Spokes (26 page)

First to find out what the race was doing. He poked his phone. No signal. Well, well. Guess he was going to be surprised as anyone by what happened. Except
the few people here at the fierce curve had radios.

All playing in Italian. Well hell.

He dropped his bike at the shoulder and stepped into the middle of the road with his worn-down blue chalk. "BIONDI," he wrote, using
letters two feet tall that threatened to consume the stub before the last
I
was complete.

His task finished, Christopher discovered he had a dozen new friends. "Biondi,
ale
!" they roared and toasted his
success and Christopher's good taste in riders with plastic cups of red wine. A young woman filled a cup for him, and then all he could do was
wait.

***

The advertising caravan came through, honking and shedding promo like cat fur. Christopher was grateful for the bottle of mineral water a young man threw
directly into his hands--one glass of wine midday was more than he was used to. He'd been playing catch with the sons of this extended
family, except his end of the game was more like "fetch", and not entirely because of his cycling shoes.

Little he'd heard on the radio made sense, though he could pick out names and a word here and there if it was enough like English or what
remained of his Spanish. "
Gran premio montagna
"
and Rolf's name sounded together a couple of times; he might
keep that blue King of the Mountain jersey another day. Luca's name came up regularly, not that he understood much of what went with it, but if
the caravan was here, the cyclists were less than half an hour behind.

And then he could see for himself.

Except he wasn't seeing what he wanted to see most. The leaders rode by, and Luca wasn't among them. No pink jerseys, not until about
eight minutes back when the Lampre riders started coming through, and a clump of turquoise jerseys a few minutes later weren't hiding Luca in
their midst. Were they? Motos swooped by, and the occasional press car. Team cars with racks of spare bikes and wheels obscured the riders now and
then--had Luca gone by in their wake? But his team wouldn't have dropped him back this far--their job was to carry him along
until it was time to make his move.

For that matter, he hadn't seen Rolf, though he wasn't looking for a blue jersey, and there were a couple of teams that could have
camouflaged him. But Rolf should have been with Luca--a lieutenant shouldn't stray too far from his GC.

A hundred and fifty-some riders toiled past, all that were left. And where was Luca?

The peloton strung out all over the race route--the last rider struggled by more than twenty minutes after the first. He might be rouge lanterne,
or he might get dropped for missing the cut-off. Team cars putted by, and then nothing at all.

So that was a mountain stage as seen from the Italian roadside. Christopher had yelled and clapped with his companions, and now they were packing the
remains of their picnic. "Biondi?" he asked, afraid he'd get an answer and not understand. The papa's
eloquent shrug was clear enough--he hadn't seen their favorite either. Luca had to have been in with the Lampre riders.

Now to get to the top--the leaders had all reached the finish, the last riders would summit soon. If Christopher was going to see Luca at all,
he'd better get moving. The road there at the curve was quite steep--he had to stand on his pedals to achieve any forward motion. The
papa, the young woman with the wine, and another young man dropped their handfuls and came out to push.

"
Dura! Dura!
"
They yelled encouragement and shoved him up the road. "
Con forza!
"
Hands on his back, butt, and bicycle propelled him
faster than he could pedal himself, until he finally popped away from his assistants.

"
Grazie!
"
he called, not daring to look back. He cranked, gearing down to rings he almost never used, but then, he'd never ridden a road with a 22% grade,
even if it was only for a few meters at a time. The top of the mountain seemed very far away, and parts of the course completely vertical. Luca would be back in Lienz before Christopher ever got to the finish.

Sound from behind made Christopher veer--if cars wanted this road, he wanted to be out of the way. Somehow the tiny vehicles here seemed like more
efficient predators than any SUV that ever chased him.

But it wasn't a car, and it wasn't some unknown coming up behind him. Fuck no; it was one of the top sprinters suffering his way up the
hill. This rider's face was as red as the print on his jersey, and he looked like a stroke was imminent. Why didn't he just bail?
"Party man's" tactics suddenly made a lot more sense.

If he
'
s behind me, the race isn
'
t over.
Slowing to let the sprinter by, Christopher called encouragement even while begging the universe to send a sag wagon along before the man's
eyeballs actually popped.

