A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Chapter 50

  The next morning was perfect for cycling: mild and no wind.

  Burke ate a light breakfast of yoghurt, a boiled egg, a banana and four pieces of toast covered with peanut butter and honey, all of which he had bought the evening before. He washed it down with orange juice and a coffee, deciding to forgo another two cups; a diuretic wouldn’t be a good idea on the day you try to climb the Ventoux.

  It was just after 9 when Burke left his gîte on his racing bike. Tucked into the pockets of his cycling jersey were three energy gells, his notepad and his smartphone, on which he was using an app to catalogue his efforts on the ride, plus some ID and a few euros. Every extra ounce beyond that would be foolish because the Ventoux was going to hurt – a lot.

  Burke was familiar with the mountain, having raced it three times when the Critérium du Dauphiné was known as the Dauphiné Libéré, and twice in the Tour de France. It had always been punishing. He recalled the last time he had ridden it as a pro. It had been in the Tour de France and Burke’s directeur sportif had given him an important task that day – to deliver water bottles to the team’s leading riders so they would not get dehydrated or lose energy on the final climb which was the Ventoux and where a half million people were waiting to cheer on the riders.

  As a domestique or worker, Burke was familiar with lugging as many as 10 water bottles in his jersey pockets and underneath his jersey for his teammates. It was a miserable job because he had to go back to the team car, load up the bottles which added as much as five kilograms to his efforts and then ride like a madman to catch up not just with the peloton but with the team’s top riders who were often at the front of the peloton or even farther ahead. And distributing the bottles was no easy task because it involved weaving among other riders to a teammate, reaching awkwardly for a bottle and then passing it over without creating an accident. More than once he had been cursed by other riders for getting in their way, even though they had known he was just doing his job. And when all that was done, he still had to race. And then, maybe in another hour or two, he had to repeat the process.

  On his final race up the Ventoux, Burke had returned to the team car and, under orders, collected a dozen water bottles, a record load for him; the team still had the maximum nine riders but a few of them wanted more than one bottle according to the team radio. Then it was back into the peloton as the village of Bédoin approached which meant the climb to the Ventoux was about to begin.

  After three kilometres of the climb, Burke had distributed all the water bottles. He was absolutely exhausted and, with another 18 kilometres of non-stop climbing to go, he knew he had no chance to recover. He would just have to keep his machine going forward.

  But it was difficult and only got worse. While some of the steepest sections of the climb were in the tree-lined area, the approach to the summit was often worse because of howling winds that tore across the barren, rocky landscape.

  Burke had quickly found himself in the autobus or rear group of riders, many of them domestiques like himself or bulky sprinters for whom the Ventoux and other towering climbs were pure misery. All riders were supposed to finish within a certain time of the winner, but the autobus sometimes was outside that time limit. However, since there could be as many as 50 or even 75 riders in the group, the race organizers wouldn’t disqualify them because to do so would mean depleting the race of too many riders. It was a case of safety in numbers.

  Normally, on terrible climbs such as the Ventoux, riders had no breath to talk, but on this day there had been occasional conversations going on. Burke hadn’t contributed, but had enjoyed listening since it had passed the time and diminished the agony; most of the conversations had been in French, English, Spanish and Italian, all languages he could handle.

  When they had cleared the trees and gone onto the lunar landscape, the wind had been virtually zero which was like a Christmas present to the riders.

  And then the autobus had made the final turn and gone up the nasty ramp towards the communications tower and the finish line. Burke’s legs turned to lead; he could barely move the pedals.

  And then at the finish line, one of the sprinters, a burly German, had celebrated by doing a wheelie and letting out a huge cheer.

  Then two riders immediately behind him, both sprinters as well, did the same.

  And then four more riders did their own wheelies.

  The crowd at the finish went mad, cheering wildly as the exhausted pro cyclists displayed one last show of defiance at the Ventoux.

