Hearts Racing

by Hodgson, Jim

  “I had no idea,” LeMond said. “What’s the big de— Wait. Are you sore?”

  “Hell yes I’m sore!” Buck said, his voice coming out as a hiss. “I’ve got awful DOMS. I can barely walk, let alone ride.”

  “I was afraid of that. Okay. Well, there’s only one thing we can do. We’ll do a two-person massage. Really work you over. Get that blood flowing. You been drinking plenty of water?”

  “Of course I have. But the massage girls can’t know about this. They’ll blab to everyone in the peloton. People will ask questions.”

  “Not a problem,” LeMond said.

  “Then who are you going to get to—” Buck stopped short. Oh no. LeMond had a weird look on his face. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Only three of us know about this. It has to be her.”

  Buck raised his fists over his head and brought them down in frustration. This is what I’m reduced to, he thought. Crossfit DOMS and temper tantrums.

  LeMond actually expected him to let that awful CrossFit woman massage him before a race. This race could mean everything! LeMond hadn’t just gone off the deep end—he’d built a home off the deep end.

  Buck waved his hands in irritation, hoping to somehow wave away LeMond’s madness. “She’s how I got into this mess, LeMond!”

  “No, crashing is how you got into this mess. Look, we’ll sneak out right now. I’ll call ahead. She studied massage. The two of us will be able to get you fixed up to race. You just get on your bike, tell everyone you’re going for a few warmup kilometers, and meet us at the gym. I’ll go on the train so we’re not together.”

  What choice did Buck have? None. Absolutely none. If he didn’t win today, he wouldn’t be placed properly to win against New Orleans, which meant he had no chance to win regionals, which meant he’d never win Nationals—he'd never come even close to the Tour de France. He’d be a poor sap somewhere lifting cheese wheels all day like his Pop. No way. Not in this life. He took a breath. Nodded.

  “Atta boy,” LeMond said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed right up. Now go on.” LeMond nodded at the door.

  Buck took another breath and left the office. In the bike room, the techs had his bike ready to ride, hooked onto a horizontal pole by its saddle’s nose. On the pole under his bike was a piece of tape with his name on it. The techs were busy readying other rider’s bikes. One tech was calling out measurements to another who was checking that they were correct and adjusting saddle or handlebars if they weren’t.

  Buck un-racked his bike and checked it over, remembering to use big, confident movements of his limbs, like a person who felt fine instead of someone for whom every movement was pure suffering. The bike would be fine, he knew. The techs were good, and all that, but Buck liked to check for himself anyway. He inspected the front brake caliper by squeezing the lever with one hand and feeling the caliper pinch closed around the wheel’s braking surface with the other.

  A tech assistant girl smiled at him, and he gave a distracted nod back. Taking the nod as encouragement, she walked over and leaned over to speak to him, trying to give him a full view of her breasts straining at the top of her dress.

  But Buck wasn’t paying attention.

  “Is everything in order?” she asked in a breathy whisper.

  Buck didn’t look up. He was examining his drivetrain. It looked good. If he failed today, it wouldn’t be because of his bike.

  He straightened and smiled. “Seems to be. Thank the techs for me, will you?” Then he turned and pushed his bike out of the shop and into the chilly sunshine, which shone on his bike and played across his hair in a champagne sparkle.

  Chapter 5

  Faith had the collapsible massage table set up when LeMond walked in. “Hey,” she said, smiling. “Sounds like your boy had a bit of trouble with the ol’ baseline, huh?”

  LeMond nodded. “DOMS. Happens to the best of us. But this is kind of serious, so . . .” He trailed off and gave a little shrug.

  “What’s so serious? He’s got a training race today, so what?”

  LeMond gave a wheezy laugh. “Just between you and me, I think someone is trying to sabotage our chances against New Orleans.”

  “Really? Why? I mean, it’s just bike racing?”

