Fat Chance (14 page)

Greg leans forward in the saddle a bit, a look of determination on his face. I sigh and roll my eyes. I see the application of a lot of ice packs in our near future.

The klaxon goes off and the crowd roars.

Greg starts to pedal as if the hounds of Hell are nipping at his heels. Next to him Valerie is also pumping her legs up and down like a mad thing.

Benny is taking a slightly different tack, though. He’s pedalling at a more measured pace, as is Dominica.

Poor old Theresa is forced to pedal at a much slower rate given her size, while Pete is pedalling erratically while flicking V signs at a group of lads down the front of the crowd who are obviously his mates.

A couple of minutes go by. Greg’s face is already as red as his t-shirt. I glance back at Benny, who looks a lot more comfortable at his slower pace.

‘Greg! Greg!’

‘What?’

‘Slow down a bit!’

‘What?’

‘Slow down a bit! You’re going to knacker yourself out way too quickly at the pace you’re going.’

‘But I want . . . I want to win!’

‘So do I, you pillock, but it’s not going to happen if you can’t keep going. Look at Benny—he’s got the right idea.’

Greg looks past the feverishly pedalling Valerie and sees how Benny is handling things.

‘Alright,’ he puffs and draws his pace back down to a more manageable level. ‘I hope you’re right . . . right about this.’

‘I am. We’re going to be here for the best part of an hour. Let’s not screw it up in the first few minutes.’

I feel quite proud of myself.

I’ve never been one for tactics . . . or patience, for that matter. The idea of taking a more measured approach has never struck me as a good idea before. When I’ve wanted something in the past, I’ve gone out of my way to get it as quickly as possible. Zoe Milton has been all about the instant gratification up to this point in her life.

You mean you’ve been greedy,
a rather annoying voice pipes up in my head as I watch Greg pedal his way past the first
two kilometres.
Maybe that’s why we got fat?

I bite my lip. When uncomfortable realisations like this dawn on you, it’s never a pleasant experience.

‘I might . . . might need you to take over in a minute,’ Greg tells me, wiping sweat from his eyes.

‘Okay.’

‘How are the . . . the others going?’

I look to my left again. Valerie is still pumping away as hard as possible, but her relentless pace has slowed nonetheless. Benny is breathing hard but still maintaining a methodical cycle.
Dominica
looks pretty puffed and is going slowly, while Shane has already replaced Theresa. Pete is picking his nose and has got his
iPhone o
ut.

I look up at the scoreboard. Greg’s currently in second place behind Valerie, but Benny is getting closer and closer.

‘No-one’s screaming into the lead, if that’s what you mean,’ I tell him. ‘Chris Hoy’s got nothing to worry about.’

‘Right. Swap time?’

I nod my head and Greg jumps off the bike.

Sitting on a saddle already damp with the sweat of another human being is not a joyful experience, even if it is your husband’s. I try to ignore a slight tingle of revulsion and start to pedal.

Bloody hell, this is harder than I thought it would be.

They’ve obviously set the bike’s resistance quite high to maximise the difficulty of the challenge.

By the time I’ve gone through four kilometres my thighs are starting to hurt.

In my peripheral vision I see George replacing Valerie, swiftly followed by Frankie taking over from her husband Benny. Frankie looks to be pedalling at about the same pace as me, while George has gone out quickly like his wife did. I’ve pretty much disregarded the other three couples at this stage. Dominica and Angela really don’t look like their hearts are in it, Shane and Theresa aren’t going to win this thing in a million years thanks to their size, and Lea and Pete are . . . well, being very Lea and Pete. She’s on the bike now and is also on her iPhone. She’s probably texting the rest of her family the security codes to get into the gym after we’ve all left so they can come back tonight and rob it blind.

‘How long have we been going?’ I say to Greg, who’s now sitting down on the gym floor beside me, head lolled back.

He looks up at the scoreboard. ‘Nearly fifteen minutes.’

‘And how far have we gone?’

‘Just over five kilometres.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Not a clue. You’re ahead of George now, though. In second place.’

Woo hoo!

My tactics are working. George has puffed himself out already and is going slower and slower by the second. Frankie and Benny are the main competition now.

I look up to see Elise bounding over with a microphone. A groan escapes my lips. She’s going to bloody interview me.

‘Hello, Zoe!’ she says and thrusts the microphone under my nose.

‘Hello, Elise,’ I say breathlessly.

‘You’re only just behind Frankie on the leader board, so you’re doing well. How are you feeling?’

I give her a withering look. ‘Just peachy, thanks. There’s nothing I like more than the smell of my own body odour,’ I pause to catch my breath before carrying on, ‘the feel of my hair plastered against my forehead,’ another breath, ‘and the clammy sensation of a pint of sweat running down my back.’

Elise rolls her eyes and glares at me, before re-applying the fake DJ smile of enthusiasm. ‘It looks like you’ve already lost loads of weight, Zoe!’

‘Er . . . thanks.’

‘No worries! I’m sure all the weight loss you’re experiencing will really help you and Greg to have a baby very soon!’

Oh, you utter cow.

I almost open my mouth to deliver a suitable insult, but hold myself back. There is a better way to return the favour. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘And how are you doing?’ I ask.

This throws Elise. She isn’t used to have the interviewee turn the tables and ask her a question. ‘Er . . . I’m fine, thanks.’

I smile like the devil. ‘Arranged that date you’ve been desperate to go on with Adam Edgemont yet, have you?’

