She passed the last rider. Then the next. Another. Four ahead of her. She seemed unable to catch them.
Spots formed before her eyes, but she stood on the pedals and went for it anyway. Ahead she could see the banner and flags marking the Finish Line and she focused on that. Noise surrounded her, seemed to push her even faster.
From the sides of her eyes, she glimpsed motion, bright color moving backward. Then she saw, on the road ahead, the wide black stripe that was her goal. She reached. And found...nothing.
Yet all around her she heard people calling her name. As she coasted across the finish line, she tried to see through the haze of sweat and exhaustion that clouded her vision. But there were only shapes, and formless, moving colors. A cacophony of sound. And a road ahead that held no other cyclist.
Somehow she got her bicycle stopped. Her knees were rubber, her thighs jelly. She set her feet on the ground, willing her legs to hold her up, and bent low over her handlebars. No matter how badly she had done, she would not collapse right here in front of everybody. All she needed was a moment to catch her breath.
Someone thrust a water bottle into her hand. "Drink," he commanded. Mindlessly she drank, and found that the bottle held cool, sweet lemonade, weak and slightly salty, but real fruit instead of the chemical concoction that Milt insisted they needed.
She choked, drank again. "Thanks," she gasped.
"Take some water, too. You look dehydrated as hell."
She looked up, aware of her surroundings now. "Adam?"
Before she could say another word, he pushed the water bottle toward her mouth. Stell took a long swallow and realized that water, plain water, tasted even better than lemonade.
Becky appeared behind Adam, looking worried. "Stell, are you all right?"
"Just hot," she assured her friend. She took another long swallow of water. "I guess I didn't drink enough."
"I couldn't," Becky agreed. "I was sweating it off faster than I could take it in."
Just them Milt joined them. "They're about ready to start," he said, gesturing back toward the finish line.
It suddenly occurred to Stell that she'd made the top ten. Carefully she dismounted from her bike. "Can you take care of this for me?" she asked her manager.
"I'll do it," Adam said. "You go on."
The finish line was about two hundred yards away. Every step hurt, although she did her best not to let it show.
"Fourth place, Carole Furakawa," the announcer said. Stell realized she'd totally spaced out the announcements of tenth through fifth places. If Carole was in fourth place, then she 'd placed even higher. I won! I really won!
Unbelieving, she watched Truda awarded the bronze, Erika Conrad the silver.
"First place in Stage 10 of the Sawtooth Classic, Estelle McCray of the United States!"
Across the heads of the crowd, she saw Adam. He was staring at her with a curious intensity. What was he thinking?
As the Classic drew closer to its final day, the crowds at the finish lines increased. Today there were more fans asking for autographs, more media people wanting interviews, and more people who simply wanted to congratulate her. If she hadn't been so tired, Stell would have enjoyed the glory. While it wasn't her prime reason for racing, she had to admit that this momentary fame was balm to her ego. These people were the ones whose cheers helped her across the finish line, whose cries encouraged any racer when her energy flagged or her spirits sagged.
What she really wanted to do was get to the hotel in Boise and soak for about four hours in a hot tub. Her hip hurt with a dull, barely discernible ache, reminding her of toothaches she'd had, before they became acute.
I'm just tired, she told herself. The crash, then a couple of hard days. And the heat.
Friday was a time trial, fifteen miles over rolling hills. Stell finished thirteenth, Becky third, and Kat eighth. That evening was a reception at the hotel, a 'Welcome to Boise' where she had to smile and smile. Ordinarily Stell didn't mind these social events, understanding their importance. Tonight she simply wanted it to end. By the time she got to her room, her hip was stiff and painful, as bad as it had ever been during her long recuperation.
She soaked in the hotel Jacuzzi, then had a massage. Feeling limp and totally relaxed, she went to bed, knowing that Stage 12 was going to demand all she had. Like the other racers, she needed a day of rest.
Fortunately, there was a ten-day break before the next race on her team's schedule, so she would have a few days at home, to check on her clients, now under the care of another accountant, a skier, who sometimes gave Stell charge of his clients in the winter.
Two more stages to go. Tomorrow's Criterium and then the final race on Sunday. The weather was still hot, but today's forecast promised some relief on Sunday. She rolled over, trying to find a position where her hip didn't ache.
* * * *
Adam found a prime spot to watch the Criterium, at a corner where the two loops of the course passed. He leaned against a tree near a network camera boom, watching the racers do their warm-up laps. He was about a block and a half from the Start-Finish line. He'd walk up there during the last couple of laps.
After today's race, there was one more stage. Stell was in sixth place, overall, not a bad showing, considering how badly she'd been injured, just a year ago, and the time she'd lost on the crash in Stage 8. If she did well today and tomorrow, she could move up, but no one he'd talked to thought she had a change at a medal.
How disappointed would she be? This was her first year on the Superbe Products team and her first world-class race. He knew how fiercely competitive she was. What he didn't know was how realistic she'd been about her chances of winning.
Sign-in was announced, and he listened as each racer's name blared over the speaker. He clapped when each member of the Rozinski-KIWANDA team signed in, did nothing at all when the announcer said, "Number 19, Stell McCray." Nothing except breathe the same almost-prayer he'd said every day. "Let her be safe." So far only three riders had dropped out of the race because of injuries. The word was that one of them would never race again.
How would Stell face a prognosis like that?
Stop this! She's going to be just fine!
He was beginning to sound like a worried parent, not a hopeful lover.
The starting gun went off and a roar arose from the crowd at the Start-Finish. The pack quickly disappeared around the first corner. It would be a while before they came into sight. What was it he'd thought, the first time he watched a bicycle race? "...about as thrilling as watching paint dry."
In what seemed like no time at all, the pack appeared behind him, heralded by a swelling cheer. He turned, just in time to see the lead riders speed by. They were still so close together that he couldn't pick out individuals, although he did get a quick glimpse of hot pink, right in the middle.
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 p
ursuit 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?
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