Spokes (24 page)

"Absolutely enough.
CycloWorld
will be looking very deeply into any further harassment toward Signor Biondi. He cooperates fully with all
standard investigations, but a repeat of this kind of scene--would not be good."
Lame, oh lame, think of something better.
"You'd be wasting a good ally in the fight to make cycling the drug-free sport you always wished it was if you persist in treating a
paniagua
champion like a felon who just hasn't been caught yet."

Now
that
scored. All three officials clumped together for whispered conference. Christopher didn't try to meet Luca's
eyes--the suits cast enough suspicious glances at them already. And yet--would they believe this whole thing had been staged? Luca had
pushed: he'd pushed far harder than Christopher had pushed with Paolo, and why?

So he'd only have to fight this battle once.

The suits turned stiffly. Friedrich cleared his throat. "We find...no...." Suit Three elbowed him when he paused too
long. "We find no evidence of wrongdoing at this time. Should the blood samples suggest otherwise, we will revisit, but...."

"That is so half-assed." How could they spout that kind of government-type doublespeak? "You owe Signor Biondi an apology. If
this is the level of investigations you perform on all cyclists, I'm surprised there hasn't been a greater outcry. And if you only
inflict this on Signor Biondi, that needs to be investigated too, since his only crime is to win consistently." Christopher pocketed his notebook
and stood straighter. "Well?"

"Signor Biondi--" This was Suit Two. Friedrich must have swallowed a cobblestone: not a word got past. "Thank you
for your cooperation. We apologize for the inconvenience, and we beg your understanding. You really did look very different in that last lap."

Luca slumped into his "exhausted stupor" for an instant, then reconstituted into "triumphant winner." "I
also apologize: I didn't think my acting was so convincing. Competitors may not have believed it anyway."

Competitors had been fooled into inaction an instant too long, but this wasn't the time to discuss it. "Thank you, gentlemen."
Christopher turned to face Luca. "And congratulations, Signor Biondi, on your stage win." That deserved to be noted officially, damn it.

Weak congratulations followed them out the door. A short line of cyclists waited, everyone who'd finished in the top twenty, including
slow-on-the-uptake Brad. Several turquoise jerseys dotted the line. Rolf waited to one side.

"Was it bad this time?" he demanded.

"Worse than usual, but I think it might be the last." Luca lifted his eyes to Christopher's. Close enough to kiss, yet still
an ocean between them. "Christopher forced them to apologize."

"You?" Rolf snorted. "I suppose you might be good for something after all,
lanterne rouge
. Come on, Luca, you need to
comb your hair and change your jersey before the podium ceremonies." He tried pulling Luca away, but Luca wasn't budging.

"Thank you, Christopher. I nearly lost temper."

Nearly? Throwing his clothing at officials wasn't-- Oh!

Luca pulled him down just far enough to kiss his cheeks, right, left. "Thank you. I text."

And he was gone. Christopher stood there pretending to be the Dumb American Journo who didn't understand that Italian men could cheek kiss their
friends, and he'd stand all day with his hand to his face remembering when Luca's kiss meant more.

***

Luca couldn't text until after the podium ceremonies, and his message offered little hope. **Thank you. I needed friend in there. Wish to see
friend again, but officials already think we plan together**

**I understand** Christopher texted back. He did, but he hated it. **What should journo friend not mention in article?** He wouldn't create a
repeat of their previous issues. **This is big news**

**Ok to say everything**

**Ok** But how disloyal it felt to tweet "Race officials admit they had no reason to strip search Giro stage winner Biondi." Painting
Luca as the victim today might keep him from excessive scrutiny, and that was Christopher's only consolation. He wrote the follow-up article,
fully expecting a tap on his shoulder the next day, demanding a retraction, since they hadn't required Luca to strip with anything more than sly
innuendo that couldn't be answered any other way.

However, Christopher could make that look even worse than he already had, and if Luca found himself doing more than giving the required blood samples, he
would. The pen was easier to dip in poison than a sword was.