Elise’s eyes go wide. I’ve just broadcast the fact that she fancies our sponsor to the entire listening public, to her utter humiliation. Let’s see her mention me and pregnancy again, eh?

Elise pulls the microphone away from me. ‘Well, thanks for chatting, Zoe . . . Let’s go see how George is doing next door!’

And with that she hurries past me to the next bike along.

It’s these small victories that make life worth living, I find.

‘Greg! Time to change over!’

‘Already?
’

‘Yes! Get your arse up here!’

I jump off the bike and allow my reluctant husband back into the saddle. He sets off at a fairly measured pace, passing through the eight-kilometre mark as he does so.

I try to ignore the feeling of jelly in my legs and look up at the scoreboard.

We’re still in second, but the gap to Frankie has increased a bit. Disturbingly, Lea and Pete are now in third.

How the hell did that happen? They both look more concerned with playing Angry Birds than winning this challenge. I look down to their bike and realise that while they both appear completely disinterested in the competition, they have both been pedalling at a fast, consistent rate.

‘The chavs are catching us,’ I say to my husband.

‘What?’

‘You’ll have to speed up.’

Greg groans and begins pumping his legs up and down a bit faster.

Suddenly, the jelly feeling in my legs gets a lot worse. I hobble over to the chair, slump into it, and start massaging my thighs.

It really is quite ridiculous how unfit you can get if you’re not bloody careful.

After a few minutes of leg massage and pained grimacing, I look up at the clock. We’ve been engaged in this madness for nearly thirty-five minutes now. Unbelievably, Lea has pushed past both Greg and Benny and is now in first place. It must be all that
running
away from the local constabulary.

In fact, Greg is now neck and neck with Benny, who is looking increasingly tired. His plan to go slow and steady was a good one, but even the best-laid plans go awry when the body you’ve got to work with isn’t up to the task. I watch him virtually fall off the bike absolutely exhausted, to be replaced by Frankie, who isn’t looking much healthier, despite the rest she’s had.

The other three couples have really fallen by the wayside.

As we pass into the final five kilometres, George and Val have slowed to the point where they are over a kilometre behind, Dominica and Angela are even further back, and Shane is currently receiving oxygen from the gym’s medical team, while Theresa sits in the saddle of her bike with her head slumped forward and her legs barely moving the pedals.

So it comes down to this: it’s us versus the chavs.

Greg is about two hundred metres behind them as we head towards the three-kilometre mark.

My legs ache, my eyes still sting with sweat, my head pounds. But I have to get up out of this chair, replace my husband on the bike, and win this fucking challenge.

I can’t remember when I last felt so strongly about something.

It’s like this stupid competition has awakened something in me today that has been buried beneath a pile of neuroses and self-hatred for far too long.

I am Zoe Milton.

I am old. I am fat. I am unhappy.

But I’m going to win this bike race if it’s the last thing I do.

I stand on wobbling legs and walk back to where Greg is
puffing
and panting.

‘Get off the bike, Greg,’ I tell him in a flat voice.

He doesn’t argue. ‘Are . . . are you okay, sweetheart?’ he asks.

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

I climb onto the bike and start to pedal. It’s agony. The heat of built-up lactic acid screams through my muscles.

And yet I begin to pedal harder.

And
harder
.

My head goes down and my grip on the handlebars tightens.

‘It’s coming down to just two couples!’ I hear Elise roar over the noise of the crowd. ‘Pete on bike number one and Zoe on bike number six!’

‘Zoe? Take it easy, baby!’ I just about hear Greg say through the thunder of blood pounding in my ears.

I daren’t look up at him. Daren’t say one word. If I break my concentration now I’ll surely fail.

‘Only three hundred metres to go!’ screams Will. ‘Zoe is
catching
all the time! The gap is down to fifty metres!’

There’s nothing in the universe right now except the fire in my legs and the thunder in my ears.

In the hours to come I will thoroughly regret this. I will have to take the day off work tomorrow and spend it writing my weight loss diary, thanks to the pain I’ll be in.

But right here, right now, none of that matters.

I’m going to win.

‘Nearly at the finish line!’ screeches Elise.

‘Come on, Zoe!’ I hear Greg cry from beside me.

A hundred metres to go.

Seventy-five.

It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. I can hear the hoarse rasp in my lungs even over the cheering crowd.

Fifty metres.

Thirty.

‘They’re neck and neck!’ Will bellows. ‘It’s too close to call!’

Twenty.

Ten.

Five.

Zero
.

I cry out in a combination of pain and relief.

‘And it’s over! The race is over!’ I hear Elise say. She shouts something else but I’m so exhausted I miss it. The world’s gone a bit fuzzy around the edges.

I feel Greg’s arms around me, helping me off the bike.

I put my head on his shoulders. ‘Who won?’ I ask him in a hoarse whisper.

I feel him squeeze me tight. ‘You did, baby. You won.’

What a lovely combination of five words that truly is.

‘I did?’

‘Yeah.’ He kisses me with a passion I don’t think I’ve felt in a long time.

The ferocity of the kiss brings the world around me back into focus. I look up into the crowd to see people actually standing on their feet.

For me.

People are standing on their feet for me.

I see both Elise and Will run over.

The rest of the couples are clapping and cheering my victory. Well, those who are capable, anyway. Shane is still on the oxygen mask and Pete is doubled over his own bike looking like he’s about to pass out with Lea punching him on the arm, no doubt in disgust at his failure to beat me.

‘Congratulations!’ Elise shouts. ‘Well done, Zoe! Well done, Greg!’