Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  A week after his dinner with Miriam – a busy week of deliveries and races – he is scheduled to compete.

  He puts petroleum jelly on the insides of his thighs. When he races, sometimes sweat pours off him, sometimes it’s so cold that only the crystals of salt are left. He wants to avoid the constant chafing, avoid slowly turning his thighs into sandpaper.

  It’s very early as he crawls down the ladder, bum sticking out into the air because of the angle. His life as a farmer proves helpful when he needs to get up before dawn. He walks down the creaking stairs, carrying his bike over his shoulder and a small bag packed with his vials and three apples.

  On Copenhagen Street, a little boy, noticing the bike and the race gear, waves at him and shouts ‘Good luck’. Paul smiles and waves back, taking the lack of rain and the boy’s wide smile as a good sign.

  Paul hopes he’ll return with a medal and enough money for rent and food, as well as lighter tyres or something from Jack. The streets are quiet, but it’s London so people are on their way home, or on their way to work. Drunks are getting drunker, sober preachers are preaching to the deaf, taxis are trying to kill him and women are waving after him. When he first came to London he thought they were cycling fans, maybe they recognized him. Then he realised they are the sort of women who wave to any kind of man at this time in the morning. In the hope that the man is on his way home from something dismal, rather than on his way to something exciting.

  His main concern is to stay clear of the huge, still steaming mounds of manure. Of the veritable lakes of horse piss and human piss and the streaks of vomit that line both streets and pavement. As if the people being sick were in a great hurry, vomiting as they ran along. There’s broken glass, nails, wood splinters, sharp shards of metal, stolen cobblestones, inexplicable holes and sharp edges in the road surface that he has to look out for too. He learned this on his first trip across Southwark Bridge, and, this time, he doesn’t want to be late. Over his shoulders, under the bag, he carries two spare inner tyres. They form a black X over his jumper.

  Now onto London Road, wider, faster. Full of potentially deadly trams. And he wants to ride as fast as he can past the areas that he knows Mr Morton controls. He doesn’t want to be seen. He knows he’s not doing anything wrong, but still being seen is being dragged into more of the business than he already is. And he’s had enough of the man in white for a long time.

  Elephant and Castle flies by, and luckily he doesn’t spot anyone from Mr Morton’s establishments. He picks up speed again along Hollingbourne Road, his legs and chest now warm, nothing more. This kind of cycling is not tiring, it’s like walking, but not boring. Then, his destination: the velodrome. He feels the flutters, the expectant orb in the centre of him. The prospective speed, and a fair amount of fear, puts him in the right mind for two days of cycling. He rolls up to the racer’s entrance and after signing in and small-talking with one of the janitors he finds his allotted space.

  Harry’s not here today. Paul knew that was going to be the case. But the conversation they had about enhancing his races is still vivid in his mind.

  ‘Paul, you’ve been learning a lot these last couple of months,’ Harry had said. ‘You have learned to dose out the extra push depending on the length of the races. One pill per hour the first two hours. Then one every half hour. And you make sure to keep an extra back. In case something unexpected happens in the last twenty laps. I know the sweats, the suppression of hunger, the extra wind in your lungs, the way the light comes in more clearly, like you’ve opened the blinds of your head. The effect is absolutely fantastic. You wouldn’t dare take the pill if you weren’t cycling, or in mortal pain. Be careful son.’

  Paul nodded. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the extra power coursing through him, but soon realised it was both useful and necessary.

  Harry continued, ‘As the first pill, always the strongest, kicks in, you want to sing and shout but there’s not enough air in your lungs for that. It’s best to be quiet, it’s best to save your breath for later. But remember, it’s too early to celebrate, even though you feel so happy that winning seems secondary. You know you are paying a price. A high one. You know that tomorrow you will be starving but not feel the hunger. You will shake. Both from not taking the pills, and from your body being tired almost beyond repair. You will be annoyed with everything, you will feel sad for no real reason. Make sure you explain this to the ones you love. They might be more forgiving that way.’

