Page 97 of Head Over Wheels

LoonieDunes: I look hot in bike shorts.

Folklore: Are we seriously pretending nothing happened?

LoonieDunes: It was 37° today. I was hot in my bike shorts.

Folklore: The goats can eat your bike shorts.

LoonieDunes: Ah, so you do want to get me naked.

Folklore: I’m starting to regret letting you break my texting rule.

LoonieDunes: I’m glad you did. How else am I supposed to butter you up for my apology in a non-confrontational manner?

Chapter 38

Lori

Seb’s performance was abysmal for the last two competitive stages of the Tour. He’d obviously thrown too much into stage 18. He could barely keep up with the gruppetto in stage 19 and lost a miserable 25 minutes. Back in Colin’s service for stage 20, he managed okay for the first half, only to fall back in the second. But Colin made it home in ninth overall in the general classification, a decent performance for his first Tour as leader. Then there was just the ceremonial leg into Paris remaining for the men.

Most of tomorrow’s ride would be non-competitive by tradition, with the sprinters contesting the win in the final kilometres. But while the men had an early piss-up with the champagne popped before they even crossed the finish line, the women were actually racing the first day of our Tour. My brain was shooting off in a million directions.

Installed in our hotel in Lyon, trying to chill, I couldn’t stop wondering if Seb’s words on camera after stage 18 hadbeen a hint. I’d even lost all willpower and actually asked him three nights in a row, before deleting it immediately after:You love cycling? You want to be involved in the sport?

When he finally replied, while Leesa and I were watching a cheesy Netflix romcom, the relief, the joy, the utterfrustrationshook me. We had a lot to talk about, problems to iron out – at least I hoped he wanted to iron them out too. But silly text messages were our love language and I felt tears pricking when he reached out in that small, but significant way.

There was a rap at the door and I was so jittery I leaped up and wrenched it open before Leesa could even press ‘Pause’.

One of the members of the hotel staff stood there with a small box that made my stomach flip.

‘This just arrived for you, mademoiselle. It’s from—’

I grabbed for it rather rudely but, as I tugged open the lid, the end of the man’s sentence made me freeze.

‘… your brother.’

‘Merci,’ I managed to respond, closing the door after him. Slumping onto my bed, I glanced into the box with a little less enthusiasm.

‘Did you think it would be a diamond ring from Seb?’ Leesa teased.

‘No!’ I was pretty sure it would take me several more years to convince Seb we could dothat. I would probably drag him to Gibraltar for a quickie wedding next week if he’d let me, but I was also only twenty-six and I didn’t wantto give him even more of a complex. ‘I thought it might be another hint.’

‘You’re more excited about a hint of getting back together with Seb than with a lovely pair of earrings? Although if they’re from Colin, maybe they’ll shoot water in your eye.’

‘Maybe my little brother is finally growing up – a bit.’ I studied the gift with a smile. The hoops were thick, but small enough not to get caught on anything. Sending Colin a quick text in thanks, I slipped them in. He was a bit of a dick sometimes, but he was all right. He texted back quickly.

I’m sorry I didn’t notice you’d lost one. Lucky someone tipped me off. Looking forward to catching up after you slay the others in the women’s Tour.

A grin stretched on my face and lightness expanded in my chest. Everything was going to be all right. Racing was hard. My family a bit fraught. Things were up in the air with Seb, but he’d been wrong and I’d been wrong and I could convince him to give it another go when I saw him.

But it would be a whole lot easier to convince him if I won…

‘Leesa, do you have a chain I can borrow? I broke mine, but I want to wear something tomorrow.’

As the men headed for the Champs-Élysées on Sunday for the final sprint and the podium, our Grand Départ was 500 km away in Lyon. Feeling like myself with my earrings in, Saint Francis and Joan of Arc against my chest and a redbackdrawn on my forearm, I hit the race hard, loving every second of attack and every breather in the peloton.

I spent most of the stage with a grin on my face, not only from the warm air, the surge of adrenaline and the taste of victory, but also because the crowds were large, a real Tour de France moment, although the Tour had been men-only for so many years. It didn’t hurt that my old rival, Laura Colombini, moved in and out of my peripheral vision. Loredana ‘Folklore’ Gallagher was full of fondness and respect as well as the ruthless desire to win and, if I got the chance, I would wrap my arms around her after the finish.

I spotted a little round Cochonou saucisson van with its red-checked paint job. I saw people draped in national flags, raising a hand every time I saw the Australian one and even managing a few high fives: with a group in sumo suits, another in bikinis – the menandthe women. Someone had even scrawled my name in enormous chalk letters on the road, making my vision blur with tears.

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