  And when he had got within five metres of the finish line, Burke had pulled on the handlebars with both arms and done his own wheelie.

  One metre after crossing the line, he had fallen off his bike, thankfully into the arms of a team mechanic.

  Long-time followers of the Tour had said they had never seen such a finish by the autobus.

  As he remembered that unusual conclusion to the stage, Burke knew there would be no wheelies at the end of his ride on this day. This day would be all about pacing himself. If he needed a short rest, he would take it. If he required a longer one, no problem.

  The trip from Vaison to the small town of Malaucéne, his departure point, was flat and easy. He didn’t lose a drop of sweat.

  Old and worn, Malaucéne held a great attraction for Burke who loved its tired charm, cozy cafés and leafy streets. The western entrance into town was always memorable for him, leading him through a corridor of towering plane trees in what seemed the perfect welcome to a community. If he ever had to move from Villeneuve-Loubet, Malaucène would be his pick where to go.

  He took the left turn after the plane-tree entrance and rode through the old part of the community. Then he turned north, stopping briefly to snap a photo of the sign indicating the official start of the Ventoux. The picture would be a good keepsake, especially if he made it to the top. Then, with his smartphone back in his jersey pocket and with a final sip of water, he started riding.

  The first kilometre went fine. Burke actually felt strong, but he knew that he would be wise not to ride according to how his legs and lungs felt at that moment. He had to be careful with his energy, always saving some for the next bend and the one after that. There were dozens of riders in front and behind him, but he knew he had to ride to his own speed; if he tried to compete with anyone, he could easily self-destruct and put his chances of finishing the climb into serious jeopardy.

  As a result of his accident the previous summer which had left him with several broken bones including a shattered hip, Burke had changed his pedaling style from all muscle to a high-cadence approach which put far less pressure on his joints. It hadn’t been easy to make such a dramatic switch and had taken many kilometres, but he had finally become comfortable with the change. It helped that he had also switched his gearing to allow him to pedal faster with less resistance on climbs. He might not be as fast, but he wouldn’t ache so much after.

  As he hit the five-kilometre mark, Burke glanced at the panoramic view that appeared to his right. He was a few hundred metres above the flatland and he could see all kinds of villages and small towns dotting the landscape. It was beautiful. He hoped it would stay that way for a long time although he had doubts. The march of progress and all that stuff.

  Two kilometres later, he stopped at a pullover area and snapped a couple of photos with his phone. Cycling purists might sneer at someone who took a break on the Ventoux, but he didn’t care. The view was even more spectacular. Besides, he didn’t want to ride into the red zone, a cycling term which meant pushing oneself into such high-heartbeat territory that it feels like the heart is going to explode. He would take his time and enjoy the experience, as much as anyone could when riding the Ventoux.

  Back on the road, Burke rode slowly, concentrating on a steady cadence and keeping his breathing under control. When he passed the Chalet Liotard overlooking the Mont Serein ski station, he thought he should return in summer with Hélène; the views on a sunny day were among the b
est anywhere and enjoying a meal on the terrace would be a memorable occasion. Then he returned his thoughts to the ride and, for the first time, he felt confident he would complete the final half dozen kilometres.

  The next few kilometres, however, were brutally difficult as a headwind began hindering his speed. He dropped to his lowest gear and saw his speed decrease to 10 km/h. Still, he was passing the occasional cyclist.

  Then as the road soared once again, making his legs ache, Burke heard car horns blasting behind him. A small red Triumph sports car, circa 1960 or maybe even older, went by him, the top down, the middle-aged driver and his dark-haired female companion letting their hair blow with the wind. Moments later, a second Triumph came by, this one a banana yellow. More honking. Then another sports car, this one looking slightly more modern, showed up. And the parade of honking sports cars continued. A few of the vehicles powered their way up, but most struggled and Burke could hear gears grinding and mufflers sputtering; the Ventoux was not an easy climb for anyone.

