by Hodgson, Jim
He was glad the day was finally here. Training and planning were fine, but Buck thought when you wake up on the actual day, even before the race, the pressure is already falling away. Whatever happens, you made it. It’s the day. Now all you have to do is give everything you have then reach in for a little more.
The stage started more or less the same as the day previous. Bernard looked just as annoyed to see Buck at the start line, but he looked a bit smug too, probably thanks to Polini taking the stage win. Polini was in the yellow jersey, and riders made way for him to start at the front. Cycling tradition, that. You can be the biggest asshole in the world, but riders respect the yellow jersey. If you’re wearing it, you become it, and thus, you get the benefit of the respect.
When the gun went off, Buck shouted “Vamonos!” to his crew, and they responded in kind. As cycling battle cries went, it was unprecedented, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t good.
The stage started easily. Riders who had killed themselves yesterday to try to contend with New Orleans’ charge were feeling the sting in their legs. But as long as they made it to the finish line before the race director called the time cutoff—usually a few hours after the leader won the stage—they’d be able to race again tomorrow.
When the attack came, it was Buck’s own fault for falling for it. He even saw Polini nod at the rider, one of his domestiques. The rider dropped back through the pack and positioned himself directly in front of Buck. Buck didn’t think anything of it, since he was preparing himself mentally for the first climb to come. One of his Miami riders should have been there to get between the New Orleans domestique and Buck, but they weren’t thinking either. Everyone was chatting placidly as they waited for the hard work to start on the climb.
Then, the New Orleans rider flicked his bike left just a few inches and grabbed his brakes, meaning that relative to Buck’s speed he shot backward.
Buck had two choices: either ram the rider and take a chance of getting a mechanical as a result, or try to ride around on the road’s shoulder. He chose the latter. The soft ground would be treacherous, especially on a road-racing bicycle’s skinny tires, but Buck was a good bike handler and could deal with a little slipping, even at race speed. But when he swung onto the ground, he realized he’d made a grave error. There was a tree branch sitting beside the road, hidden by some tall grass. Buck didn’t see it until he was too close to do anything about it. He leapt, hauling the bike into the air with all the force he could muster, but his front tire caught on a protruding twig, and Buck went, once again, headlong over his bike. As he twisted in the air, time slowed. He saw the peloton charging onward, flashing bright colors and shining bicycle components. Here we go again, he thought.
His fall might not have been too bad, landing on soft ground for once instead of tarmac, but he landed on something hard and it jabbed painfully into his back. A flash of pain sparked in his back and jolted around his side as he tumbled to a stop. He scrambled to get up as fast as he could. Moving hurt. He reached back to make sure that there wasn’t a stick stuck in his back. Had he impaled himself? No, there wasn’t anything. He looked at the ground. A rock. He’d landed on a damn rock.
He had to get back on the bike and ride. Already the peloton was riding into the distance, and team cars were passing. His team car pulled up and stopped on the side of the road. LeMond shouted out the window, with Faith looking concerned beside him.
“What happened?”
“I got crashed out!” Buck yelled, picking his bike up and putting it back on the firm roadway.
LeMond was out of the car. “You okay?”
“Hurts, but I’m fine. How does my back look?”
LeMond looked. “Dirty,” he said.
Buck took that to mean there was no blood visible. At least that was a good sign. “Radio the guys I’m back on my bike and to help catch me back up!” Buck said, leaping into the saddle and beginning to pedal.
LeMond ran along behind, pushing Buck up to speed with one hand on his lower back. “They’re waiting for you ahead! Go, go, go! Vamonos!”
LeMond was right, his team was waiting for him. As team leader, his job was to win, no matter what it took. Everyone else’s job was to do anything they could—up to and including sacrificing their own chances of getting good results—to help put him in position to win. So they’d hung back, ready to turn themselves inside out to break the wind for Buck and get him back on the pack. They did just that, forming a textbook pace line. They caught up with the peloton at the foot of the day’s first big climb, only to find that the peloton was already beginning to split.
When a group of mixed ability riders gets to the point in the race when a sprint for the line starts, the sprinters naturally leave the main body of the pack to sprint against one another for the win. So it was with a big climb. The smaller riders are able to easily ride away from their heavier, sprinting counterparts. Domestiques who have done their work for the day by delivering their team leaders to the climb fall away, too. Soon, a group of riders whose only goal is to get through the rest of the day as best as they can forms. This group is called “l’autobus” or, the bus.
The bus was forming now, cracking off the back of the main peloton.
“I’m back on the pack,” Buck called into his radio. “But it’s off the back of the main group. Gotta catch the climbers.”
“Roger,” LeMond radioed back. He sounded mad as hell. “Everyone who has the gas to stay with Buck, protect him, dammit!”
They pressed on, trying to lead Buck up to the climbers, but they must have been setting a furious pace. Up and up the road went, until his domestiques couldn’t bear the pressure anymore. One by one, their heads dropped and they fell away, leaving Buck by himself.
