Authors: Jim Hodgson
Chapter 17
Faith sometimes had a recurring dream in which she was about to attempt a heavy squat. Her students were in her gym with her, as well as her friends and family. People she’d grown up with were there to watch her lift, and she wanted to do it. She knew she could. But for some reason she just couldn’t get any traction. Every time she tried to lift the bar, it was like someone had greased the floor, or like her feet had roller skates on them. She felt like that now. She had ability, resolve, but no place to apply leverage.
Her brother was in danger of execution, and she couldn’t even go back to New Lyon to see him or beg for his release. Miguel was right. If she did that, she’d only get herself tossed in jail. But if she didn’t do that, would she ever be able to face herself? What if Michael was released? Would she be able to face him? What if he asked her why she didn’t come to New Lyon?
She thought about Barker, down in the basement like a revolting cellar rat. She’d been willing to marry him. Sleep with him. Have his kids. Be a model wife. Whatever it took, just to keep Michael alive. Now Michael’s only real chance was that the Mexicans would be able to take over New France before the French bureaucrats in New Lyon could get around to his execution. And it might work. Miguel said that as soon as the New Lyon fat cats got word the Mexicans were pushing the French back and sweeping through the southwest, they’d scamper back to France to save their own hides. They were slow enough getting anything done in the city when there wasn’t a war on. God only knew how long it took to carry out governmental procedure when there was.
Her eyes were raw from crying. Her whole body was tired but also felt a bit like she’d been beaten and born anew. The cathartic clarity after crying and crying emboldened her. She allowed herself to be selfish and honest, and when she did, she had to admit that she didn’t want to go to New Lyon to beg for Michael’s release. It would be a useless gesture of martyrdom even less fruitful than being engaged to the sack of shit Barker had been. She wanted to be with the team. She wanted to be near Buck. She wanted to smell his scent and help him win. To help Michael. To help Buck. To help herself.
When she told Buck and LeMond she’d be staying with the team, they both smiled. LeMond stood and hugged her. Buck stood too, put his arms out, and then put them down again. But she grabbed and hugged him anyway, reveling in his intoxicating smell that was more comforting at this moment than exciting.
With that worked out, the team got down to the real business of preparing for Nationals. There were just days left. Faith planned decreasing intensity workouts for the riders to keep their bodies humming like well-oiled machines without sapping their energy too much. She wasn’t previously familiar with the endurance athlete’s workout programming method known as a “taper,” but she’d invested some of her lonely afternoon hours investigating the science behind tapering with LeMond’s help.
An unfortunate side effect of the taper was that it drove Buck and the other riders insane. They were used to hours on the bike each day, which was almost like meditation. Without those hours of effort, they were cranky and restless. LeMond said it was always like this, though, and not to worry too much or get offended if one of them got snippy with her over something small. They managed to control themselves, if for no other reason than most of the riders didn’t speak a lot of English. Buck was characteristically kind, but she knew him well enough now to know he was on edge.
The bikes were packed into boxes and shipped to the hotel in Denver. Miguel had people on the ground there who were securing accommodations and transportation for the team. Faith assumed they’d go back to New Lyon to fly to Denver, but Miguel had plans for them to fly out of a smaller airport.
“I don’t want anyone at New Lyon who is wondering where Barker might be spotting you or Buck. Or LeMond, for that matter,” Miguel said. So, they all piled into a van driven by Miriam, who would stay behind to watch the compound and make sure Barker was fed. Miguel said they’d release him as soon as he could do no harm, that being after the Mexicans had assumed control of New France.
The gas crunch had already started. The French weren’t letting on to the public why it had started, but prices at gas stations skyrocketed. Filling up the van for the short trip to the airport cost as much as a typical person made in a week. Airfare shot up, too. Miguel said they could have sold the team’s air passage for enough money to buy a decent house. By the time they finished the race, no one would be able to afford to drive anywhere even if they could find someone to sell them gasoline.
Faith was shocked when they arrived at the airport and drove directly out onto the tarmac, where a jet was waiting. They weren’t flying commercial. Miguel had secured a plane for them somehow. He was coy about it, saying only that he wanted the team to be comfortable and well rested on their journey.
