TWICE VICTORIOUS (27 page)

Once again he wondered how they could ride so close together and not collide.
Then he remembered that they couldn't. Not always.

Having circled 'round the loop and back, the racers reappeared from behind the
great sandstone bulk of the courthouse. They were more stretched out now, with a dozen or
so in a smaller group about thirty feet in the lead. One of them wore hot pink and lime
green. "Stell! Come on, Stell!"

Now they were heading straight toward him. No, it wasn't Stell in the lead group.
It was that redhead on her team. Kat?

As the pack came around the corner in front of him, he saw her, right in the
middle of the biggest, densest clot of riders. His heart crawled up into his throat and stayed
there.

Be careful. Oh, God, please be careful!

Adam had watched many sporting events in his life, both amateur and
professional. He'd seen a fiery crash at Indianapolis, watched the legendary US-Soviet
hockey game at the Olympics, and held his breath as Picabo Street swooped madly down a
hill at Lillehammer.

He had not watched his best friend win a gold in fencing. And now he didn't want
to watch the woman he loved risk life and limb in an insane pursuit of--
What does she
want?

She had never said what her goal was, beyond competing in this year's races. Nor
had he asked.

* * * *

A bronze! She had one of each now, not a bad showing for an amateur. Stell stood
on the podium, emotionally numb, physically hurting, and mentally stunned. In her wildest
dreams she had never, never imagined she'd do so well.

And in a Criterium, too, the type of race she'd always found most challenging. She
clapped as Marian Waters received the gold. The Australian had finished well ahead of
anyone else, showing again that when she was fast, she was very, very fast.

As she posed with the others for the cameras, Stell found herself searching the
crowd for a glimpse of Adam. The street and sidewalk were jammed with people, for two
blocks on either side of the finish line. She'd never see him in that mob. She looked,
anyhow.

She needed to talk to him. The ache in her hip had kept her from sleeping well,
and she'd spent at least an hour staring into the darkness of her hotel room last night.

Staring and thinking.

Once again the question,
Why am I doing this?
had surfaced, a question
with the potential of defeating her. She had pushed it back down into the depths of her
mind, refusing to allow any negativism in her thoughts.
I am going to win.
She
had put herself to sleep with the reiteration of her mantra.

The question still niggled at the edges of her thoughts.

"I'm thrilled." She responded automatically to a reporter's stock query. By now she
had an equally stock answer for just about anything they might ask. "Yes, winning the
Prime was a surprise. I didn't think I had much of a chance, with Marian doing so well
today."

Another reporter, this one a woman, shoved a microphone at her. "Stell, I've heard
you were seeing Adam Vanderhook last winter? Was it purely a social relationship--" The
woman's tone made it quite clear what she meant by 'social'--"or were you considering
changing teams?"

"Ms. McCray was providing advice to our ActiveWear designers," Adam said,
before Stell could answer. Where had he come from?

"I see." Again the reporter's voice said far more than her words. "In that case, why
isn't she on your team?"

"The topic never arose," Stell interrupted. "Now if you haven't any more questions
about racing, I do need to speak to some of these other people." She eased past the reporter
and smiled at one of the local TV cameramen. "Jim, you did say you had some questions
for me, didn't you?" They had gone to high school together and Stell knew she could
depend on him.

He looked surprised, but picked up immediately. "Yeah. I do. Sure."

"Then let's go over there where we can hear ourselves think." She led him away
from the crowd, to a semi-shaded walkway between two buildings. "Thanks, Jim. I owe
you."

"Giving you a bad time, was she?"

"No worse than some others, but it's getting really difficult for me to be polite
when they get that smarmy sound in their voices. I'm a bicycle racer, for God's sake!
What's that got to do with my sex...my social life?"

His raised eyebrow was answer enough, but he said, "In her book,
everything
has to do with your sex life. Haven't you ever read her column?" He
aimed his camera at her. "Now, payback time. Give me an exclusive sound bite. Tell me
how you feel about tomorrow's race."

