The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  There was also a short bio of McManus relating how he’d grown up in the Flanders area of Belgium, then became a pro racer with limited results but showed brilliance in developing race strategies. He’d gone from team to team, rising in the ranks, and built a reputation among the media as a savvy if ruthless leader. His teams had won a lot of races.

  There was also a brief mention of McManus’s tryst with a Hollywood actress, whom he’d met on the set of a cycling-related movie in Saint-Tropez. The actress had called him her “Belgian treat,” which had stuck and led to plenty of behind-the-back snickering at McManus’s expense. Burke had been sure that when she dumped McManus after three months for a rodeo cowboy whose first name was Buck, McManus would be surlier than ever, but that wasn’t the case. In fact, after his bout with Hollywood fame, McManus had been abnormally pleasant, with hardly any barking or growling or biting. Then another racing season got underway, and McManus had gone back to type. So much for the influence of a slightly good woman, Burke thought.

  Burke made up his mind. He’d write about McManus this week, exploring a little more than what the initial reports had included. He’d provide some color, a few anecdotes and maybe even hint at how miserable McManus could be in pursuit of victory. The price of glory and all that blather.

  He figured he’d start by whistling down to Nice, where the teams would still be because the day’s afternoon stage was starting at Cagnes-sur-Mer. And why not go by bike? He could definitely use the exercise—he’d seen Claude noticing his expanding tummy—and it might also be easier than driving, since the area would be jammed with cycling fans.

  Back in his small apartment, he pumped up the tires on his red-and-white Cannondale carbon fiber bike, added a few drops of oil to the chain, put on cycling shorts and a cycling jersey and then jammed a tape recorder and notebook into one of the jersey’s three back pockets with his wallet in another. He took a look at the helmet by the bike. Screw it, he thought. It would squeeze his head, which already throbbed thanks to his hangover. He left it there.

  Outside, he waved at a couple of the local shop owners strolling to their businesses. They always seemed to be in a decent mood. He hoped that one day their bonhomie would rub off on him.

  Then he was riding, and instantly, he felt at home, his long, lean legs punching the pedals with little effort, to his surprise. Of course, the first stretch was marginally downhill, but he felt strong. He was a believer that if you’ve done a lot of physical exercise, you keep a base of muscle and lung power that can be easily reasserted with a little work.

  He passed a couple of middle-aged touring cyclists and then snuck past some crawling cars. He cruised through the first roundabout at forty-five kilometers per hour, and on the following straightaway, he cranked it up to fifty—but not for long. After about thirty seconds, he was wheezing and slowed to the low thirties. A good start to a new program, he figured.

  He made it to the road by Nice Côte d’Azur Airport in under ten minutes, and then he punched the pedals hard again, moving smoothly with the traffic toward the main part of the city. He figured a couple of the teams would be staying at hotels just off the main area, so those would be his first stops.

  Just as Burke was slowed, ready to take his first hotel turnoff, a man on a one-speed rental bike came off the promenade and collided with him. Burke, a veteran of a hundred crashes in his career, made himself go limp as he twisted and then landed against the side of a parked Citroën. Instantly, the traffic all around stopped.

  Stunned but sensing no major injury except an expansion of his headache, Burke got to his feet. He did a brief body check. Nothing was broken. He looked at his bike and saw the front wheel was caved in with spokes sticking out in wrong ways. He looked at the other cyclist, who seemed fine and was standing by his bike, which looked undamaged.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Burke said in French.

  The man, who looked to be in his mid-forties, stumbled over what Burke had said. Behind him was a pretty woman and a boy of about twelve years old, both on similar bikes. They were watching the exchange, looking a little worried.

  Burke tried again, this time in English. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  The man shrugged and offered a sheepish grin. “I thought there was a turn here, and I’m just real sorry,” he said in some kind of Midwest American accent. “Are you OK? I’ll pay for any damages.”

  Burke looked down at himself. He had a few rapidly developing bruises on his left arm and leg, but that was it.