Faith had never been on a small jet like this one before. She wondered what it was costing, with the fuel prices being what they were. Miguel must have been conservative when he said the cost was the same as a house. It was probably the same as a neighborhood. Of course, they’d booked the travel far before the prices began to really climb.
Miriam left them at the plane and headed back toward the compound in the van. Faith watched her go as the engines whined to life and the jet prepared to take flight.
Once in the air, LeMond stood to address the team. He briefed them on the schedule for the race.
“There will be five stages,” he said. “A flat stage, then a mountain stage, a time trial, another mountain stage, and a final flat stage.” The news was accepted with grim nods on the part of the riders. Faith wasn’t familiar with the implications of the stage profiles, but it didn’t seem to be something the riders were worried about.
LeMond went on. “Not many people know that we, the Miami team, are coming. The other teams might try to keep us from racing. They’ll have heard how Buck rode in the crit back in New Lyon. They’ll know he’s strong, and they’ll try to keep him out. Our strategy is simple: keep the fact that we are entering the race a secret until the last possible minute. I think we’ve done that successfully until now. Buck, you’ll have to be careful in the peloton. There will certainly be flicking, so keep your eyes peeled. The rest of you, protect Buck.”
“Wait,” Faith said, raising her hand as if she were back in school. “What’s flicking?”
“Basically it’s just any kind of acting like an asshole,” Buck said. “Elbowing another rider in the ribs, grabbing your brakes to make him run off the road, head-butting during a sprint—that kind of thing.”
Faith had no idea ‘that kind of thing’ went on in a bike race. “People do that?”
Buck nodded. “Cycling is a physical sport in more ways than you might think. If people think they can get away with it, they’ll grab your handlebars and crash you out in a second.”
“Or punch you in the
cajones
,” Jose added.
She worried for Buck but didn’t want to sound like his mom, so she just grunted and left it at that.
LeMond was done with his brief, so for the rest of the flight the riders napped or chatted quietly with one another. Faith looked out the window at the countryside going by. She wondered about the people working in the wineries and dairies below, if they could hear the plane’s engines overhead.
On the ground in Denver, they were hustled through the airport by one of Miguel’s men. They’d shipped most of their gear, so there wasn’t much fuss with baggage. LeMond hoped to get to the start line of the first stage without any of the other teams seeing him or Buck.
At the hotel, they went straight up to their rooms. Buck and LeMond would share a room. As the only female, Faith got her own. She looked at the key in her hand, wishing she could share a bathroom with Buck like she had back at the training facility. It was nice, having him so close. When she got up to use the bathroom at night, she could sometimes hear his regular breathing. It was comforting.
LeMond saw her looking at her key and whispered in her ear, “Swap you my key if you want to room with Buck . . .”
She elbowed him in the ribs, and he yelped.
Hers was a typical hotel room with two single-beds, but one had been removed and replaced with a massage table. Obviously she’d be helping LeMond keep the riders loose and limber.
Faith looked out the window. If she put her head against the glass and looked right, she could make out the mountains in the distance, running north to south from Canada all the way down to Mexico. Buck and the other guys would be riding up and down those things on bicycles starting tomorrow, she thought. All I have to do is drive a car and rub them down to help them recover.
Faith wasn’t a terribly religious person. She didn’t pray often. But she sent a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening. Please let this race go well. And let the Mexicans come right up this mountain range and kick the French in their asses. It was selfish. Lots of people would be hurt. Lives would be lost, on both sides. But she didn’t care. She wanted her brother off the execution block, safe, and out of jail. If the Mexicans had to drive the French all the way back across the Atlantic ocean to achieve that, she was all for it.
Chapter 18
Buck had secretly been doubtful that LeMond’s plan to keep their race entry out of the news until race day would work, but he’d been wrong. He had to admit, it appeared the plan had worked flawlessly, in fact.
When he woke, LeMond clicked the television on. The news was about the race, showing profiles of favorite riders, but there was nothing in the report about a team from Miami.
