Page 50 of Head Over Wheels

‘All is not quite lost for Harper-Stacked today, but Franck appears to be the last man standing and I’d say he has a hell of a task in front of him – assuming the bike isn’t damaged.’

The camera zoomed in on his face as he pumped it, dancing his bike over the bumps, his brow low and lopsided and his breath coming in gusts. His jersey was ripped at the side, showing his pale rib cage with a nasty gash.

‘Is anyone… there?’ came his voice over the radio, punctuated by a grunt of effort. ‘I’m chasse-patate here. Could do with some help.’ I knew the French expression – ‘potato chase’, when a rider is a sitting duck between the peloton and the breakaway – but my thought in that moment was how rarely I’d heard him speak French. I kind of wanted to hear more.

‘Sorry, Frankie, the boys are stuck. You’re on your own,’ Alan replied.

The camera caught him lifting his head as though measuring the task ahead. ‘Okay,’ came his muffled reply, on a pent-up kind of sigh. ‘See you at the end.’

The hairs on the back of my neck lifted as I wondered if he knew I was here listening, if he was talking to me. He couldn’t be, but the idea of him racing to the finish to see me grabbed me around the ribs and squeezed.

He’d had a roaring race and he was nearly home. It would kill me if I couldn’t kiss him when he rolled in. I’d been an idiot to make that stupid promise.

12 September 22:15

zpeed.com/voicechannels/@Folklore99/7493376900111

LoonieDunes: You… you’re okay, right? You said you were injured. I don’t have to press the emergency button or anything?

Folklore99: I just have to get better. There’s no button for that. I’m just gonna get better again.

LoonieDunes: …If I say I’m sorry, will that help?

Folklore99: No. Say ‘faster’ instead. Make me want to beat you.

LoonieDunes: Ah, well, in that case, if I win, we watch more Star Wars. If you win…

Folklore99: *grunt* We listen to Taylor Swift for an entire week.

LoonieDunes: Really? I didn’t pick you for a fan of T Swizzle. Isn’t she a bit… harmless for you?

Folklore99: I’m harmless! And I like pop music. Deal with it.

Chapter 20

Seb

I felt like a zombie, my flesh necrotising in real time as the world passed by in a smudge – with the occasional blinding yellow of a field of rapeseed. The sensation was probably just mud drying in my cuts but, despite the scream of resistance in my blood, I was oddly calm as I inched closer to the breakaway after the crash.

As though I could suddenly tell the future, I knew I’d catch them at the last stretch of cobbles – or perhaps it was more the clarity of knowing that if I didn’t, it’d all be over for me. No win, no kiss.

The rational part of me had dismissed her promise as big talk – unorthodox sports psychology to support her team – but that rational part had clocked out after the first 100 km, and the animal part of me was focusing on surviving and procreating in a heady mix that had me tapping into my last reserves.

But those reserves got me there. With sweat and raindripping into my eyes, unimpeded now I’d lost my glasses, I found myself on the wheel of the last guy in the breakaway and I hadn’t died yet.

That was when a win started to feel like a real possibility and my cadence stalled. I survived the stress of this wild sport by being the underdog. Yeah, I’d stood on the podium twice already this season – which still didn’t feel real – but that had been a fluke. I wasn’t that guy – the guy who won things.

But I wanted to win today.

Everything inside me seized up at the thought and I nearly lost the wheel of the guy in front before I pulled myself together. I only had to survive another ten minutes of questioning all of my life choices.

The brown fields gave way to houses and light industrial properties as we were swallowed up into the outskirts of Roubaix, one of an agglomeration of towns that sat tucked into a curve of the French border with Belgium. The cold rain was falling more steadily now. I knew the route better than I knew myself in that moment, knew exactly where I would push forward. I hated the chaos of a sprint finish, but with five riders still left in the lead, it was going to get scrappy.

In silent agreement, we picked up speed through the streets lined with fans waving banners and shouting. One guy – I was too tired to even note who – pushed ahead and I swallowed a groan as I forced even more out of myself to follow.

I flew into the velodrome on his wheel, no idea if anyone was behind me or how much the other guy had left to give.As we whipped around the first curve, he tried to drop me, sticking to the edge of the track, but I held on in his slipstream. I’d never manage a whole lap performing so far over my threshold and, even at the last minute, conserving my strength was a necessary strategy.

Dimly registering the clang of the brass bell announcing the final lap, I held my nerve, bided my time, the effort of waiting and holding on just as difficult as what was to come when I sprinted. I didn’t know if we were the first group or not. The words on my radio were gibberish.

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