  “Let’s move over here,” Burke said, hauling his bike with him and letting the motorists get on with their travels. On the promenade and away from the bike path, he shook his head and said, “I’m fine, but I’ll need a new wheel.”

  “Really? Are you sure?” asked the tourist, studying the wheel.

  Burke wanted to lay into the stranger but remembered the bonhomie he wished to achieve. “I’m sure. I’m a pro cyclist, and I understand these kinds of things,” he said, figuring no one but a cycling geek would recognize that he was a retired pro. “There’s a decent shop about four blocks from here.”

  “Uh, how much are we talking about?” the man asked.

  “I can’t say for sure. Probably six or seven hundred euros,” Burke said.

  The woman behind the man gasped. The man himself looked like he had been slapped. The youngster suddenly seemed more interested and bent over to inspect the wheel.

  “It’s a pro machine,” Burke added, hoping the exchange wasn’t going to turn into a complete ordeal, though he expected it would.

  “That’s a lot of money,” said the man.

  “I can call the police,” Burke said, spotting a cop about a half block away. He had no interest in involving the local constabulary because, in his experience, French police were often as challenging to victims as they were to the perpetrators, but he wasn’t going to share that viewpoint with this tourist.

  “No, no,” the man said, relenting.

  They agreed to walk to the bike shop and figure out what needed to be done.

  Burke would have preferred to walk in silence so he could concentrate on reducing the thump in his head, but the tourist seemed to feel an obligation to fill the time with observations about Nice and France, anything. Burke wondered if the man was trying to be cordial to get the price of the repairs dropped. Not a chance, Burke thought.

  Eventually, Burke felt compelled to ask a question. “What do you do back home?”

  The man, who had introduced himself as Ron Henderson, puffed up. “I’m a pharmacist. I run my own pharmacy in Missoula, Montana. Been doing it for fifteen years,” he said.

  Henderson’s wife was paying no attention whatsoever. The boy didn’t seem to be enjoying the trip, although his head swiveled whenever a pretty girl—and Nice had lots of them—strolled by.

  The pharmacist launched into a monologue about the different meals they had enjoyed since landing. Burke worked hard at tuning him out but perked up when he heard the American had developed a liking for steak tartare and pastis.

  Finally, they were at the bike shop, a small but tidy operation run by André Rousseau, a longtime mechanic for a decent French pro team. Rousseau had finally given up the pro circuit at his wife’s wishes and, with the backing of some pro racers, had opened his shop, which catered to many top-caliber racers in the region. Burke respected Rousseau’s mechanical expertise and liked him for his dry wit. He figured Rousseau would support him in this dispute.

  The mechanic took one look at the crumpled front wheel and told the pharmacist in flawless English that it was a write-off and would cost about seven hundred euros to replace. Henderson winced. His wife shook her head, looking a bit worried. The son stared out the window.

  Rousseau removed the broken wheel and leaned it against the counter, then looked at Burke. “Mavic, same model?” he asked. “Or an upgrade?”

  Burke would have liked an upgrade but said he’d manage with a same model as a replacement. Rou
sseau nodded and went into the back of the shop.

  “An expensive day,” the pharmacist said, managing a smile.

  Rousseau was back in two minutes with a new wheel and tire, which he quickly put on. He slipped the wheel back onto the bike and then filled the tire with a pressurized pump.

  “You’re back in business,” he told Burke.

  After Henderson had settled with a credit card, they went outside.

  “Sorry about your bad luck,” Burke said, starting to climb aboard.

  “Yeah, well, stuff happens, hey?”

  Burke felt a strange obligation to extend the conversation a few more seconds. “Staying in Nice?” he asked.

  “Three nights at the Hotel de l’Empereur,” Henderson said.

  “Good hotel,” Burke said. “Have a good time and watch out for cyclists.”

  Burke started off, catching a “Bonne journée” from Henderson.

