Spokes (25 page)

Christopher whipped out his phone. **Any comments for the press regarding the Mont Crostis section of tomorrow's stage?"**

Bob poked his nose over, trying to see.

"Quit that! Cultivate your own sources, damn it."

Bob settled back. "Can't blame me for trying."

"Can punch you in the nose for trying. Knock it off." Christopher shoved his phone back into his pocket. Luca might be asleep, or
eating, or being circumspect and not answering. Again. How the hell had coming to Luca's rescue, seeing him completely naked, and getting kissed
turned into no contact at all? Short of a nod from the podium, Christopher might as well have been back in Boulder, only worse off. Luca hadn't
even texted about his riding, and why should he? Christopher was there to see it. Damned officials.

**Very bad road, worse in rain. Joining Berto, Brad, Vincenzo e Damiano to tell worry to race organizers. Meeting in 1 hour, tell u later**

**K. Be safe.** With five top riders speaking, would the officials listen?

"What did he say?" Bob hadn't stopped trying to see around corners to the screen, but he wasn't leaning.

"That it's a very dangerous road when it's wet." As if Christopher didn't have enough butterflies in his
stomach when Luca raced. Most roads weren't actively trying to kill him, but this one looked like it wanted lives.

"Well, duh, we knew that. What else?" Bob elbowed him.

That deserved some payback. "Some of the riders are going to talk to the officials."

"Who? When?" Was Bob actually drooling?

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to make you descend Mont Crostis." Oh, fuck, he didn't want Luca to do that,
and now he'd gone and used it as a threat.

"Okay, be that way." Bob slammed back against his seat and tilted it as far as it would go.

"Where are you going to watch the race from?" Anything to change the subject. Or maybe he should just let Bob pretend to sleep.

"I'm taking the press bus from Lienz to the base of Zoncolan. There's a ski lift to the top where the finish is. The
trip's about forty minutes and they'll make a couple trips for everyone." Bob opened one eye. "We could watch the
race start and then catch the 1:30 bus."

"I might be up earlier." Christopher would be up a
lot
earlier. He needed to ride about 130 kilometers to reach the junction of
the Mont Crostis and the Mont Zoncolan roads ahead of the race, rearrange some route signage, and sprinkle the Crostis road with tacks, broken glass, and
caltrops. Anything to keep Luca away from that drop-off.

Chapter 23

**Officials took riders' worry "under advisement." Means what?** Luca texted about two hours later.

It means they
'
re politely ignoring you.
**Expect to ride Crostis** Vesuvius erupted in Christopher's belly. **Maybe pull out of the race?**

**Maybe finish race and win, not quit?**

Oh fuck, he'd gone and flicked Luca's pride. **Sorry. That road scares me**

**Scares me too. Still plan to win.**

**Hope you do.**
Hope you survive.
**Good luck tomorrow.** Two category three climbs, two category two climbs, and two
hors categorie
climbs in 210 km--Luca would need luck on top of all his strength.

**Thanks**

**Can I talk about meeting?**

**Yes**

Christopher spent the next two hours tweeting and writing, and the hour after that in search of antacids. He returned to an email that made him wish
he'd bought a bigger bottle.

Hello, Christopher,

Thanks for bringing this to our attention. Luca Biondi
'
s signed with one of our biggest competitors in the saddle market, which puts him out of our reach.

Sincerely,

Nick Leyburn

Marketing, K-Aero Cycling

What? Luca hadn't said a word about that! Surely if Jindo had come back to the table, he would have said something. He might not want to be all
trusting again, but this was the man who texted his ex, just because he knew Ex worried. Did he plan to take the money and let Christopher find out by
scanning the ads in a future edition of
CycloWorld
?

No. That was not the Luca Christopher thought he knew.

And wait--he'd taken pictures every day this week. Some horrifically skewed ones, some okay ones, a few where focus was a Ford and not
an attribute, and some clear enough to actually use. He downloaded the entire contents of his camera into his laptop and began flipping.