But the rider had brought at least part of his troubles on himself with that tall elliptical chainring in front.
Note to self, write about matching equipment to the road. He
'
d kick some ass with that gearing on the flat.
His mechanics and coaches had to be on crack to let him ride a mountain stage with that setup.

It certainly got him the pity parade--Christopher followed him around another bend into a populated stretch of road. Half a dozen people ran out
to push him. Helping hands and strong backs got the sprinter up to a speed about double what he'd managed by himself, or about what Christopher
could accelerate to unassisted.

He was prepared for hands on his body for a shove forward, but not for the familiar voice from behind. "Riding the stage today, Christopher?"

If not for the crowd around him, Christopher would have fallen off his bike. "Luca? What happened?"

"Big crash. Fifty riders on top of us." Luca's voice came choppy.

Fifty... Even if he was exaggerating, whatever happened was bad enough to put him more than half an hour behind the leaders. Bad. The team
shouldn't have left him. Nor his lieutenant. "Where's Rolf?" Even with their human engine, Christopher
didn't have breath for many words.

Nor did Luca, or maybe he was being cagy around their audience. "Team car."

Okay, wouldn't have to hunt him down and hurt him. Someone else would be wearing that blue jersey tomorrow, and Christopher would let the blow to
Rolf's pride be pain enough. His KoM credentials would stand forever, as would his Giro DNF.

"I should get off the course." But he couldn't, not with their helpers grunting and hauling them up the hill, calling
"
Dura! Con forza!
"
and a dozen other things he couldn't understand.

"Ride, Christopher." Luca didn't tell the crowd to let go. "I need lieutenant."

"You need to get off the course." Cyclists couldn't go around commandeering people into the team any more than they could
draft off team cars. Well, there was the magic spanner trick to get a pull....

"I need to finish."

Crazy, every last one of them, and Luca craziest of all. No hope of winning, no hope of even making the time cut-off by now, he'd be dropped from
the race, so why did he have to kill himself on this fucking mountain? The sprinter had the sense to stop. Maybe his brain had just shut down and stopped
talking to his legs: Christopher pulled Luca past the pathetic figure, doubled over his handlebars and sucking in air.

And he'd forced himself to continue to a spot where no one would see.

Christopher was as crazy as the rest now--he pulled, demanding his legs and his gears keep him upright on this horrible, vicious, fucking mountain
that was getting climbed just because it was there and they were men. Luca needed to finish. Christopher would make it possible. Luca needed speed.
Christopher would make that happen too. Fucking mountain.

The tunnels--relief. Flat. Gear up. Momentum. Fucking concrete legs, pedal. He pushed himself to the limit, not knowing if his vision grayed out
from the darkness inside the tunnel or imminent collapse. The buzzing in his ears might have been a moto, or the sound of blood vessels popping.

They burst out of the tunnels into bright sun and deafening noise. Cowbells. Clapping. Screams without meaning. "You go," Christopher
mumbled and tried to veer to the side, but the human chain in green and blue rainsuits wouldn't let him through. Couldn't let him
through--thousands of people would mob Luca. Crush him. Love him to death.

Just up to the grassy spot,
Stu told him.
Stop there. Luca will finish.

"You did good!" was the last thing Christopher heard before he fell, and he didn't know if the voice was Luca's, or
the Luca in his head. Didn't matter: Luca needed all his breath for one last push to the arch just ahead. His turquoise figure disappeared
beneath it. Christopher lay down in the grass and wept.

***

The podium ceremonies were over before Christopher recovered enough to care. The hordes disappeared down through the tunnels or the back way down a ski
lift to a parking lot where team busses and press busses waited. The cleanup crews chattered at him in Italian or German or other languages he
couldn't understand, and finally left him alone when he waved them away.

At least town lay downhill.

A goddamned steep, scary, twisty, demented downhill. Ten percent grades that annoyed him on the uphill terrified him going down--hairpin curves at
greater than 20% grade that he'd ascended at a crawl he descended soaked in sweat, with one hand gripping the rear brake and the other pumping
the front. If he went over the handlebars he'd lie in the road until the cleaners came along. Even with dual braking he went down that fricking
mountain way too fast.