  Paul smiled and thought about the smell of pine and how much trouble he would be in if he was rude to Miriam.

  ‘As the race wears on you will be broken. You know you’re riding the chemical imbalance. It’s a serrated knife’s edge. You know you’ll one day end up crushed by the rush, by the vials and paper cones. You know you can’t stop. Everyone else is riding the wave, so you continue. It’s a fragile balance. The stakes, and dosages, always going up.’

  After Harry packed away the things he said, in a voice thick with seriousness, ‘You make sure to keep on the right side of all this Paul. As soon as you stop cycling you stop taking pills. I’ve seen too many good men disappear into the shadows once their careers were over. I’ll be watching over you like a hawk.’

  Today, thinking about Harry’s pep talk, Paul prepares as best he can, tries to find the tunnel vision that seems to work best for him. He nods to some of the others. It’s now six o’clock. A man. A gun. Then it starts. He feels the pills in his back pocket. He knows he will have to use them. Everybody else does.

  Paul has spent the weekend coming second to a Welsh cyclist, Emrys Rees. He decides to chat to Rees and see what equipment he has been using.

  Emrys sits smoking and drinking a tall glass of frothy beer on a fold-out chair in a corner of the infield, by the easement curve. There’s a tub of steaming water on a chair across from him, across his shoulders is a towel ready to be pulled up over his head.

  When Paul comes over, Emrys nods and extends his hand for a shake, but is enjoying the cigarette too much to speak just yet. He doesn’t seem too offended by the possibility of a chat.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Paul says. The man nods again, downs half his beer and raising it, mimes the question if Paul wants one. Paul replies he only drinks sarsaparilla and laughing the man says that’s one he’s not heard before.

  ‘What’s in the tub? Smells nice,’ Paul says.

  ‘Hot water, a sprig of rosemary, a little St John’s wort oil and a thimbleful of eucalyptus oil from Madeira. And ethanol. It’s this month’s concoction.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘My dad is a pharmacist, sends me the stuff.’

  ‘And you inhale this after every race?’

  ‘And before. Have a sniff. Sure you don’t want a beer?’

  Paul shakes his head and takes a long deep breath, inhaling the steam that rises from the basin. It makes his nose and eyes run, it makes his lungs sting, it makes his head ring, all very unpleasant. Seconds later he feels cleaned out, hollowed out like an egg ready for display.

  ‘That’s very strong,’ he says wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.

  ‘Great for colds too.’

  ‘I won’t disturb you any longer. Just thought I would congratulate you. Today was hard. You did well. Your wheel did well.’

  ‘Stay around, you’re Scottish aren’t you? I’ve seen you around. A real workhorse.’

  Paul grunts.

  ‘It was meant as a compliment, not to offend you.’

  ‘None taken, I’ve heard worse,’ Paul says.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a beer?’ Paul shakes his head, and Emrys continues, ‘Well, I’m not like the other ones, the ones who refuse to talk. I don’t mind a little discussion after a race, or indeed before. I like a laugh you know. And anyway I usually sit with my face in a bucket for an hour before I can make myself leave the velodrome.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You’re going to catch me any week soon you know. I can sense it. And I
don’t like it. But that’s life.’

  Paul assures him he’s nowhere close to beating him and Emrys shouts for one of the boys who always seem to be hanging around to run out and buy another couple of beers and some sarsaparilla. He drapes the towel over his head, like a bride about to enter the church and moving his chair closer to the basin, he bends over, a human penknife in shorts, resting his elbows on the chair and lowering his nose to just above the surface.

  ‘Would you mind if I asked you some things? About your bike?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Emrys says, his voice muffled, ‘but go ahead. Some secrets I will take with me to my grave, other knowledge you’ll find out sooner or later so I might as well share some of mine. Just let me breathe this in for a moment will you?’

  Emrys inhales and exhales, slowly, a coarse wheeze escaping him. Paul relaxes, lets his legs shiver and go soft. The boy soon returns and stands awkwardly with the bottles and the change.

  ‘Keep it,’ Emrys says from under the towel. Then a long sniffle.

