slammed open so hard against the new wall it made me wince.

“Free holiday in the south of France. How about that?” John Clarke said.

“It’s a training camp,” I said.

“Is it?” Liam said. “Looks more like a PR exercise for a hotel right now.”

“I’m going to take a shower but then I’ve got a treat for youse,” Clarkey said.

“Fuck off. Why don’t you use your own shower?” Liam said.

“Can’t piss in my own shower, can I? I’ll only be a minute.”

I picked up my book again, but I could see Liam fidgeting out of the corner of my eye.

“Ah, I meant to ask him if Stephen arrived.”

“He quit,” Liam said.

“Stephen left the team? How do you know?”

“He sent me a text last night to tell me he was quitting cycling, that there was no money in it for a rider at his level, but with the connections to cycling he’s cultivated, and with his father’s expertise, he’s opened an agency representing riders and it’s modern and intelligent and do I want to be on board at a special reduced rate since we’re friends. It’s one of the longer text messages I’ve received in this lifetime, to be honest.” Liam said. So now there was Stephen and the skiing commentator both vying for our attention to get money out of us. “He said Lyon wished him all of his best luck, and quietly requested that he didn’t tell the RSC grant department he wouldn’t be riding with us this year.”

“So that’s it? He’s gone?”

“Yes, Stephen McLoughlin is no longer a rider for this team. I thought I was being clear. He decided he wasn’t going to win the Tour so he cut his losses. A lot of people on this team could do with following his example.”

I picked up my book for what felt like the one hundredth time, and tried to concentrate on the words on the page. I’d always thought I got on well with Stephen, and through the winter I’d wondered why he hadn’t been in touch. Now I was even more confused. I glanced at the cherry blue sky through the window. The noise of the shower through the thin wall was peaceful in its way, like rain pattering outside on a marble floor. It was serene, really, until the shower noises ceased and gave way to the buzz of Clarkey’s electric razor. I put my book down again.

“Did you know Cycle Extra are here?” I said.

“Not just the British press. European too. French and Italian, anyway.”

“To speak to us?”

“No. Well Nick said they’d want to, but obviously not. The Xanox team are here,” he said.

“They’re here too?” I said. Xanox was one of the biggest teams in the world.

“Do you ever ask questions to people who aren’t me? Yes, they’re here too. Probably a scam deal to get journalists into Nick’s hotel.”

Clarkey emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist and a spot of toilet paper stuck to a cut on his face. He hit the power button on the hotel radio and turned the volume dial all the way up, drowning out the silence with a deafening power ballad.

“Seriously, mate?” I said.

He raised an imagined microphone to his mouth, and then his performance began. Foot in front of foot, he swayed his hips, made slow, sensual steps toward us while screaming his love song at the top of his voice.

His target was obvious from the start. I howled with laughter. Skinny Clarkey in his towel, going full rock god in the face of Liam Greene. Liam was not happy, not at all. Clarkey had his foot up on Liam’s bed, his face down close to Liam’s, his empty hand stretched out to Liam like a star on stage reaching out to his adoring fans.

“Clarkey mate, how about you fuck off?”

“Give us a twirl,” I said.

Clarkey sashayed back, clenched his fist, pulled it up to his chest. He strutted forward, screeching the words, pursing his lips. He looked over at me, made a gun from his fingers, and winked.

And then Liam reached forward and yanked his towel off.

For possibly the first time in his life, John Clarke appeared to be embarrassed. His race turned a deep red, and he ran back into the bathroom with his towel trailing in his hand behind him. He re-entered the room with the towel wrapped back around his waist, but didn’t venture very close to either of us.

`”Whatever, we’ve all got one.”

“You don’t seem to,” Liam said.

“So I was thinking,” Clarkey said. “This is our first holiday abroad, right? Without parents, I mean.”

“It’s not a holiday,” I said.

“I had an idea when I first heard we were coming here. There’s a nightclub, I looked it up on the internet, sounds raucous.”

“Sounds raucous, does it?” Liam said.

“You know, it would be pretty easy to leave the hotel, and just as easy to get back in,” I said. Our room was at the far end of the corridor, which had its own separate exit.

“Is right. What are you going to do tonight instead? Stare of out the window holding your book? Make the most of it. All the local kids go there, it’s the only thing to do down here in winter.”

“They’ll notice if we turn up to the ride tomorrow fucked though.”

“Oh come off it. Like Lyon will notice anything about us tomorrow. Just going to be us on the ride tomorrow.”

“What do you think, Liam?” I said.

“I think he’s right, nobody’s going to care what the team does after breakfast tomorrow.”

“See?” Clarkey said.

“But I’m not riding with the team tomorrow,” Liam said. I’m riding with Xanox.”

“According to who?”

“Nobody, but I think they’ll let me.”

“Whatever, lad. Ride with whoever you want, but don’t sit around in here all night like a bellend.” Clarkey went over to the door and rustled through his backpack. He produced a small plastic bag full of purple pills. “Brought these especially. I think it’ll be a good time.”

“What’s this shit?” Liam said.

“Just some garys, lads.”

I didn’t even know what drug “gary” was slang for. Liam glanced at me from his bed, waiting for me to be the one back out of the plan. Neither of us spoke.