There was one interesting piece of news, though. Polini, Buck’s rival from New Lyon against whom he’d raced in the crit, was now on the New Orleans team. He was their favored sprinter. As an all-rounder, it didn’t matter much to Buck if Polini was in contention for the sprinter’s classification, but he’d still warn his teammates to keep an eye on Polini. The sprinter probably wasn’t pleased to have been beaten by Buck back in New Lyon and might be looking to get even by any means, including underhanded ones.
Nationals would be scored just like the Tour de France. There would be classifications for sprinters, climbers, young riders under twenty-five years of age, and, of course, for the overall winner. Each classification had a jersey, too: green, polka dot, white, and yellow, respectively. Buck would be contending for the yellow jersey.
LeMond turned to him. “You ready to race?”
Buck grinned. “Born ready. I haven’t had a decent ride in days. I’m itching to get in the saddle.”
“Okay, well, keep it under wraps today. Everyone will be a little squirrely on the first day. Let the sprinters kill each other to take the flat stage. We’ll get them in the mountains tomorrow.”
LeMond called the rest of the team into their room and distributed uniforms and radios to the team. They would be able to stay in contact with LeMond and Faith, in the team car, a station wagon with spare bikes and wheels attached to the top in racks. Faith would drive and LeMond would be in the passenger seat to direct the race and handle any technical problems the riders might have. They would follow the peloton over the course of the stage with the other team cars, medical cars, press cars, and race marshals on motorbikes.
At the start line, Buck and the Miami team caused a minor sensation. The cycling press clamored for interviews, but the team gave none. It was part of LeMond’s strategy to keep the team focused. When Bernard, the Wolverine, who was now the New Orleans team director, saw Buck and the rest of the Miami team, his face smoldered. He turned on his heels and marched away, his crisp suit’s double vents swaying angrily as he most likely headed for the race director to complain.
“Don’t worry about him,” LeMond said. “It’s all worked out. He can’t keep us from racing. You just turn pedals and stay upright.”
Buck nodded.
LeMond slapped him on the back and said, “
Allons-y
.”
Buck shook his head then reached over and poked Jose in the ribs with a finger.
“Ay!” Jose said. Hector turned and smiled. The twins saw, and were watching as well.
When everyone was looking, Buck called “
Vamonos
!”
The riders responded as one voice. “
Vamonos
!” they yelled. Other riders turned to look, and smirked into their hands at the team.
Buck spotted Polini nearby with his New Orleans riders. “Listen to these idiots,” Polini said, sneering at Buck and his Miami team. He was speaking loud enough to be heard over the din of the crowd. “Don’t they know the language of cycling is French?”
“Remind me, Polini,” LeMond said, speaking equally as loud, “what is the French word for a sprinter who loses a crit to an all-rounder?”
A few riders laughed. A few more made “oooh” sounds. Polini’s smirk turned into a frown, and he scoffed. “A lucky win is all. Let’s see how your all-rounder does today, eh?”
The witty repartee was cut short by the race director, who called for attention over a megaphone.
“
Attencion, monsieurs et madames
!” he said, his voice feeding back over the sound system. “
Bienvenue sur le Tour Nationale de New France
!”
Cheers went up from the crowd and the riders. Buck’s heart swelled in his chest. He was here! Actually here, at the start of Nationals. Whatever happened in the race, he knew he would give everything he had. For himself, for the country he’d known only as a child, for his parents, for LeMond, for his teammates, for Michael, for Faith.
“
Excusez-moi
, but my French is not so good.” The race director laughed through the sound system. “I will continue in English.” A few laughs went up from the crowd. Everyone could relate to trying to learn French and not having a lot of success at it. “It has been brought to my attention by Monsieur Bernard here, New Orleans Director, that there are concerns about the team from Miami. Those concerns being that the team does not have a legitimate right to entry in the Tour de New France.”
Buck’s heart chilled as he waited to hear the director’s next words. Surely they couldn’t have come so far, only to be stopped at the last minute, once again, by Bernard.
The race director continued, “Let me be clear here. With respect, Monsieur Bernard, that is incorrect. They are here in accordance with the regulations and will be allowed to continue. Alors, let’s have a clean race
, n’est-ce pas
?”