"I'm looking forward to it," she said, honestly. What she didn't say was that
tomorrow's race was the last in the Sawtooth Classic, a good reason to anticipate it. "The
weather's supposed to be a little cooler, so it should be a fast race."

Milt called her back to the Finish Line then, and Stell joined her team for yet
another promo shoot. Her least favorite part of racing, but a very necessary one.

How her father would have loved all the photos. He would have filled scrapbook
after scrapbook with them.
I did it, Dad. I'm here. Just as you believed I'd be.

That was why she was racing. Just like the proverbial light bulb over the head, the
realization struck her. She was still racing for her father. He had encouraged her so much,
and she still felt she owned him the opportunity to see her win a gold medal. Wherever he
was, she was sure he'd know.

I've done it. Silver, gold, bronze. I've done what we dreamed of, haven't I? Oh,
not in the Olympics, but in the top women's race in the world.

It just doesn't get any better than this.
Stell touched the bronze medal she
still wore.
I've done really, really well, and have a good chance at the top ten. Not bad
for someone who didn't start racing until her mid-twenties. Most of these women began
when they were kids.

A last flash went off and the race publicist said, "That's it, ladies. Thanks." Free at
last, she looked around, having been acutely aware of Adam, standing quietly among the
people waiting to congratulate them. As she found him, he lifted his head so she looked
directly into his eyes.

He said something, but she could not read his lips. Shaking her head, she cupped a
hand back of her ear.

He smiled, shook his head in turn.
Tomorrow
, he mouthed. She had no
trouble reading that promise.

Yes, tomorrow she would be done with the Classic, and they could see if there
was anything left of what they'd almost had.

* * * *

Adam pulled a lot of strings and got himself a place inside the pace car for the
final Stage. It was an incredible way to experience a road race, in spite of being ahead of
the lead riders. Standing in one place along the route meant you got perhaps thirty seconds
of intense excitement, but had no idea what was going on. Watching on TV would be ideal,
except that it would be three weeks before the race was televised, and then he would only
see the high spots. This way he could stay with the race from start to finish.

A long caravan traveled along the race route with the peloton. He was learning the
terminology. Behind the pace car were vans carrying the press, race officials, then the
peloton, and behind it communications equipment and technicians, medical support, and a
line of team vehicles. At the very back was the broom, the van that swept the race route of
lagging and disqualified racers.

Where he'd really like to be was on one of the three-wheeled motorcycles that
carried police, officials and video cameramen. They rode directly ahead of the cyclists and
had a good view of everything that happened. Besides that, it looked exciting and just a
little dangerous. After so many years of being a sober businessman, Adam found he craved
excitement and danger again.

That was why he'd gone shopping yesterday. He hoped Stell would help him learn
to use his new toy.

The caravan was now driving along a level road that bordered the Payette River.
Ahead, he gathered, was the infamous Freezeout Hill. He'd heard two versions of why it
was so named. One said that in the early days a man driving one of the big overland
freighters took one look at the steep, winding grade he was expected to drive his ten teams
of mules and three big wagons down, and 'froze out', refusing to travel another foot down
the hill. The other, possibly more likely explanation was that the road, with its northwest
exposure, iced up in the winter.

Adam liked the first better.

Freezeout Hill wound up a sandstone bluff standing several hundred feet above the
river valley in hairpin curve after tight curve, steep and narrow. The pace car slowed and
Adam felt the automatic transmission shift to a lower gear. He leaned out the window to
look behind.

And couldn't see a thing! The curves were so close together and the pace vehicle
was so far ahead of the peloton that not a single rider was in sight. On the other side, the
edge of the road prevented passengers from seeing lower sections of the road.

He leaned forward, touching the driver on the shoulder. "Can you let me out at the
top?"

"Sure, if that's what you want. But how--"

"I'll hitch a ride in my team van."