  LeMond looked at her with a serious expression. “Just bike racing? No. To a man like Buck, this is everything. He blames the French for the way his father died. He wants to beat them at their own game.”

  Faith thought about her own family. She could understand that. Everyone’s lives had been wrecked by the French. Those cheese gobbling bastards.

  She and LeMond shared a quiet moment waiting for Buck to arrive. Faith knew she shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t help it.

  “How did he die? Buck’s Dad.” It was one of the first times she’d used Buck’s name, heard herself saying it. It sounded good. Buck.

  “He was killed at a dairy, racking comté wheels on a low shelf, and the shelves had a manufacturing defect. Those dairies were thrown up so fast to meet the cheese demand, you know, and the rack just . . .” LeMond made a tipping motion with his hands. “Went over on him.”

  Faith’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh my god!” She felt ashamed for feeling smug about Buck’s DOMS now.

  LeMond nodded. “Buck’s afraid he’ll end up at one of the dairies himself if he can’t make it as a cyclist. If he doesn’t win against New Orleans, he can’t get to Regional, can’t go to Nationals.” LeMond made a hand motion again, this time to signify “and on and on.” “Plus, he wants to beat the French at their own game.”

  Faith nodded. “That I can understand. Don’t worry. We’ll get him fixed up. Ah, here he is.”

  She could see him roll up outside the big front window. He grimaced at the movement of his dismount then held the door open and brought his bike inside. He propped it against a wall, dropped his gear bag, then stood looking at her and LeMond.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s work miracles.”

  LeMond and Faith got him on the massage table and worked his muscles over. Most people grunted or groaned with the pressure of being given this kind of massage, but Buck just closed his eyes and took it. His mouth was a determined line, changing only when he drank more water to keep himself as hydrated as possible.

  Faith had never felt muscles like Buck’s, but she’d never massaged an endurance athlete before. He felt supple, powerful like a horse, but also sleek like a greyhound. He was built, not for doing burpees or pullups, but for speed. A bundle of power—power of a kind that she didn’t even know existed—rested just under his skin, ready to erupt.

  When they were done, LeMond looked at his watch. “Okay, I think we’ve done what we can do here.” Buck and Faith both nodded. “I gotta get down to the start. Buck, you have a few minutes before you need to head over for warmup.”

  “Might want to roll out a bit,” Faith said.

  Buck stood, shaking his legs out. “They feel a lot better. Still horrible, but a lot better.”

  Faith got out one of her foam rollers, basically a half-meter long foam cylinder. She chose one of medium density, and Buck lay on the floor to roll his muscles back and forth over it. LeMond gave him a pat on the good shoulder and headed out.

  Faith wiped down the massage table and then put it away as Buck continued to roll his muscles. She refilled his water bottle and then set it down next to him.

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice a bit strained with the pressure on his sore muscles.

  She probably shouldn’t say anything. Best not to say anything. She absolutely, definitely, one-hundred percent should not say one word at this point.

  “LeMond told me what happened,” she said. Shit!

  Buck looked up at her.

  “With your dad,” she finished.

  Buc
k switched sides so that he was facing away, rolling his right gluteus maximus over the foam cylinder. Faith had blown it. Oh man, she’d totally blown it. She knew she shouldn’t have said anything. Welp, if you’re going to be awkward, you might as well be totally awkward.

  “I just want you to know,” she said, having a hard time meeting his eyes. “I know what it’s like, to want to prove something to the French. My brother—they say he tried to steal a bottle of wine. The French sentenced him to death then put my family to work at a winery in the hills. They say they won’t kill him if I help train office workers. They’re still so embarrassed of the stereotype of the overweight Americans. They want everyone to be thin. If I agree to train them all for free, I can keep this place and they will defer my brother’s sentence.”