  A few minutes later, Burke stood at the entrance of the hotel housing the Global Projects team, his bike safely attached to a nearby post by a thin cable lock. He flashed his media pass at the two security guards at the hotel entrance. They seemed unimpressed, which didn’t entirely surprise Burke, given he was wearing spandex cycling bib shorts and an old KAS shirt with his notepad and recorder tucked in his back jersey pockets.

  “I’m a journalist, but I rode here from my apartment,” he explained. “I’m a former pro.”

  The security pair continued to look unimpressed. In fact, they seemed to be studying everyone else but Burke.

  He spotted the hawk-like features of Mark Den Weent, a former teammate and one of the coaching staff. Den Weent was just strolling down the hallway and turned when he heard Burke call his name.

  Den Weent came over and told the security duo that Burke could come in. Wordlessly, the pair stepped back, letting Burke walk into the large, brassy entrance of the glamorous hotel.

  Burke looked at Den Weent. “Tough day?” he offered.

  “Oh, you mean McManus,” Den Weent said. Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s difficult and definitely a surprise, but what can you do? We must go on.”

  Burke thought Den Weent, who looked a lot more ready to smile than cry, was managing just fine.

  “You haven’t been doing your miles on the road,” Den Weent said with a grin, nodding at Burke’s waist.

  “Yes, well, it’s the life of the journalist,” Burke replied. “Not good for exercising.”

  Den Weent, still smiling, shook his head.

  “How’s the team doing?” Burke asked, leading Den Weent to a couple of vacant black leather chairs in the foyer.

  “Are you asking as a journalist or my old teammate Paul Burke?” Den Weent asked, dropping into one chair.

  “Both, I guess. I’m doing a piece on McManus, but I’m also curious how everyone’s managing without the old—”

  “—bastard!” Den Weent said, jumping in. “Officially, as we said at the news conference last night, we are devastated by the tragic loss of such a giant of the sport and such a key component of this team’s success.”

  “You’ve been working on your PR skills, I see,” Burke said, letting the leather chair swallow him.

  “I’ve had plenty of instruction in the art of PR,” Den Weent confirmed.

  “And the non-PR take?”

  “Everyone is breathing again,” Den Weent said. “This last year, he was worse than ever, and I didn’t think that was possible. We’ve got riders who’ve been close to breaking for months. They came here for more money and discovered very quickly that a better contract isn’t worth shit when you’ve got a boss who believes he owns your life.”

  “And you? Did you get fooled by McManus?”

  Den Weent smiled. “Same story. He had me by the balls.”

  “But not now.”

  “Now my balls don’t hurt,” Den Weent said. “After the press conference last night, the other two trainers on the team and I got pissed at the bar right over there. Everyone not on the team probably thought we were overcome by sadness and drowning our sorrows. Fuck that! We were celebrating.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, and then Den Weent excused himself, citing a need to concoct the team’s plans for the next stage. Burke was ready to head back outside when he spotted Eric Tilson, one of the most familiar faces in pro cycling and a consummate domestique with endless stamina, boundless understanding of race tactics and the gift of gab in five languages, which made him a media darling and a strong candidate for a TV commentator’s job once he hung up his cleats.

  “Big loss, eh?” Burke held out his tiny recorder, hoping it still had enough juice to work.

  “Irreplaceable,” Tilson said in his Aussie drawl, his dark eyebrows knitting into one solid line as he frowned. “We’re all devastated.”

  “Tough to ride today?” Burke asked, sensing that Tilson would stick to the company line.

  “Yeah, I’m heartbroken. I’ll be thinking of Mac every kilometer,” Tilson said, a slight twinkle showing in his gaze.

  “Surprised by the heart attack?”

  Tilson paused. “Yeah, I am. He was made of iron and could still ride like hell. He ate well and stayed away from booze. He looked like he was ready to live to be bloody one hundred.”

  Burke asked who was controlling the team now.