  Burke was glad when they were gone because the sports cars had filled the air with gas fumes, hardly what a struggling cyclist needed.

  He got back to work and decided he would try to pass the last few painful kilometres by thinking of other matters. The first idea that came to mind was what the police might be doing to ensure Yablonski’s safety and to try to capture whoever was behind the protests against him – and behind the death of the cyclist in Arles. That’s when Burke decided that after the ride, he would return quickly to Vaison-la-Romaine and seek out Sauvageot or one of the other detectives and ask for details about the cyclist’s death. The flics obviously seemed to believe he had been murdered. Burke just wanted to know what had made them think that.

  As he considered how to contact a flic, Burke looked up and, for the first time, saw the communications tower at the top of Mont Ventoux. The end was getting close. Burke noticed how the road, once past the treeline, zig-zagged its way up the final limestone-covered kilometre.

  Despite heavy legs and exhausted lungs, Burke knew he was going to succeed.

  The thought gave him a small adrenaline rush and he felt himself pedaling faster.

  In the opposite direction, flying around the bend, came a handful of cyclists, all of them sporting cycling attire, helmets and wraparound sunglasses. Burke knew that some daredevils would likely hit 90 km/h on the straight parts of the descent. He recalled how some pros would go over 100 on a steep, straight downhill and he had even heard of a couple of fearless pros who had reached 120. The team cars and camera-laden motorcycles hadn’t been able to keep up to those riders.

  Then Burke saw the red Triumph appear on the bend ahead, almost skidding across the road with speed as it obviously began its return trip. The driver, seeing the long straightaway ahead, pushed the small car harder and started to close in on the cyclists. Burke thought everyone was going far too fast.

  Then, as more of the sports-car armada appeared around the bend, the red car accelerated once again and, metres from the nearest cyclist who seemed to be riding an old 10-speed, jumped into the middle of the road, half in one lane, half in the other.

  Burke immediately slowed because the scene playing out rapidly before him looked like an accident about to happen.

  The red car came farther into his lane and, recalling Hélène’s advice to stay safe, Burke pedaled right onto the gravel side of the road and stopped.

  Then the red car swerved slightly toward the cyclist and it was obvious to Burke that the driver didn’t have full control of his vehicle; he was going too fast.

  For a moment, Burke was sure the car would either strike the speeding cyclist who was trying to slow down or drive him right off the road. As for the two cyclists farther ahead, they seemed equally at risk. A nice, quiet ride up the Ventoux was about to become deadly.

  Somehow, at the last second, the driver finally got control of his old sports car, moved it on a different line from striking the cyclist and sped ahead.

  “Hestie de câlisse de tabernac!” screamed the young rider on the old 10-speed as the red sports car sped past.

  Had Burke heard right? ‘Hestie de câlisse de tabernac’ was pure Québec swearing, curse words with a religious basis that one never heard in France. Whoever the rider was, he originated from Burke’s home province.

  The red Triumph passed Burke with the enraged cyclist not far behind.

  And then the cyclist looked at Burke and shook his head – and then did a double-take, even applying the brakes slightly.

  Burke didn’t recognize the cyclist, but he thought the rider knew him.

  And then the cyclist was gone, leaving Burke to wonder who he was.

  Burke watched as the other sports cars approached the descending riders more carefully and passed them with greater attention. After the cars and cyclists disappeared from view, Burke knew it had been a close thing.

  He wondered if all three of the cyclists were entered in the final vintage bike race.

  And if they had been entered in any of the earlier ones.

  Chapter 51

  Once atop the Ventoux, Burke felt a sense of accomplishment. He had climbed one of the great mountains in cycling and he had done it without killing himself. It had taken him twice as long as it would have during his pro years, but he didn’t care.

  He looked around. There were probably 200 other cyclists up there, resting or congratulating themselves or taking photos.

  This was indeed a special place for cyclists.

  There were also others who had hiked up to the summit or driven there.