  Paul thinks the concoction smells very sharp and wonders if that is maybe one of the secrets to Emrys’ speed – the fact that he has nothing left of his nose, his throat. His lungs must be burnt out like a forest fire has ravaged them. Looking at the white pallor of the man’s legs, a shade whiter even than his own, Paul thinks something must be wrong.

  Paul downs his drink, feels the light sweat it always brings on. He looks at the track around him, where a group of riders are training on tandems now that the crowd has left. The front riders, the captains, shouting for the riders behind them on the bike, the stokers. The teams are going faster and faster, higher and higher up while a team on a five-man tandem, a Quint, warm up on the inner field. They will need to gather a lot of speed to be able to stay up, he thinks. As they enter the velodrome Paul tries not to look at them, fears for them. Despite himself his eyes are drawn to the bike. It’s as long as a shopfront, more a spectacle than for serious competitors, he thinks. But then again, five times the manpower for not much more weight might be fun. Then Emrys emerges from the towel, small sweat beads on his nose and forehead.

  ‘Do you have a cold?’ Paul asks.

  ‘Oh, you mean all this?’

  ‘Seems like a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I grew up not far from the track at Carmarthen Park, that’s how I got interested in the first place. Watching my older brother and his friends tear around. I was never allowed on the track, my mother would have killed me if she found out that I did any kind of exercise, let alone sprint round a concrete track in freezing conditions. That was pretty hard for me, for any boy growing up I suppose. I never got to play football or climb trees. I wasn’t allowed to do any of the things my body told me to do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had very bad asthma. Still do, but I’m not thinking about it now, and it has gotten a bit better. People seem to think it’s something I have made up, or that it’s something that I’ve brought on myself, some kind of queerness in the head, but I assure you I would trade everything I have to be able to breathe properly. As it is I treat it like a bad cold. It’s really not the same, but I can’t be a victim. And clearly I’m doing something right.’

  ‘Well, you’re beating me over and over again.’

  ‘I mean I’m still alive. And these days my mother is my biggest fan.’

  ‘Have you always done this with the basin then?’

  ‘I used to rub myself with chloroform liniment before getting on the bike, but I got a terrible rash, like eczema. I was prescribed sulphur by my dad to fix it but the powder made it worse. Then borage oil, which made no difference, then evening primrose oil, which made me smell like compost, plus it made very little difference.’

  ‘That sounds pretty complicated. I drink water, try to eat an egg with my breakfast porridge. That’s about it.’

  ‘I think I’m a bit of a guinea pig for my dad. I don’t mind, and I do it to myself these days. I think about it as a scientific experiment. Whatever it takes, whatever helps. I tried smoking Grimault’s Indian Cigarettes, a pack a day prescribed by a doctor, to see if that would clear up the airways. It didn’t work.’

  ‘I had no idea. You seem perfectly healthy out on the track.’

  ‘And you? Any allergies or sensitivities, or defects, or injuries?’

  ‘Not really I’m afraid. No excuses.’

  ‘Wishful thinking really. Just joking. Good for you.’ Emrys returns to his vigil under the shroud. Paul asks him about his bike, his training, his thinking, and many other things. Receives muted answers from under the towel.

  ‘At least you’re not too ill to talk,’ Paul laughs after a story particularly loose with the truth.

  ‘That’ll be the day I die,’ says Emrys. He sits back up and shouts for the boy to get more beer. The boy is watching the tandem too, perched on a fence. Once he had delivered the drinks he didn’t go far. In the hope of more chores and change. After looking at Paul’s bike for a moment or two, Emrys turns to Paul.

  ‘One of the differences between you and me is the handlebar you’re using. You have opted for a more traditional one, while I have a lower, narrower one. That keeps me down. Keeps the wind from getting to me, and I’m not pushing too much air in front of me. I’m giving less help to the people just behind me, people like yourself.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Have you thought about your position?’

  ‘I’ve just gotten used to it I suppose. It came with the bike and it’s not anything I’ve thought about. I’ve been focusing on my legs and my lungs. And besides I’m riding for a shop. A man called Jack Lauterwasser, and he’s the man who crafted these bars.’