When he reached the junction with the Crostis road, Christopher had to spend some time in the bushes with his leggings down. Anyone who got an eyeful
shouldn't have been looking. Before he pushed on, he had to take a long look up the mountain he'd just descended. The top was a long
way up--if he'd looked at more than the hundred yards ahead of him, he'd never have made it up. He sure as hell
wouldn't have survived getting down. And Luca rode that after another 140 kilometers and four climbs.

The rest of the trip went mildly, and fast. What was 5% when he'd just ridden down a wall?

He returned to Lienz to find his hotel swarming with reporters, mikes at the ready, and others brandishing press passes to get at him.
"That's him! That's him!"

Somehow using the most pungent phrases Luca had taught him seemed both appropriate and a really bad idea to spread over three continents, maybe four.
But--
Che cazzo e
?

"What happened on Zoncolan? Tell us how Biondi ascended!" came in too many voices. Cameras loomed at him.

"Wait, what?" Guess those had been motos.

"Turquoise jersey, no logos, red Specialized Roubaix-Comp road bike, white Vuelta helmet. Has to be you. Tell us about the ascent? Did you know
you were riding with Luca Biondi?"

Well, duh. "Someone had to. Rolf Knecht dropped out." No point in denying what however many motorcycle-mounted cameras had caught in
glorious detail.

"You didn't know?" One reporter had shouted himself into leadership of the pack and asked this question more quietly.

"Didn't know what?" God, but Christopher was tired and wanted something to eat. He wiped the back of his hand across his
face.

"Rolf Knecht is dead."

Chapter 25

What? How? Oh fuck, no. Not-- Not even. Please let this be a sick joke. But no, it wasn't: too many solemn faces looked back at him.
Christopher stammered, "I didn't know. I don't think Luca knew. He just said he and Rolf were at the bottom of a big
pile-up."

Oh fuck--Christopher needed to throw up. Not dead--he couldn't be dead. Rolf was an arrogant little shit but he
shouldn't be dead. The bastards never died, just the good guys-- And Luca. My Lord, Luca-- Did he know? He had to, he and Rolf
shared a room, they shared a team, strategies, everything. They wouldn't, they couldn't, keep something that big from Luca, and
he'd be-- Oh fuck. He had to get over there.
Luca...

Christopher blew the distance completely off the map in his rush to reach the Antano-Clark hotel, only to find the street in front of it clogged with more
press. Four men in blue and green rainsuits guarded the doors as they'd guarded the race route.

How was he going to get past that log jam? Did Luca even want him to get past? Shadowy figures flickered behind the gauzy drapes of the third floor
windows. Was that Luca? He became the whirlwind in times of stress, but for this? Christopher stared up.

The drapes parted: a face, too old to be a rider, peered briefly. Christopher's phone buzzed against his back. He all but beat the message off of
the screen.

Bob materialized out of the crowd. "Privileged communications again?"

"Shut the fuck up," Christopher snarled. If Bob had a video camera with him, too bad.

**You come up I bring you**

If Luca came down now, this crowd would eat him alive: the questions would never stop. So--someone who knew Christopher, or how to reach him.

Paolo emerged from between two rainsuited guards and had a brief word with them. Marching through the crowd, maybe over them if they didn't get
out of his way fast enough, he parted the thicket of press to find Christopher. "You come." He seized Christopher's wrist and
dragged him back to the door. The doors closed behind them, shutting the hubbub out. Someone took his bike and brought it in with them, since Paolo seemed
bent on pulling Christopher up stairs, possibly through keyholes.

"He wants you. I don't know why he wants you; you distract him." If Christopher lost his footing on the stairs, Paolo might
well tow him along anyway, bouncing his head on every step. "But he won't talk, he won't eat, he says only he needs you. Why
you? Stupid American, stupid journo." Paolo's voice was thick. "Stupid man. But he wants you, so I bring you. He wants, I do,
but why you?"