**What the hell?** His editor was blunt.

**I was there, and it was a fucking kangaroo court. They wanted him to be guilty**

**Big scoop, wahoo! But don't say anything you can't document.**

Watching the team time trials with his new buddy Bob, Christopher basked in the hot sun for the two hours it took to launch all the teams, one colorful
bunch every three minutes. Few of the teams fielded all nine riders: nineteen had DNF'd in yesterday's disastrous stage because of
injury or equipment failure, and another nine missed the time cut-off and had been withdrawn. "Three Big Names and some strong climbers are
out," Christopher commented to Bob. "That will affect today's stage, and all the mountain stages as well."

"So your buddy Luca's chances to win just improved." Bob drew the right conclusion. "How does he look naked?"

"Jayzuz, Bob!" Christopher snorted half his fizzy San Pellegrino water all over the back of a French journalist. Maybe it was a good
thing Christopher spoke no French: his
pardon, pardon
at least made the man turn around again. "What the fuck kind of question is that? He
was getting grilled about drugs. He looked like an angry naked man."
He looked as good as ever, or he would under better circumstances. Maybe too thin from all the racing.

"I can't get much of a story out of that, you know. So, what else happened?" Bob prodded for details for the third time. If
he brought it up a fourth, Christopher would aim his water-spew.

"Find your own scoop. I'm hearing rumors about Euskatel-Euskadi's sponsorship. Why don't you look into
that?" Maybe throwing Bob that bone was more than he should give, but the scent of gossip ought to deflect him.

Team Antano-Clark started last, a position guaranteed by Luca's
maglia rosa
, and also belonged to them by the team's overall top
standing. Not only had five of their nine hit the top twenty, but Rolf sported blue--he'd taken King of the Mountain yesterday. No doubt
part of their plan, but it was palmares for him, and he'd pulled hard, he deserved it. Even if he was an ass.

With the solid wall of turquoise broken up with other colors, they looked just fine in their single file paceline, changing leadership every few kilometers
to even their efforts. The team they overtook would just have to deal with the razzing.

Team Sky came closest to matching Antano-Clark's time, and their GC, who'd been late to respond yesterday, had a few rueful remarks for
the camera at being second. "We were a little slow today, but I think I can make up forty-seven seconds in the next nineteen stages, plus
some."

Yeah, well, that was Luca being dressed in pink again, and his team holding bouquets and unidentifiable plush creatures. He'd been
characteristically humble--Christopher could have written Luca's speeches for the cameras without ever hearing a word. "Yes, I
lead them, but they pull me. This win belongs to the team."

He'd been in and out of the officials' trailer in minutes, emerging with one elbow bent and satisfaction on his face. He'd
waved at Christopher on his way back to the bus without making it look like a request for his presence, nor could Christopher push his way into
Luca's company, especially with Bob the Barnacle shadowing him.

"What's the matter, no special interviews with the leader?" Bob gibed.

Special interviews, yeah, that was the ticket. **Congrats! Anything to say to the press? ;) **

**Thanks. Press conference at 5. Can't do more.**

No, they couldn't. If it wasn't Bob making Christopher crazy with questions, it was suspicious looks from officials in suits. If he and
Luca were alone together at all, there'd be some pointed questions for one or both of them. Shit. He already had a ticket to the press
conference. Just like Bob and everyone else.

***

It didn't get any better in Sorrento, nor could he offer his personal congratulations on Luca's growing pink wardrobe in Matera,
Pescara, Saltera, or Firenze. Luca won only one of those stages, but he finished in the top five every time, keeping his total time under everyone
else's. Brad flatted out between Sansepolcro and Firenze, costing him more time even with commandeering his domestique's front wheel,
and his tune had switched to terse comments about "taking each stage as it comes."

The stages were coming like freight trains now--one more and there'd be a rest day. Restful, hah--they'd spend part
of the down time travelling to the start of the next stage. Maybe Luca could sleep on the bus. Christopher didn't expect to nap on the train: the
whole concept of train travel was still too new to relax that much, and the floor hummed under his feet.