Everyone cheered. Buck’s heart leapt again. They would be allowed to race! Of course, they’d still face the usual dangers: exhaustion, mechanical failure, and treachery on the part of the other teams. But at least they would be allowed to start.
“Okay, I gotta get out of here,” LeMond said. “Remember: Race easy. Flat stage. Conserve energy for tomorrow.”
Buck nodded. “Vamonos,” he said again.
“Vamonos!” came the echo from his teammates.
Buck did exactly as LeMond asked. After the race director started the peloton on its way with a starting pistol, Buck rode easily, just trying to keep himself safe in the peloton with his teammates around him. As much as they’d trained as a team, they’d never been in a race situation together. Buck was pleased to see the way his support riders behaved. They might not be the most experienced riders in the start list, but what they lacked in experience they made up in sheer will. They didn’t ride timid, and that pleased Buck immensely. They kept other team’s riders away from him, which lessened his chances of being crashed out or forced off the road.
Updates came from LeMond in the team car, who advised the team on parts of the road that might cause problems. Hard left turn ahead, rough pavement—that sort of thing.
The first breakaway came only a few kilometers into the race. A pack of riders sped away from the group. A few domestiques near the front of the peloton sprinted away to catch them, but the favored sprinters, notably Polini, let them go. The New Orleans team must be relying on the speed of the peloton to reel the break in before the stage finish, Buck thought. Most of the time, a breakaway would get caught by a larger group simply because a larger group has more riders who can work together. A hundred men taking turns on the front of the pack can quickly outpace four or five.
“Don’t worry about them,” came LeMond’s voice over the radio, crackly with static. “Nobody we need to concern ourselves with.”
Buck keyed his radio mic clipped to the front of his shirt. “Who
do
we need to concern ourselves with?”
“Find out tomorrow,” LeMond said. Since most of the riders in the peloton today were amateurs, there wasn’t a lot of data available on their capabilities. Anyone good enough to ride as a pro would be in Europe.
Buck looked around at the riders from the other teams. He saw some strong guys, obviously sprinters, and there were some more diminutive riders who were obviously climbers, but he didn’t see anyone around his size. Maybe he would get lucky and there wouldn’t be any real competition for the overall win.
Just as he was having that thought, LeMond radioed that they were crossing the halfway mark on today’s stage. Polini began to whip his team toward the front of the Peloton, hoping to drive the pace and catch the other riders. None of the other teams seemed that interested in chasing down the break, so the New Orleans riders were obliged to do it themselves. Serves Polini right, he thought. Act like a prick all the time, get no respect in the peloton.
But he wasn’t as amused when he felt the pace kick up as the New Orleans team took the front of the peloton. They rode like a maglev train. Buck expected to gain a kilometer or two per hour at most, giving the peloton enough speed to chase down the breakaway, but it was more like five k.p.h. Maybe ten.
Buck radioed back to LeMond in the team car. “Holy shit, these guys are strong. We just kicked up like five k,” he said, grunting with the effort of staying on the pace.
“Almost ten,” came the reply. “The peloton will catch the break long before the end of the race.”
Buck swiveled his head to check on his team. They looked okay, but not great. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that a few riders were hanging their heads when they thought he wasn’t looking—a sure sign they were feeling strained by the extra speed. There was no way the New Orleans riders could hang onto this pace for long. Even with the benefit of being in the peloton—where the wind resistance was lessened by 30%—Buck and the Miami riders were panting with the effort of keeping up.
“Vamonos!” he shouted, by way of encouraging them. They did their best to shout back.
Well, New Orleans were only hurting themselves, Buck thought, by going this hard on the first day. They might be able to deliver their sprinter to the finish line with a great chance of winning today, but they’d be feeling the pain tomorrow when the road turned upward.
Buck and his team stuck to their plan. New Orleans kept their frenzied pace on, and eventually set up Polini for his sprint in textbook cycling team tactics. When they got to the finish line, though, there was no one much to sprint against. Polini sailed across the finish line 500 meters ahead of his nearest competitor, thus snagging the yellow jersey of the race leader plus the green jersey of the fastest sprinter. Buck crossed behind with the main pack, in 57
th
.