  Everyone seemed to be enjoying the view and Burke could understand why; it seemed a person could see all of Provence from this mountain perch.

  Walking to keep his legs loose, Burke brought out his smartphone to take some photos and video. He saw he had a text from André Rousseau. He opened it and read how Rousseau’s wife Aimée had changed her mind and urged him to join Burke in Vaison. Rousseau concluded his message with: “She is my wife. I must obey. Be there by 6. Talk later.”

  Burke was surprised, but pleased. André was always good company. More importantly at this moment, his friend also seemed to understand what was happening behind the scenes of the vintage races. He would be able to provide some effective advice if anything happened.

  Burke texted Rousseau back, giving him instructions to the gîte. He also told Rousseau he’d be there shortly since he was soon going to descend the Ventoux.

  He thought momentarily about staying there and relishing his victory over the mountain, but he had been to the summit before and, with his friend soon arriving in Vaison, he had some matters he wanted to pursue beforehand. The faster he was back, the quicker he could look into them.

  Back on his bike, Burke scanned the view one last time and then took off on the downhill.

  Twenty minutes later after a quick but conservative descent, he was back in Malaucène. He rode by the cafés where dozens of cyclists were enjoying the weather and some celebratory beverages. He kept a lookout for the young Québec cyclist, knowing he would only recognize him by his jersey, but had no success.

  On another occasion, he would have loved to find a spot at one of the terraces, sit with some cyclists and join in with the camaraderie that comes with conquering the Ventoux. But this wasn’t the right day.

  He continued through the town and then back to Vaison-la-Romaine, surprised at how quickly his legs had recovered from climbing the Giant of Provence although he had a sense that he might be stiff and sore the following day from his exertions.

  Back at his gîte, Burke showered, enjoying how the hot water melted away some of the aches in his arms, shoulders and thighs. Quickly dressing, he ate a banana and then emailed his photos and video to Lemaire and to Antoine. He punched out a quick blog about riding the Ventoux and the maniacs who sometimes drove it, putting cyclists into peril. He added a comment that some cyclists were also irresponsible in their approach to descents. It was hardly the best work h
e had done, but it would suffice – he hoped.

  Then he phoned the gendarmerie for Vaison-la-Romaine. He asked for Julien Sauvageot, but the receptionist didn’t know the name. Then he asked for Sergeant Pascal Favreau.

  “He is not available,” came the response.

  Burke felt it was time to introduce himself. But saying he was a blogger who had talked with Favreau and other officers the day before proved equally ineffective.

  He thought about asking for Favreau to return his call, but expected that would be a fruitless exercise.

  So, he gave up and decided to return to the finish area for the upcoming race.

  Leaving his bike in his gîte, Burke drove downtown. It took a few minutes to find a parking spot, but he considered himself lucky when he found one on the street opposite the entrance to the Roman ruins. There were several cafés in the immediate vicinity and he figured he’d try one later, but, first, he wanted to find Sauvageot or, if not him, Côté. Bonnier was third on his list followed by Favreau.

  He walked to the parking lot where he had first encountered the four police officers the day before. It was a different place now with a large stage in the final hours of being set up. Near the stage were 10 small tents, probably for vendors, and one massive one with two entrances. A dozen people carrying all kinds of trays were moving quickly into one end of the big tent. The signs on three trucks nearby said Yablonski Caterers – Avignon.

  So the organizers had ditched the previous caterers from Nice. Burke wondered why. The Nice firm, by all accounts, had done an admirable job for the first three races. Maybe Yablonski had wanted his company to handle the big-time conclusion of the series of races. If so, who was going to say no to him?

  With the change in caterers, it was clear to Burke that Yablonski wanted to be front and centre for the final race. The businessman was obviously not intimidated by the people trying to humiliate him.

  Burke strolled close to the large tent and looked inside. There were probably 30 round tables set up with each table having 10 chairs surrounding it.