Page 80 of Head Over Wheels

LoonieDunes: I seem to have developed a few superstitions.

Folklore: I’ll pray the rosary to Saint Catherine for you. If her severed head appears in your dreams, that means it’s working.

22 June 06:03

LoonieDunes: Happy birthday! Did your card arrive?

Folklore: Thanks. It did.

LoonieDunes: You already opened it?

Folklore: Yesterday. I couldn’t wait – but now I’ve had an earworm of gnomes singing ‘It’s Your Birthday’ for sixteen hours and twelve minutes.

LoonieDunes: Welcome to twenty-six.

29 June 16:13

Folklore: T minus one day.

LoonieDunes: Don’t you mean two? The Tour starts on the first?

Folklore: One day until you see me. I’m coming to watch the Grand Départ before I head back up for training camp.

LoonieDunes: You tell me that now?

Folklore: It was supposed to be a surprise, but I can’t keep a secret.

LoonieDunes: Wow. You do realise I haven’t shaved all month for luck?

Folklore: You forget I watched the Tour de Suisse. I have seen that thing growing on your face.

Chapter 31

Lori

Craning my neck over the gathered crowd, I held my breath waiting for my first look at the Harper-Stacked riders for the Tour de France. My heart was looping in my chest, the beat so irregular I’d probably alarm a cardiologist right now and it had nothing to do with the Grand Départ tomorrow from this beautiful city on the Adriatic Sea, or the excitement of the team presentations currently under way.

It wasn’t my fitness, either. I’d just come down from three weeks at altitude training as though my career depended on it – and bickering comfortably with Doortje and trying not to resent Leesa Kubicka for being so damn clever and talented. I was in the shape of my life.

But right now, I was about to see Seb again and I suspected it would not be pretty.

I was in Trieste for the first two stages in Italy and Slovenia and I’d follow the team back to France until stage four. In other years, I’d followed the team around and helped Dadand I was almost sorry I couldn’t this year, except that I’d never be sorry the organisers had finally introduced a women’s event with the same branding, starting when the men’s Tour finished, after a century of men-only competition.

The crowd cheered the next team to emerge from the arcade of the historic building across the square and they wheeled their way up onto the stage, their bikes extensions of their bodies. Music played and the announcers spoke a chaotic mix of languages as the riders waved and threw signed caps and water bottles into the crowd. I thought I caught a glimpse of blue and garish orange through the arches of the arcade signalling that Harper-Stacked was up next.

And then I heard a voice, which was definitely not the one I’d been desperate to hear. An arm slipped around my waist to give me a light squeeze.

‘Have I missed it? My flight was delayed.’

‘Mum?’ I said, whirling and stumbling. My heart sank, thoughts about winners and losers shooting through my brain as I imagined my parents fighting – or ganging up on me – or fightingaboutme.

She hesitated, studying me. ‘Is everything all right?’

My foot drummed on the floor of its own accord. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’ I obviously hadn’t inherited Mum’s ability to keep a secret.

‘Colin didn’t mention it?’

I shook my head. ‘How long are you staying?’

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