  “Den Weent will still work the car. Shit, he’s one of the best at dealing with stage tactics on the fly. But I don’t know about who’ll really pull the strings. No one does. And with looking for a new sponsor, we’re all wondering what’s next.”

  “You want to stay around, Eric?” Burke asked.

  Tilson, who was thirty-five but looked almost fifty due to years of racing in all kinds of weather, shrugged. “I’d like to. Lots of talent here. With the right cosponsor, we could do very well for the next couple of years.”

  “Would you want to stay around if McManus was still around?” asked Burke.

  Tilson laughed. “I learned a great deal under his guidance. It’s a real loss, a real tragedy.”

  Burke put away the recorder. He wasn’t going to get much else, but he didn’t really mind since he had always enjoyed Tilson’s company.

  “Thanks, Eric,” he said, shaking hands.

  He had gone a few steps when he heard Tilson’s voice behind him. “Be careful what you write, Burkie. People are a little sensitive these days.”

  Then he was gone, leaving Burke wondering what was behind the warning.

  THE DAY’S STAGE WASN’T scheduled to start for another two hours, and Burke didn’t feel like heading home to wait. He figured he’d hang around, maybe chat with some of the ex-pros who often showed up for race starts and see if he could learn anything new. He doubted he would, but it was a beautiful day, and he always enjoyed the energy of a community hosting a Tour de France étape.

  He climbed aboard his bike and wound his way through the stream of pedestrians, who all seemed headed in the same direction—the beach front.

  When he got to the start of the day’s TDF stage—with its banners and other decorations, it was easy to spot—he took to walking. Already, there were a few thousand people milling about, setting up chairs, watching race personnel put up barriers, hoping to get a photo of a cyclist or, even better, a chance to land an autograph.

  Burke didn’t look out of place in his cycling attire; there were several hundred other riders sporting similar clothing. It was a celebration of cycling in general, along with the Tour de France.

  A bit hungry and starting to feel his headache weaken, Burke went to a small kiosk and ordered a gaufre, or waffle, with walnuts. He would start his diet the next day.

  As he worked his way through the whipped cream and into the waffle, he found his mind wandering. Just a day ago, he’d been watching TV and another stage of the Tour, and now he was poking about trying to gauge the impact of McManus’s sudden death. He laughed to himself; he was doing a journalist’s job.

  He found a spot away from the throng but wit
h a decent view. He watched the riders sign in and then assemble for the start of the stage. No one was moving quickly. It was all about conserving energy.

  It was almost race time.

  First-time fans were probably expecting a wild and crazy start, but Burke knew a stage usually began like a procession, with most, if not all, of the cyclists riding casually and chatting among themselves. The first attempt at a breakaway might come in the initial kilometer, but Burke doubted it because the heat was already stifling, and the stage had some testing hills ahead. He figured some riders would wait until they were approaching Antibes before trying to distance themselves from the peloton.

  When the starter fired the gun to signal the beginning of the race, that was exactly the approach the peloton took as the riders slowly disappeared toward Villeneuve-Loubet and on to Antibes.

  Burke looked about. Many in the crowd didn’t seem to care that the race was underway; they were laughing and telling stories. Some spectators, though, were clearly puzzled at the weak start after such a buildup.

  He walked a bit with his bike until he was clear of most of the throng, and then he mounted. He figured he’d ride back home and write a quick blog about the day’s start and some of the comments he’d gotten from Den Weent and Tilson.

  “Hey, hey,” someone yelled at him.

  Burke looked around. The voice belonged to the Montana pharmacist who’d slammed into him on his bike. He tried to recall the guy’s name. Then it came back—Ron Henderson.

  Henderson was walking toward him, his wife and son in tow.

  “That was pretty exciting,” Henderson said when he got within range.

  Burke shrugged. “Glad you liked it.”

  “I got some good photos,” Henderson said, sounding like he wanted to replay the entire start. “I’m hoping we can catch up with the race another day. That would be outstanding!”