He parked his bike in the baggage car and found an empty seat for himself and his laptop. He should be writing something, maybe researching performances
from last year. They'd be in the mountains, for the first day of more than a week of brutal climbing. Just like home. He closed his eyes,
remembering how Luca pulled him up the canyon with the team. How Luca and the other riders looked from beyond, hunched over their handlebars, the thin
seats supporting their narrow butts.

If he remembered looking at Luca from behind in too much detail, it could get a bit embarrassing, even with his computer for a figleaf. Maybe he should
think about the lead in his legs from the lactic acid buildup and how his vision went gray when he'd left his anaerobic threshold behind twice
over.

The race had lost another twenty-two competitors. They'd known what it was like to be dropped, or to fall and stay down while the others left
them behind. Maybe he should write a piece on DNF riders. His eyes kept straying to the growing hills around them--the train followed a river bed
uphill.

Bob the Barnacle found him. "There's rain forecast for next week in the mountains, maybe even some snow. Think they'll cancel
or make everyone ride?"

"Snow in May? Just like home." Christopher brought cold weather gear, not really believing he'd need it, but spring in the
Rockies was unpredictable and he didn't expect the Italian Alps to be much different. Did Luca have enough leggings? Did he need more socks? Did
Paolo have some magic trunk that produced insulated gloves and wooly hats on demand?

For crying out loud, the man had probably been equipping cyclists since before Christopher learned to read. Yes, Luca would be dressed properly. But
Christopher could still offer another pair of high-tech socks. They'd be lucky socks...

"Well?" Bob prodded. "Think they'll cancel the stage?"

Christopher jerked his thoughts away from Luca's feet. "If the roads are impassable, or if it's icy. There's been
so many crashes already. Has it ever been this bad?"

"The Giro's always bad; it's the most dangerous of the big tours." Bob loomed over him. "What constitutes
a raceable road in this country amazes me."

"And then all the spectators crowd the route. Maybe we should lay them down on the pavement to melt the ice before the cyclists get there.
Wouldn't be any crazier than what they do already." The guy in the orange Borat suit would clear a fairly wide patch of asphalt, unless
his pink flamingo refused to come out in the snow. Christopher thought he'd seen the man outside of Matera, or it might just have been someone
else who liked the style.

Bob laughed. "And leave them there until the leaders arrive. At least they bring out the Army to keep them off the road on the curves. Whatcha
working on and where'd ya hear it?"

For crying out loud--did the man do his own research or not? "Checking the race route for tomorrow. Sit down. Have you ever seen a stage
on Mont Zoncolan?" He'd pick Bob's brains for a while. He opened a file of pictures he'd downloaded en mass from
another racer's website.

"No. It's been several years since they used this stretch. Wonder why?"

Christopher clicked scenes of riders on narrow twisty roads. "Because of this."

Bob choked. "That's bad, even by Giro standards. Shit."

Shit was right--a single lane of asphalt barely wide enough for the two riders abreast tilted toward a nearly sheer drop-off. "No guard
rails. And that's a long way down. Fuck."

Bob gulped. "That road's a 9% grade, but it's at least 4% grade across. If that's wet at all, any rider who goes
down is going to go all the way down."

"I heard something about nets, and couldn't imagine why they'd need nets or where they'd put them, but
this--what the hell's at the top that's worth risking your life coming down?" He could answer that: a pink jersey
and glory. But was it worth--this? "These guys are good, the best ever, but taking this descent at any speed is going to get someone
killed."

Oh Lord, keep Luca off this road. Even if Christopher had to steal every front wheel from every Antano-Clark bicycle, Luca had to stay off this damned
goat-track. The Italian officials considered this safe enough to race? "Where is this? It can't be the entire road." He
flicked through more pictures, with spectators on both sides of the asphalt.

"Mont Crostis. And no, most of the route is nice normal hillsides with lots of room, like that." Bob pointed at the screen.
"What's the point of sending them up Crostis when no one will be able to see the dangerous section live?"

"People are camping up there, so some of that road has to be slightly less suicidal." And what if something did go wrong?
"Can they even get the team cars up there? Or back down?" The route looped on itself; the cars would have to pass ascending riders.
"Oh, this is fucked."