  Buck turned back to face her. He looked at her with his green eyes. Those eyes . . . “I’m sorry,” he said. Most people were taken aback that her brother had been given so harsh a sentence by the French, but he was accused of trying to steal a very nice bottle of wine: a Chateauneuf-du-Pape, from the home of a local, high-ranking official. He swore he was just moving the bottle out of the room he and his painting crew were working on, but the official wouldn’t have it.

  Faith knew her brother. He was no thief. But that didn’t matter to the French. Nothing mattered but wine, cheese, baguettes, and cycling. Maybe art.

  Buck stood then shook his limbs out one more time. “What’s his name?” he asked. “Your brother?”

  “Michael,” she said.

  Buck nodded. “Michael,” he repeated. “Today I’m going to win for Michael.”

  Chapter 6

  Holy shitcakes! Or, to use French, sacre gateau du merde! Today I’m going to win for Michael? Why the hell had he said that? He’d be lucky if he hung onto the peloton, let alone managed to crack the top ten. There was no way he was going to win.

  He had to admit, the massage session did some good. His legs were feeling okay. Not great. Nowhere near top shape. But okay. He rode easy, feet light on the pedals, covering the short kilometers to the crit course in twenty minutes or so.

  When he got there, the French gendarmes were standing around with assault rifles, looking bored. Some of the roads on the course were open to traffic most of the time, so the gendarmes had shut them down for the race. The locals got testy about the roads being closed with no warning, but getting upset about a road closure in a police state is just about as futile a pursuit as one can pursue.

  A car drove up to the barricades. Buck could see the diver looking at the gendarmes, waiting for them to move the barrier or explain what was going on. They just stared. Eventually, the man put his car in reverse and backed away. One gendarme shrugged at the other. Job well done.

  LeMond was at the start line. Actually, LeMond was creating the start line by putting a piece of tape down in the road. Coach Bernard, the Wolverine himself, stood nearby, looking at his clipboard. He was talking to one of the sprinters, Polini, who spotted Buck riding up and grinned like a cat hearing the nearby whine of a can opener.

  Yeah, grin all you like, pal, thought Buck. Today I’m going to win for Michael. Yeah. Because saying you’re going to win to impress a . . . wait. Hold it right there. Impress? He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Certainly not the CrossFit girl.

  Well, whatever. He wasn’t going to win anyway. On a mountain stage, maybe. On this crit course, the best thing he could hope for was to make the sprinters work for their victory.

  You might get me today, Polini, he thought, but it’s going to cost you.

  Buck leaned his bike against a tree, pulled off his warm-up suit and stowed it in his gear bag. The cycling team assistant girls would make sure no one messed with his stuff. He got back on his bike and headed out for a recon lap of the course, even though he’d ridden it thousands of times. Other riders were already circling the park, reminding themselves of every bump and crack in the asphalt in hopes of gaining an advantage of some kind.

  The course was rectangular, except that the northwest corner was a bulging turn rather than ninety degrees. Up the front straight there was a slight uphill. At warm-up speeds it wasn’t much of a climb, but Buck knew when the pace got high his legs would be screaming. He made a left at the first turn then rose a few more feet and plunged into the sweeping left-hand turn that made up the bulging northwest corner of the course. He coasted along with the other riders through the long downhill grade then leaned in for the ninety degree left hander at the southwest corner of the rectangle. That’s where the climbing began. The slope took riders up to the last turn at the southeast corner of the course.

  Buck looked left to see the swimming pool, which was still covered for winter. Why hadn’t he become a swimmer? At least if you fail at swimming, you get to drown. You don’t have to be around to bear the shame of failure.

  He finished a lap by crossing the taped start line then rode through a few more laps to finish his warm-up.

  Soon, riders began to gather at the start line. As one of the top riders on the New Lyon team, Buck could count on a reserved spot at the front, but the domestiques were obliged to arrive at the start line earlier than everyone else if they wanted a good spot. They were mostly younger guys looking to make a name for themselves. Eager. Buck had been one of them in his day. Hey, he thought, you still are trying to make a name for yourself, dumbass.