Above the tree line, he caught sight of the main group. It was New Orleans! How was that even possible after their performance the day before? They should barely be able to walk after that ride, let alone leave the peloton in the dust on the first climb of the race.
Buck kicked into his bike as hard as he could, bearing down on it with legs toned and sculpted through Faith’s daily strength workouts. Soon he was only fifty meters back. Then twenty-five.
Just before the summit of the climb, he caught the pack of riders, Polini and two of his support crew. Polini crested the hill first, straightening his yellow jersey for the benefit of the press and small crowd of fans there. Cameras snapped. The group then formed up together for the descent, which was good news for Buck.
As the heavier man, Polini would have a higher top speed on the descent. But if Buck could stay with him, he’d be able to ride Polini’s wheel, thus descending faster than he otherwise would have and protecting himself from any ambitious climbers behind who might have regained their stamina. All he had to do was drop Polini on the next climb.
But how in the hell was Polini even here? There’s no way a sprinter should be able to climb like this.
“Did you have a little oopsie back there?” Polini asked. “Take a tumble?”
“I knew you were on the front, Polini,” Buck said, “so I stopped for an espresso.”
“We’ll see about that,” Polini said with a sneer, bending over his handlebars to reduce wind resistance for the descent. Buck wondered if the New Orleans domestiques were bold enough to try to crash him out again, but he doubted it. Pulling shit like that in the middle of a big pack was one thing, but out in the open like this the press vehicles or helicopter would surely have video of it. That kind of thing could ruin a rider’s career, and not just the rider who got crashed out.
So, Buck tucked up under Polini’s wheel and matched him down the far side of the mountain, swinging left to right with the road to maximize speed. His back throbbed where he’d landed on that rock, and his body twinged with pain every time he took a breath. But he ignored it and concentrated on keeping his bike smooth.
At the bottom, the riders all sat up and prepared for the final climb of the day. Okay, Buck thought, show time. Even with a back injury, it was time to show Polini and these other two dipshits what suffering was all about.
He set a decent rhythm, pedaling evenly and keeping his technique in mind. Soon, the three riders began to fall back. Buck gained a bike length on them, then two. But Polini kicked his speed up and caught Buck, ending up right on his back wheel.
“You didn’t think you’d get away from me that easily, did you?” he asked. The two domestiques couldn’t hold on. Ten meters back now and with no hope of catching, they sat up and settled in for a long, slow climb, leaving Buck and Polini to duke it out.
Buck hated to admit it to himself, but a twinge of doubt begin to take seed in a corner of his mind. Could Polini have trained hard enough to take him on the climbs? Buck wouldn’t have thought it possible, but here he was. Here they were.
No, he thought. I can take this idiot. He’s having a good day, but I’ve out-climbed him a million times. With that thought, he looked back into the distance, past Polini’s bike. He furrowed his brow and said, “Whoa is that a bear?”
Polini laughed. “Do you don’t think I’m falling for a joke that dumb?”
“Not a real bear, Polini. One of the California guys. Man, he can really climb,” Buck said. He was counting on Polini to remember that the California riders’ kits out of Los Angeles still bore the image of a bear they’d had when California was a state. They’d been allowed by the French to keep some of their identity, probably because they produced the former US’s best wine before the French occupation. And maybe because American grape vines saved French wine production from total destruction in the late 19th century.
Whether Polini remembered this bit of viticultural history or not, he bought the ruse well enough to look back, and Buck surged forward when he did. This earned Buck a gap of a couple of bike lengths. They were halfway up the big climb now, just a few kilometers to go to the finish line.
Though his ruse was silly, the few bike lengths it had gained him could be critical, cycling being as much a mental game as anything else. In his experience, if you could get slightly ahead of an opponent and appear to be pulling away, many times it would be enough to convince that opponent he didn’t have a chance to win. At the Nationals level where they were racing, almost all riders were in peak physical condition. It took more than strength and stamina to win. It was like a chess game, but better because your pieces were your body.
Polini realized almost immediately that he’d been had. Buck, preoccupied with his own level of suffering—which had risen exponentially relative to his speed—heard the snarl and knew it for what it was. But he couldn’t spare the time to look back now. He was out of the saddle, tossing the bike left to right, using every ounce of energy to propel himself up the hill at speeds that even a car would struggle to replicate.
It wasn’t enough. Polini caught up seconds later, and not only regained Buck’s wheel but drew up alongside.
“You’re a joke, Heart, and your riding is a joke,” he growled. He was panting with the effort of riding, but by no means exhausted. “Now I’ll show you what a champion looks like.”
With that, he surged ahead. Buck surged too, hoping to get on Polini’s wheel. The effort of straining his body was making the injury he’d sustained in the crash throb with each pedal stroke, but he ignored it. He couldn’t let Polini pull away. He summoned every spark of energy from every vibrating mote of his being and directed it into his bike, pushing himself forward enough to catch Polini and stay with him.