Wrong team, wrong team, wrong rider, wrong rider, right rider but wrong end... He'd caught Luca alone and in profile, tucked over his
handlebars, and so tightly that only his face and shoulders made it into the frame. That one was for the wall at home. Christopher kept scanning.

There it was--Luca standing with his bike, seen from the back. His curls covered part of his name on the back of his jersey, but that hardly
mattered-- riders were a close-cropped bunch, and no one else sported that much hair. Christopher blew the picture up to 400% and zoomed in on the
bike seat. That was not a Jindo logo. He cropped the detail and saved it.

Dear Nick,

Did you hear about Luca Biondi
'
s endorsement deal from Luca, or did you hear about it from Jindo? Because I took these pictures in Saltera a couple of days ago.

Sincerely,

Christopher Nye

If that didn't convince K-Aero, then maybe they just didn't have the budget to get the winningest cyclist this season to sing the joys
of their products. Fuck. Maybe he should buy Luca one of the new Jindo saddles and get some pictures of that.

***

A fortuitous meeting with his pal Sylvain gave Christopher some insight on what the riders planned to wear given the forecast, and some directions. He
could ride the entire race route to get below the junction with the Zoncolan road, or he could cut off seventy kilometers by going up the valley. He still
hadn't located a supply of caltrops, but he'd think of something.

Wandering through the teams' start area, he could hear murmurs in many languages that all mentioned "Mont Crostis." Men he
recognized huddled with teammates who had yet to make their fame, and they all glanced up at the sky. Directeurs and soigneurs circulated among them,
offering encouragement in words and embraces. One directeur said something to make riders in black with red, aqua and white bars laugh. Christopher
recognized him as Johan Bruyneel. Of course this cycling legend would joke about Crostis--he'd actually ridden off a cliff years ago
during a Tour de France. He'd bounced down a hundred feet, climbed back up, mounted a new bike, and finished the stage. Was he telling his
riders, "If I can do it, so can you?"

The cream of the sport swirled around Christopher, into and out of his viewfinder. Men who stood on podiums around the world and the men who rode to
support them, the men who coached, fed, and bandaged all of them. How had he become a part of this? How long could he remain?

He took a hundred pictures: stars and domestiques, climbers who would shine today and sprinters who would finish in the
gruppetto
, stragglers hoping
only to stay in the race. Veterans who had ridden a dozen Giros and knew what pain to expect in the coming 210 kilometers, neo-pros in their first major
tour. Men who would finish this stage, and some--which ones?--who would not. He recorded them all, the smiling, the grim, the determined.

Antano-Clark riders spoke among themselves, disappearing into the turquoise bus and reappearing. Luca clasped hands with each of them, holding private
conversations with Rolf, Laurent, Poldi, the others. Christopher could imagine his words: encouragement, hope, strategy, future success, in whatever
language his teammate spoke. Luca turned and saw Christopher, halting his restless preparations long enough for a deep blue glance. Damn it
all--he wanted to embrace Luca and whisper luck into his ear, but no. He had to push everything in his heart through one fleeting gaze.
Be strong, Luca; be lucky.

Fans and journos waved the teams off at noon. Christopher snapped more pictures and cast anxious glances upward--small clouds dappled the sky, but
their big, soggy brothers could be on the way. If the race got rained out--oh hell, he'd seen how much it took to actually stop a race
in progress. If it didn't require an Ark, the cyclists stayed on the course. But most courses didn't contain Mont Crostis.

"You want to grab some lunch before we catch the bus?" Bob asked, but Christopher wasn't interested.

"I'm going to watch the race from farther down." Christopher had to get going--he had some forty miles to ride and a
decent plan to evolve. He'd shoved food and his foul weather gear into the rear pockets of his turquoise jersey, racked his water bottles and
studied his maps. He hadn't had a proper ride since he'd left Boulder, and maybe this would clear his mind.

He headed up the green valley a river had carved into the soft stone of the Dolomites.
Pretty country,
Stu commented.
How
'
s traffic?

"Light," Christopher muttered. "Everybody's watching the race." Until his ghostly naysayer showed up,
he'd been enjoying the steady 5% grade, having the road to himself, and the cool breeze.

