Page 93 of Head Over Wheels

‘You’ll need all the balls you can get today,’ he said, with not quite a straight face, patting me on the cheek and walking away to fetch his own bike. I glanced down to see he’d graffitied my arm with a cock and balls, complete with pubic hair, and shook my head with a groan.

Those Gallaghers…

When we lined up at the start, even though my heart was in my throat, conviction settled over me. This was a momentto honour my past and define my future. I might be retiring, but I’d always betheSeb Franck, who’d come second in the Paris-Roubaix and helped Arjan Hoogenboezem win the polka-dot jersey.

Stranger things had happened at the Tour de France than a domestique winning a stage – maybe even things like Top Gun Gallagher falling in love with her fake boyfriend.

Releasing a heavy breath, eyes forward, battle-ready, I pushed into action, rolling out with the bunch to kilometre zero.

By the time the race director’s flag waved, like baiting a whole herd of mechanical bulls, I was positioned well at the edge of the group and picked up speed comfortably.

It was a hilly stage, not flat enough for the sprinters, but not tough enough to be purely the domain of the climbers. I’d studied the route until my vision blurred last night. I was ready to attack, ready to react – ready to make this the race of my career.

Deciding against following the first break, I stayed in the bunch for half the race, the radio in my ear providing regular updates on the position of the breakaway. I would have the element of surprise, because even I hadn’t expected to be preparing to attack with all my strength.

The relentless peloton caught and reabsorbed the first breakaway with one of the other teams driving a blistering pace.

My thoughts seemed to speed up – or life slowed down – as I flew around the curves with the pack, aware of theslightest movements of my competitors as the wind created a tunnel around us. My concentration was trance-like and yet—

Movement over my shoulder was enough for me to realise that another rider was attacking. This time, I went. A burst of power, springing into life, I threw everything into speed, quickly outpacing the peloton.

The radio crackled in my ear, but I zoned it out, aware only of the burn in my legs, narrowing all of my focus to the road ahead, the rider I expected to appear at my side – and never did.

‘Farking hell, Frankie! What was that? I was certain the peloton was just going to swallow you again. I don’t know how you got free!’

I realised with a wince that no one had attacked. I’d been trigger happy – and somehow got away with it for now.

‘You’ve got fifteen seconds, Frankie.’That was a good enough start. It was now a familiar test: mind against body. Only time would tell if I could keep my lead.

Fatigue tugged at my thoughts as the kilometres disappeared beneath my lonely wheels, the stone villages rushing by in a blur while the road filled my vision. I knew my body, recognised the point where my thighs threatened to cramp. I was certain they wouldn’t. Pushing on and ignoring the twinge, I proved myself right.

I was out in front, extending my lead, chewing up the distance to the finish line. I wasgoodat this – a solo breakaway, my signature move.

Of course, the moment I thought that, everything went haywire.

There was a smudge of colour on the road ahead and then, in a mess of braking and swerving, I narrowly avoided taking out whatever it was, but I skidded and clattered to the ground with an ‘Oof’.

Dazed, I turned my head and jumped in surprise to see a pair of beady black eyes staring back at me. A stout woman wearing a Cochonou checked bucket hat rushed onto the road to collect the ball of fluff. It was a long-haired chihuahua. At first, I thought I was imagining it, but no, the little dog was actually wearing a tiny yellow jersey.

The familiar crunch and whir heralding the approach of the peloton had me scrambling to my feet and fumbling for my bike. A spectator ran out to give me a push to get going. At any second, I’d be absorbed back into the bunch. But it didn’t happen. My blood was rushing in my ears and it was many long moments until I could actually hear the DS over the radio, praising the rest of the team, and I realised they must have taken control and slowed everyone down to give me a chance to get going again.

My chest heaving and swelling and my heart pounding all over the place, I was touched by my teammates’ actions – and flummoxed and more than a little amused by the chihuahua mishap that had almost stolen my lead. It appeared I had my own bad luck back.

As I passed through a little town of charming, run-down cottages with coloured shutters and geraniums exploding outof every pot, spectators lined the narrow road thickly, waving French flags and hand-painted signs. I spotted one that said ‘582km to Paris’ which was less than encouraging a moment later on the next lonely climb, when my muscles were on fire and my lungs could explode at any minute.

At the top of the climb a cheer went up, which raised my spirits until someone said, loudly enough that I heard it, ‘It’s that Dutch rider. What’s his name again? Frank somebody?’

There wasn’t enough of a descent to recover and I ploughed on towards the next hill. A cluster of people up ahead put me on alert because I couldn’t tell what they were holding. It was too narrow to be cardboard signs. I was worried I was about to be buffeted with blow-up hammers or something, but it turned out to be worse.

As I approached, coming into focus in front of me was a little platoon of Napoleonic soldiers in salute formation. But instead of swords, they held baguettes.

‘I’m going to take a loaf to the face,’ I muttered, the French expression for being punched more apt than any other time I’d used it in my life.

I didn’t slow down, even as I hurtled towards the bread-swords, hoping I wasn’t meeting my Waterloo. A man dressed as Napoleon himself standing on an upturned bucket barked an order and the ‘soldiers’ raised their weapons one by one to allow me through. Of course, there was one clumsy hero who didn’t quite get there in time and I took some crust to the helmet, but I was through.

After a chihuahua in the yellow jersey and a bread salutefrom a Napoleonic guard, it almost didn’t surprise me when an inflatable neon pink unicorn stepped out from behind a tree and took a run-up in my direction.

Past a gingerbread man sprinting along the road with me, a guy in a mankini who made me want to poke my eyes out, and at least two pairs of spectators dressed as Astérix and Obélix, I swerved and struggled and kept my eyes ahead, no matter what. This stage had picked the wrong guy to mess with. I’d competed in cyclocross and a few obstacles were nothing but extra fun.

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