Buck watched the short awards ceremony that concluded each day’s stage with a frown.
“So, wait,” Faith said, standing at his elbow and watching Polini posing for photos in the yellow jersey. “He gets yellow and the green, too?”
“Yeah, because technically he’s leading in both categories. But there is more honor in the yellow jersey, so he’ll wear that one tomorrow,”
“Oh, I see,” Faith said, who didn’t sound like she saw at all.
LeMond’s post-stage speech back at the hotel was congratulatory. “Great work today, team,” he said after the riders had showered. “We had a tactic and we stuck with it. Obviously, New Orleans did too, but they are playing the short game. We are here to win, to play the long game. Hard work tomorrow in the mountains, and then we’ll see who’s in yellow, okay?”
The team murmured back at him. Buck couldn’t shake a nagging sensation that something was just not right but decided it didn’t pay to think negatively. He resolved to get a relaxing massage, eat some dinner, and settle in for a good night’s sleep. His legs felt pretty good considering they’d raced today, so he allowed himself cautious optimism about the mountain stage the next day.
In Faith’s room, there were two massage tables set up so that she and LeMond could work on the riders two at a time. After LeMond finished working on one of the twins, though, he excused himself to “go check on something.” That left only Faith to give Buck his massage. LeMond wink at him on his way out. When the second of the twins got up from being worked on by Faith, he also gave Buck a wink.
“I’m starting to think this team needs an optometrist,” Buck said. What the hell did they think they were achieving by winking at him like that, anyway? He was their team leader, not some schoolboy with a crush.
“Optometrist?” Faith asked, puzzled.
“Nothing,” Buck said, watching as his giggling teammates eked their way out of the room.
“How are we feeling?” Faith said. “Any problem areas?”
“Yeah, I have a problem with most of New Orleans.”
Faith took this comment as Buck meant it, which was to say that he didn’t feel particularly sore in any specific muscle. She started on his legs, rubbing the lactic acid out and the healing blood into his muscles. “Oh yeah?” she asked. “Why’s that?”
“They were just too fast today. No team should be able to pull the whole peloton like that. Polini’s a good rider, but . . .” he trailed off, searching for the words. “They were really, really fast.”
“You’re really fast, too,” she said.
He chuckled. “Thanks. I’m just lucky they don’t have an all-rounder. If any of the teams had an all-rounder with the kind of power New Orleans showed today, I would be in real trouble.”
“Hey,” Faith said. Her voice was soft and musical, and he enjoyed the sound. He wished she would say “hey” like that more.
“Yeah?”
“You’re fast. And you’re a good man. You’ll be fine. And you’ll make us all proud,” she said, staring him directly in the eyes.
The words hit him with force. There was the attitude he was supposed to have. Not sitting around worrying about trouble before trouble was at his door. He felt gratitude well inside him.
“I will do my—” he said, but she cut him off when she leaned down a placed a kiss on his lips. Her hair brushed his face, and the swell of her breast pressed onto his body. Here again was the soft mouth and strong heart he’d felt that night on the veranda. The image of her lithe, powerful body flashed in his mind.
She straightened, breaking off the kiss, and he looked into her eyes. She looked back, her eyes glassy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. You need to concentrate on the race.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” he said. He rose to his elbows so he could address her without speaking lying down. “I . . .” he trailed off when he noticed that he was completely, fully, embarrassingly erect beneath his towel. Oh great, he thought, this is how you treat a woman who is doing her best to support you? Get a boner at her? Some respectful professional you are. He lay down again and pressed his penis down with both hands.
She put her hands on his, which made him shake a bit. Tremors surprised his body like a peloton suddenly riding past a family breakfast table.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. She reached her hand under the towel, gripped him, and he threw his arms around her neck, filling his nose with the smell of her sweet skin. Soon she was hurriedly pulling her clothes off, and he was trying to feel every inch of her at once. When she straddled him and took him inside her, there was no further protest, except from the wooden legs of the massage table.