Our standoff was interrupted by an urgent rapping at the door, which opened into Clarkey’s spine, pushing him forward. Clarkey shoved the bag down the front of his towel and turned around to greet our visitor. Ton was standing in our doorway, and behind him were two faces I didn’t recognize.

“We need you out of here boys. Into the car park.”

“Can I get five minutes to change out of my towel?”

“Leave now. Out.”

We were the last three people out of the building. The whole team had been assembled, stood in a long, snaking line in the car park. At the front, a lean police officer with a comically large nose began to pat down our teammates.

It wasn’t just us out here. The Xanox riders were also lined up, tangled in with our own team. I could see now that it was mostly the young riders from the squad who’d come out for the free jolly at Lyon’s hotel, but they were still intimidatingly lean and suave. They looked back down the line with bemusement at us, the three noisy British kids who messed around all day instead of racing.

Nick Lyon was talking to the officer at the head of the line, waving his arms and pointing.

“Drugs? We’re a team of youths!” He said. The officer gestured for him to back off. “Tell them, Ton.”

“Look at this boy,” Ton said, putting his hands on John Clarke’s shoulders, still wearing his eventful towel, pills hidden beneath his waistline. “He could catch hypothermia like this.”

“You could end his career, you imbecile.”

“M. Lyon, you are not exempt. Please join the queue.”

Lyon walked the length of the line, mumbling the whole way. He stood behind us.

There’s nothing like the panic of inevitable detection. I knew Clarkey would take the rap, but we were roommates, and his transgression would make headlines. From here on I’d always be associated with drugs by innuendo, only able to ride for shameless teams from Catholic countries, not the sanctimonious ones from Protestant countries.

Without the danger of detection, the line would be moving intolerably slowly, with the one officer left to frisk over thirty riders. The woman officer stood by his side offered no assistance, just watched over the proceedings with a straight face. It was a drawn-out process and they didn’t seem to make any effort to have it happen it any faster because they wanted it to take this long. It was about making us stew out here in our nervousness. The cold air and embarrassment of doing it in public, it was all about sending us a message, a warning shot fired in the air. But we knew something they didn’t: we really did have drugs on us.

The front of the line was coming much too quickly. I pictured a clock, its second hand spinning out of control. I’d been harboring the hope that Clarkey chucked the bag under the bed when we left. He kicked it out of sight without anybody noticing and now when the police patted him down they’d find nothing. But it started to dawn on me there was another reason this process had to take so long, and another reason we had to do it out here in the car park: they were searching our rooms. Even the fantasy ended in disaster.

The three or four other police officers watching us weren’t paying much attention, but even the laziest gendarme was going to notice me reaching down the front of John Clarke’s towel and throwing a bag into the topiaries. Behind us, Lyon had found his voice again and joined continued his yelling from where he left off. I wondered if our manager’s lack of dignity would be a sufficient distraction for us to lose the pills somewhere.

Too late, we were up to bat. Liam went through looking like he wanted to punch something. Then me, white as a sheet, temples throbbing. Hands touched me but I didn’t feel them.

And so to Clarkey, and my heart was beating faster than it had ever done riding up a hill. The woman’s eyebrows raised when he stepped forward in his towel. She couldn’t have been much older than us, and perhaps of Arabic descent. The male officer’s hands moved toward Clarkey in slow motion. Time was passing catastrophically slow now. I wanted to see if anybody else had noticed this dilation, but I somehow couldn’t look away.

“Why frisk me when you can see I don’t have anything,” said John Clarke. And then in one exaggerated motion he kind of cupped his balls with his hands through the towel and set it loose, so the towel in his hands was covering his genitals but otherwise dangling free like a horse’s tail in front of him.

“Non, non, non,” said the female officer, and made a stopping motion with her hands. Clarkey smiled.

“Non?” He said, and then gave her a look that said, “Well, okay.”

He let go of the towel and it fell to the floor in a heap in front of him, the bag somewhere in the pile. The lady officer stifled a laugh. The other officer grabbed Clarkey’s shoulder and told him to pick up his towel and move along. Liam punched Clarkey hard in the arm and laughed.

Our tormentor said a couple of words to the woman at his side and she began to walk away. Nick Lyon spoke up.

“You didn’t find anything, did you?”

“M. Lyon,” the officer said. He smiled. “There remains one member of your team yet to be searched. Please step forward.”

It took a long time and involved indignities none of us had to suffer. They even turned his pockets inside out, like a pauper in an old cartoon.

“And now we have found nothing. You are free to go back to your rooms.”

Lyon liked to talk up how he used to be a professional, but he was a British professional, so not very good, and therefore, more significantly, never spent enough time on the continent to learn French. Fluent Liam told me later that Lyon’s pidgin French made the search and subsequent outburst even more entertaining.

“I will speak to your lawyer,” Lyon said. “Don’t you realist this race we must won?”

The officers retreated unabated. The senior officer ignored Lyon’s threats while he directed his squad, and then he left too, with a little Gallic shrug directed at livid Lyon. We all returned to our rooms, Clarkey getting pats on the back, and occasionally a slap on the bottom, from both our team mates and the Xanox riders, because nudity is a universal language.

Striking the Sun – All Chapters