  After another warm-up lap, LeMond, the Wolverine, and the Wolverine’s clipboard were hovering at the start line. LeMond gave Buck a look that said “Let’s do this.” Buck made one more lap then slowed and stopped at the line. This was it. His legs felt like they were carved out of wood and filled with sand. But in his heart, that old feeling flickered, caught, and surged to life like a powerful engine.

  Buck loved bicycle racing. He loved it for its simplicity. You take the most efficient method for moving a human being under his own power—the bicycle—you put a man on it, and you see how fast he can go. He looked around at the other men in the peloton, all readying themselves mentally to dig deep into their resolve, deeper than many people would believe was possible. Their faces were set, their mouths determined lines. It filled Buck with pride to be among these competitors, these warriors. His heart was pumping, and adrenaline jetted into his bloodstream like a lawn sprinkler into a puppy’s face.

  The rest of the pack lined up. Polini and the other big sprinters had done a good job of securing positions for themselves near the front. They looked fast. They looked confident.

  Now Bernard was raising his hand for quiet.

  “Alors, you all know how this goes, no? Let’s keep it clean, but I want to see a true champion emerge today, d’accord?”

  The pack answered as one with cheers, shouts of “D’accord!” and “Allez!” and “Allons-y!”

  Bernard smiled and nodded, seemingly quite pleased with the response. He nodded to LeMond, who was holding the starting pistol. The two men stepped from in front of the gathered riders, and LeMond raised his arm. “Riders readaaayyyy . . .” he said, drawing out the second word. Then he fired the pistol, and the pack surged forward as one. Clacking sounds echoed as the riders clipped into their foot retention pedals, some as loud as rifle shots. The pack drew away from the start. Buck, surprising himself, got away well and slipped into fifth place, a good position to be in for a crit.

  Buck’s crit racing philosophy, such as it was, involved staying behind another rider. The rider behind uses thirty percent less energy than the one in front. That was well known. But the more riders in front of you, the more chances one could fall and take you out, which was exactly what caused Buck’s broken collarbone. He liked to be a few riders back so he could be out of the wind, but not too far. Fifth was good, and he was able to hold that position for the first few laps.

  The pack would take it easy for the beginning of the race. Riders would jockey for position but not
take the pace up too much lest they have to work too hard too early. Of course, there was always the chance of a breakaway. Buck was just thinking about the possibility of a few riders attempting a breakaway and wondering if any would. He looked around for Polini, a likely candidate to try something like that, but didn’t see him. That’s odd, he thought. He likes to ride up near the front, same as me.

  At the southeast corner, the bottom of the climb that would wind around the swimming pool to the start, the break came. Buck had slipped to sixth place but was readying himself nicely for another climb when Polini and three other riders surged from the pack and up the hill like they were merely dancing on the pedals.

  “There it goes!” he yelled. “Polini’s up the road!” He hoped someone would pick up the pace to catch Polini. He could follow that person and be dragged up to the break without spending too much energy chasing them down. Buck’s adrenaline told him to ride after them on his own, stay with them, cover the break and hopefully hang on for a top-ten finish, but he knew he didn’t have the legs. Safer to stay in the pack for now. “Come on, guys! We gotta catch Polini!” he shouted, but the riders around him did not respond. Most were already showing signs of fatigue, their heads dipping to look down at the road and their breathing ragged.

  Buck felt the race slipping away from him. If the peloton was looking this tired already, they’d never work together to catch the breakaway, and Polini or one of the other three riders would take the win. He couldn’t possibly catch them. No way. Not with his sore legs and broken—

  As Buck was having that thought, a rider two places ahead of him went down and began sliding across the asphalt. A second rider hit the first and went down. Buck couldn’t avoid the tangle of bodies and bikes lying across the road. He hit someone’s bike frame with his front wheel and went flying. He had time for but one thought: I’m sorry, Michael.