But not only was Polini surging, he was accelerating. Buck’s front tire went from an inch off Polini’s to two inches. He reached deep within himself once more for any final reserves of energy, turning his body inside out with a tidal wave of will, but it simply wasn’t enough. Polini was a bike length away now with three kilometers to go. Two bike lengths. Three.
Buck braced himself for the mental backlash of seeing his rival ride away. He couldn’t allow himself any thoughts of doubt. He just had to keep riding, minimize the time loss, and regroup. But thoughts of doubt surfaced. Had his win at the crit in New Lyon been a fluke? Was Polini—not even an all-rounder but a sprinter, for god’s sake—really just that much stronger than he was? He forced the thoughts down. He had to ride, now. Ride through the doubt, ride through the pain, just ride.
Soon Polini was far enough ahead that Buck lost sight of him in the switchbacks up the mountain. After what seemed like hours of riding, he began to hear cheering in addition to the sound of the ever-present press helicopters. He was near the top. He kept the pressure on himself, churning the tortuous pedals again and again.
He arrived at the top barely able to see. He rolled across the finish line and was mobbed by press. They asked him question after question about his battle with Polini, about being a Miami rider, but he couldn’t comprehend any of them. He just stared blankly. LeMond was there, propping him up and trying to clear a path through the press to the team car.
When Buck could finally speak, he said, “How much time?”
LeMond wore a grave frown. “A minute twenty,” he said.
“He got a minute twenty on me in three kilometers?” Buck asked, his voice cracking in an incredulous whine.
All LeMond could do was nod. It wasn’t just a defeat but a crushing obliteration. Polini had to have been riding nearly half again as fast as Buck was to get that much time. Buck was now in second place overall but nearly two full minutes behind Polini, with only two stages left to make that time up. Polini, as a sprinter, had always been a better time trialist, but Buck could count on the climbs to gain time. No longer. He’d just had his ass handed to him in his own specialty. All that was left now was to see how badly Polini would thrash him.
“Hey,” Faith said from the driver’s seat of the car. She was twisted around to eye Buck, who collapsed into the back seat, his chin on his chest. It was a short, curt sound. It sounded like anger.
“Hey!” she said again, louder.
This time he looked up at her. “What?”
“Your blood sugar is terribly low right now, I’m sure, so I’m going to forgive you for the negative thoughts you are very clearly having,” she said through tight lips. “But you need to get your shit together, Buck Heart. You’ve got three more stages to race, and you’re our team leader. Get your chin off your chest and your mind right.”
“Well maybe if I got a proper massage instead of you jumping on me, I’d have been in better shape to ride.” He spat the words out without giving them even a moment of thought.
She stared at him, eyes wide.
Merde. “Faith, I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re lucky I don’t come back there and make you sorrier.” She turned around and stared out the window.
He was a dangerous mix. He didn’t want to talk to her like that, but how dare she? She had no idea what he’d just been through. Had she ever been defeated like this? Such a stupid mistake of his—there was no way he concentrate on the race with sex on the brain! And then a small voice reminded him: she did know what it was like. She knew worse. She had a brother on the line. A brother he was supposed to be fighting for. Add to that her strong-armed engagement to that prick Barker locked in the basement back in Miami, as well as losing her gym. And the whole time up the mountain he’d been thinking of himself, of his own need for victory, chasing that asshole Polini and fueled by his own desires. There was more at stake here than his ego, and he’d just lashed out at someone who cared about him.
He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just sighed. He heard her sigh, too.
LeMond got in the car and said, “Okay, we’re going to run you down the mountain to the hotel and then come back for the rest of the guys. They’ll be a while yet.”
What LeMond wasn’t saying was that he’d realized Buck wouldn’t want to wait around to see Polini on the podium after winning his second stage of the race. Back at the hotel, Faith dropped them off. Buck and LeMond headed up in the elevator in silence.
Finally, after Buck showered and LeMond was massaging his tired muscles in hope of stimulating their recovery, Buck spoke. “LeMond, I’m telling you, he just rode away from me, like I was standing still. Never seen anything like it in my life.”
LeMond nodded. “We saw it on the monitors.”
“How can he be that fast on the climbs? He’s a sprinter! He’s gotta weigh 180lbs!”
“I don’t know. But look, we’re here to do a job and we’re doing it. The press is going nuts. The French are loving the battle between you two. We’re here to do a job, to give them a show, and we’re doing it.”
“But don’t you want more than that, LeMond? We’re not actors.”
“What I want is a good result. For me, for you, for the team, for Faith, everyone. Of course I want to win. Without a win, we’re all facing the same thing. But I’m talking about the big win.” LeMond twirled a finger to indicate that he was talking about more than just cycling, but Buck also took it to mean he was urging care not to directly mention the Mexicans and their role against the French. Did he really think their rooms would be bugged or something? Buck thought it unlikely, but the French were a strange people. “I spoke to our team owner today,” he said, seemingly changing the subject, “and he’s very pleased. He says things are going extremely well.”
Buck absorbed this in silence. He was glad to hear there was good news but still felt ineffectual. He wanted to be the leader the team needed and deserved. Not just a dog and pony show.