"That'll work. I can't stop though. Be ready to jump out when I slow way
down."

Adam grabbed a water bottle and moved to the sliding door. As they approached
the top, he slid it open, waited until the van slowed almost to a stop. And jumped to the
ground. He stumbled, recovered. As soon as he found a place where he could see all of the
last switchback, he pulled out his cell phone. In a few minutes, he'd made arrangements to
be picked up by the Rozinski-KIWANDA team van as it passed.

What good was having a little power if you didn't abuse it when the occasion
warranted?

My God, it's hot! How do they do it?
He'd worked hard, and sweated
hard, when he was fencing. But matches were held indoors, and often the venue was
air-conditioned. So were the better Salles.

Grateful for the wide-brimmed hat he'd grabbed this morning, he stood at the edge
of the road with a handful of other spectators. Several switchbacks below, he saw a group
of riders, then another. Whether they were the lead group or stragglers, he couldn't
tell.

Wait! Yes! It was the race leaders, three women just coming around the curve
onto the road below him. A small group followed perhaps a hundred yards behind, then a
larger pack, all bunched together. None of the leaders wore a hot pink Superbe Products
jersey.

Where is she?

He felt almost guilty, standing beside the road while sweat-soaked women panted
up a hill so steep that he'd be bending forward to walk it. He focussed on the leader,
wondering if she was the German woman who'd won a few days ago. She was hurting. Her
face was contorted in agony. It didn't even slow her down.

The rest of the riders slowly approached up the hill. In this heat, they were
working far harder than they had on earlier hill climbs. Most had their jerseys unzipped as
far as they would go, showing white or brightly printed sports bras underneath. He could
only imagine how hot their hips and thighs were, encased in the tight nylon and Lycra
shorts.

I wonder if we could find a fabric that breathes more easily? They need all the
cooling they can get.

If KIWANDA couldn't find a better fabric, he'd personally work on funding the
development of one.

There was Stell. Clear at the back of the pack. Her movements were almost
sluggish, as if she was using the last reserves of her energy. With lowered head, she
doggedly pedaled up the last steep incline, the picture of exhaustion. She still had thirty
miles to ride. Could she do it?

Adam waited until she was just opposite him. "I'll be waiting for you, Stell," he
called, "at the Finish Line."

She raised two fingers from the handlebars in acknowledgement.

If Stell won the race, he wanted to be the one to welcome her to the finish
line.

If she lost, he wanted to be the one to comfort her.

Right now, she wasn't doing well. The last update he'd heard, at the bottom of the
hill, hadn't mentioned her. She had been in the front of the pack for most of the first ten
miles, then she had lost ground, fading back into the peloton, where he couldn't see
her.

Thirty miles!
One way or another, today would see his future decided, but
he hoped the cost wasn't heartbreak for Stell.

* * * *

Stell was dropping farther and farther behind. She'd just been passed again, putting
her among the last in the pack.
At least I'm not a straggler.
But she would be, if
she didn't pick up the pace. The sprint at the top of Freezeout Hill had cost her.

Her hip was on fire, but at least it was still working. She heard herself gasping,
between breaths, "Please. Please. Please." It was a prayer.

The road swooped down and around, before a last short hill--not steep, not long,
but seeming insurmountable, just now. If she could just make it up this last grade, she
could make it though the five laps on city streets at the end. She wouldn't win, but she'd
finish. She shifted, knowing that her lowest gear wouldn't be low enough to compensate
for the strength she'd lost in her left leg.

"Stell!"

That voice cut through the wordless cheers of the crowd lining the route.

"Stell! I love you!"

Adam? It couldn't be.

"You can do it!"

And suddenly she could.

The breakaway group was still way ahead, but that could change. There was one
last sprint to get through, and it could make a considerable difference in who led the race.
Now they were on the city street, a long, slightly downhill section a bit over a half-mile
long. Close to the end of it was the Finish Line, which they had to cross five times before
the race was over.