Nice road, like out to Lyons,
Luca whispered.
You and I, we have fun riding this together.

Christopher hugged the rocky shoulder as a truck filled with goats whiffed past, the first vehicle in twenty minutes.
You pay attention to what you
're doing.
The terrible road on Mont Crostis was still hours in Luca's future, but Christopher'd dreamed of Luca and
his bike flying gracefully for about three hundred feet to a landing he wouldn't ride away from.

I pay good attention. Nice category three climb coming up.

Any category climb should take all his attention. And would anything divert the Stu in his head? Stu would love this ride: he'd love the idea of
pacing the Giro d'Italia, chasing them the back way. But that little voice in his memory had more questions, more salt in his wounds.

Guess you didn
'
t need me to fuck things up with you and Luca; you did fine on your own.

Christopher's grip tightened so much he accidentally geared down too much to pedal, and flailed to shift back, his momentum lost.
"I'm trying to fix it. I'm really trying to fix it. Shut up."

But of course Stu never did.
Yup, you
'
re doing great, I can tell. All those romantic dinners with candles, cheap local wine, and food just like his mama
'
s. Not.

Hell, he didn't need Stu to tell him they hadn't had so much as a proper conversation. "He can't do that during a
race. He can't even talk with me--the officials hate us both now. He's responding. He kissed me."

Lot of that Italian hello-kissy in these parts. Doesn
'
t look like it means all that much.

"It's more than I ever got in public back home." And so much less than he'd had in private. "You want to
say something useful, think up a way to divert the course."

And with that Stu went silent, because the Stu in his head only had the clues that were in his head, which were still zero.

More miles of really pretty country and gutwrench. Christopher pedaled steadily, trying to keep to the powerful strokes Luca had taught him. He glanced at
his faithful, cheap cycling computer, which said he'd ridden farther today than he had in the rest of Italy. No wonder his breath was coming a
bit hard. He'd have a few hours before he had to climb Zoncolan, if he had to climb that rock wall. He still hadn't worked out how to
do more than watch Luca head into danger.

A car whizzed past him, sucking him toward the center of the road. Maybe he could stage a wreck with himself as victim and turn the road into a crime
scene. Then they'd have to divert the race. With his bike and body strewn artistically across the pavement, he could moan, "I
can't feel my legs."

Yeah, if he could find a stretch of road empty enough not to be seen. And the Italian paramedics wouldn't understand what he was saying, and any
emergency responders for a bike race would know back precautions.

He needed a better plan: he had two miles to go until he joined the race route, and three hours to scheme. Could he make it rain if he danced just right?
The clouds gathering overhead might cooperate.

He reached the fork in the road: north for Crostis, east for Zoncolan. A mob of angry people shouted at officials, baying for blood over the sounds of the
bullhorn. Men in green and blue rainsuits linked arms to keep the crowd from running down the speaker. Christopher couldn't understand the words,
whether from language or from garble, until it became clear the man was repeating his message in several languages: he finally reached English. The car
blocking the road was clear enough.

"The course has been changed. The riders will turn and proceed up Mont Zoncolan. The Crostis road is blocked to traffic and blocked to cyclists.
Repeat, the course has changed. By requirement of the FIC, the Mont Crostis portion of the course has been eliminated due to weather."

Eliminated! "Yes!" Luca wouldn't get near that twisted excuse for a road. He had to shout and fist-pump--and if his
arm quivered, blame it on forty miles of cycling. "Yes!" So he sounded happier than everyone around him--Luca
wouldn't climb--or descend--Mont Crostis.

From the screaming and fist shaking, the Roman spirit that had filled the Coliseum was alive and well, and only the chariots had been updated. Did the
crowd really want carnage, or only spectacle? Zoncolan would be spectacle enough for Christopher: he turned uphill and didn't challenge the human
fence. The riders' appeal would keep Luca away from danger.

Away from that piece of danger. Plenty still lurked. Christopher climbed until the hill grew steep and the people grew few. He needed to stop by an
unmarked section of road.