  ‘Have a go on my bike if you fancy it. Just don’t break it, you’re a heavy ox. Just a lap or two to get a feel for the handlebars. You need to focus on everything. Not just your legs and lungs. Every part of the bike and your body. Get smart, you’re not a horse pulling a canal boat. You’re an artist. A professional.’

  Paul walks over to Emrys’ bike. It’s a dark red Rudge-Whitworth. Emrys tells him it was tailored for him alone.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been wanting to try the pedals you’re using for a while and as soon as I’ve finished this beer I intend to take your bike for a spin. Hand me your shoes, will you? I’ll stuff a bit of newspaper in the toe. Exchange of experience, you might want to call it.’

  They circle the unused inner field. Then the tandem teams come back in from their session and the velodrome closes for the night. Paul and Emrys swap back, shake hands and go their separate ways.

  On the Monday after his delivery Paul meets Emrys outside Jack’s shop and they go in together. Paul rambles for a while, trying not to ask what he wants to ask. Emrys eventually asks Jack if he would be offended if Paul decided to use another set of handlebars than the ones Jack made. Jack laughs out loud, and says he is surprised to see Paul still using the old handlebars.

  ‘They’re antiques now Paul,’ Jack says, and continues, ‘You need to move with the times if you want to win. Even if that means stepping on people’s toes, something you’re unlikely to manage doing with me.’

  Then choosing a handsome handlebar, deep, narrow, with new brown tape for Paul, he fits it to the Iver Johnson Special and sends the boys out of his shop. Emrys is clutching a box with a set of pedals similar to Paul’s.

  Chapter 15

  The weather has been good to me lately. July sometimes means sun, sometimes just means disappointment, but this year it has been fine. I think my complexion and my heritage come into their own whenever the sun is out, and temperatures rise. Paul’s doing well – he’s not dead and he’s sometimes winning. No major troubles in any of the properties. Tenants come and go, but as long as rents and deposits are collected I’m a happy man. I’ve even had the opportunity to purchase a couple of new summer hats. Some really exciting developments on that front. The shows in Paris and New York must have been good this year. Maybe
one day I’ll get the time to travel a little.

  When Mr Morton and the weather allow it, I go and see Paul race. Which isn’t that often but more often than one might think. Maybe because he races a lot, or because I have started to understand a little of the racing.

  At first I tried to treat it like horses. The closest thing I could think of. The oval, the muscles, the staring eyes, the occasional death from exhaustion. Then I realised cycling was, if not better, then at least very different. I still can’t shake the image of horses, but I have come to develop a special place in my heart for the velodrome. It is rather exciting, and some of the men are real specimens, real power houses.

  As with any sport, it’s difficult to be interested if you don’t understand it. It’s the same with most things. Unless you know, it’s hard to judge a pretty painting from a dog’s dinner. Same with a fantastic effort on the track. But there are racers who seem to be one with the bike, who can sense where there will be a gap, where a back wheel will be in a split second’s time. Racers who shine even to the untrained eye.

  Paul is one of these. He floats as if friction and fitness are concepts he needn’t concern himself with. He never sees me, I make sure of it. I don’t want to disrupt him. He’s doing well enough without some man in a cravat shouting from the stands. Someone who, despite my recently acquired knowledge and my budding passion, has no idea about racing. And I think I’d probably add pressure he doesn’t need. My presence signals he owes me money and that I wish to collect soon. I have no intention of spoiling his winning streak. It is, if not making me rich, certainly bringing in money I never thought would come. And I enjoy watching him. It’s become an essential part of my weekend routine. So I’m happy to let things be the way they are. A bonus, a gift horse, and all that.

  Mr Morton checks my book. The blue ledger where I note my ins and outs is always kept in his second office. It’s a kind of casual library where everyone’s account ledgers are kept. It’s casual until he needs access to your book and it’s not there when it should have been. That happened once to a man, and the result wasn’t pretty: Closed casket.