Page 126 of The Unfinished Line

South Wales Sisters Olympic Boundread the title. The article had gone on to compare three-day eventing as the horse equivalent to triathlon.Only cooler, Seren teased Dillon.

Coming onto the straightaway, Dillon unclipped her left foot, stretching her heel down to try and ease the muscle tension.They were on a mild downhill slope, allowing a fast pace without increased exertion.

Using the momentum of the decline, Elyna and Alecia were a dozen yards ahead, battling for the lead, with Georgina right behind them. A few yards back, directly in front of Dillon, the Dutch rider was attempting to overtake the two Canadians.

Dillon ignored the jockeying. Her focus was on the dismount line several hundred yards ahead. She flexed her calf, mentally rehearsing the transition.

Flying dismount. Rack bike. Helmet off. Running shoes on.

Her mind was on the number of gels she should down when she heard the unmistakable sound of rubber hitting rubber. Ahead of her, she saw the Dutch rider waver. Her front tire had come in contact with the rear tire of one of the Canadians. For a split second, Dillon thought the woman might recover, but in her effort to stabilize, the athlete overcorrected, again colliding with the Canadian, taking the pair of them to the tarmac.

Dillon knew she was going down. With the riders tangled just feet in front of her, there was no space to avoid the collision, and she was moving too fast to stop. Her only options revolved around what she would hit—cyclists or barricade—and how she would fall.

It was preferable to slide. Despite road rash and embedded gravel, a slide offered fewer risks of more serious injuries. If a rider had time and space, it was best to go down on a side, keeping feet clipped in, and hands on the handlebars. Let the bike take the impact.

But Dillon didn’t have the time or space to make those kinds of decisions. Instead, her only option was to run over the Dutch rider, or turn and hit the barricade at over twenty miles an hour.

Second nature forced her to choose the latter.

She closed her eyes.

The sound of the impact was smothered by screams from the crowd. She could feel the grind of metal as her wheel buckled, the carbon frame of her bike crumpling beneath her. A moment of weightlessness followed as she was launched over the handlebars.

It occurred to her in that fleeting interval of suspension that only her right foot was clipped to the pedal. Had both feet been secured, she would have likely stayed in the saddle, flipping forward over the barricade, taking the bike with her. Instead, the loose leg allowed the force of the collision to cast her off like a rag doll, leaving the mangled frame on one side of the barrier and catapulting her body onto the other.

She slid—five feet? Ten feet?—she couldn’t tell. She only knew that the scent of burning flesh was coming from her shoulder, as her right leg dragged her bike along on the other side of the barrier. Then all at once, the inertia of her slide stopped. The fork of her bike had caught on a stanchion, ceasing her forward momentum and torquing her body backward.

For a heartbeat… two… three… four… she lay, half on her back, dangling by her leg, staring up at the Landungsbrücken clock tower. Inanely, she wondered if Alecia had beaten Elyna to the transition? If she had, with enough of a headstart, could she hold the Frenchwoman’s pace on the fast course?

And then there were no more thoughts of the race. Of the strangers staring down at her. Of her detached awareness of Hamburg’s landmark buildings casting the pavement into shadow. It was as if a switch had flipped, igniting every pain receptor in her body. A white, searing excruciation, followed by a vignette of black, as the mercy of unconsciousness took over.

The physician was young. Too young. His English heavily accented.

He cleared his throat too much. Said her name too often.

Unlucky fall, Miss Sinclair.

Be grateful things were not worse, Miss Sinclair.

As if she had something for which to be grateful.

He stood at the end of the hospital bed, gesturing at a computer screen, explaining that she’d shattered her clavicle. Hit the ground so hard she’d cracked her helmet. Dislocated the bones of her elbow. Broken four ribs. Fractured her tibia. Damaged a part of her knee he didn’t know the word for in English.

It didn’t occur to Dillon to tell him she spoke German. To try to clarify what he was saying.

She just lay immobilized on her back, washed in a haze of pain which made it difficult to focus.

“How long will her recovery be?”

It was Seren’s voice, out of her field of vision.

The physician cleared his throat, thumbing the stethoscope dangling over his shoulders. “Miss Sinclair is fortunate to be alive.”

“That was not my question.”

“Seren!” Her mam was there, scolding.

When had they arrived in Hamburg?

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