Spokes (2 page)

Picking out faces to attach to names simply hadn't been possible today. Christopher couldn't know if he'd seen sprinters or
climbers,
domestiques
or the general classification stars. The pictures from last May's
CycloWorld
weren't helping him
figure it out, but he stopped on a Duclos-Wurth profile article, just to try. Damn but Luca Biondi had a nice ass.

Chapter 2

Journalism wasn't going to replace the evil day job any time soon, but the email from the bank announced a pleasant addition to
Christopher's coffers. He was getting enough small news items and product reviews off to a couple of cycling magazines that he could allow
himself to dream of a day where he didn't need to discuss the merits of a thirty-eight toothed chainring versus a thirty-nine toothed chainring
with a rider who would never get out of the lowest gears on a mild incline.

Working at the bike shop offered some compensation, though. Members of the pro teams came in just often enough to recognize him, trade some bit of
information or insight for the personal service, and keep those small payments coming. The Garmin-Sharp boys came by infrequently; they had endorsement
deals or sponsorships for almost everything a cyclist could need. UPS drivers probably got hernias delivering boxes of hardware and clothing to their team
headquarters, but the new team wasn't quite so completely supplied. The Antano-Clark riders were in and out of the bike shop on 9
^th
Street and
Pearl a few times a week. Twenty-five cyclists who needed one or two things at a time made for a pretty consistent black and turquoise parade.

Three men bypassed the wavy steel rack in front of the shop. Wheeling the bikes inside rather than risking the tools of their trade to the hopeful but
inadequate security of a chain lock made perfect sense to Christopher--he wouldn't tempt passers-by with bikes each worth more than any
five things he had for sale. Maybe three--a road bike that weighed less than fifteen pounds even with the saddle was the only thing in stock that
even came close to costing as much as the custom-made monsters squeaking across the cement floor.

"Anything I can help you find, gentlemen?" Christopher ambled over to the accessory rack that occupied the attention of two cyclists,
who balanced their bikes against their hips while they removed their helmets. The third had gone to the rear where the mechanic worked.

"Do you have Cham-Paste?" The taller of the two ran his hand through sweaty blond locks. His personal rain spattered Christopher.

Wiping his face gave Christopher a moment to restrain his temper. Anyone who dripped on him had better kiss him first. "No, but we have almost
every other kind." Fifteen brands of lubricant to prevent chafing against the liners found in all good bike shorts, and this guy asked for the
one the shop didn't stock.

"You are disgusting again, Rolf." The Italian lilt in his companion's voice would have taken the sting out of the comment for
Christopher, but Rolf shot him such a look that Christopher wondered what the term for "stink-eye" would be in Flemish or whatever
Rolf's first language was.

The other cyclist kept his sweat to himself, wiping his forehead with his hat, which was a strange chili pepper-patterned contrast to the team colors. It
probably didn't matter, since it was concealed under his helmet most of the time. His medium brown ringlets had been squashed close to his scalp
but stood out in exuberant profusion where they hadn't been restrained. His sunglasses dangled from their cord over his chest, not interfering
with the rebuke in the cyclist's blue eyes. "The rest of us use the chamois butter without complaint."

"But of course you do." Perhaps Flemish had a term for "uber-stink-eye," because Rolf could certainly do it.

Christopher took note, wondering at the attitude he displayed to his team mate. Christopher didn't have to be introduced to Luca Biondi to know
who he was--that face had smiled, grimaced, and exulted from the pages of a dozen issues of
CycloWorld
, and was currently whipping across
the big screen TV that played a canned selection of race clips and ads for bike-related merchandise. Also knowing that, on paper at least, Biondi was the
strongest rider Antano-Clark had, this was probably the team captain on the receiving end of the disrespect. His estimation of Antano-Clark's
chances in the
Tour de France
dropped two notches.

"As will you." Biondi's face did not change. "You will use what we can get."

"I'll have someone ship a case from home." Rolf slammed the tube of chamois lubricant he'd been examining back on
shelf hard enough to knock the others over. "It is the best."

"May I quote you on that?" Christopher thought he should have a useable tidbit to make up for having to set the display up again. The
"best" product often had the biggest advertising budget that month, but still, Rolf Knecht's opinion might make good print.

"No!" Rolf snatched up a different brand to examine the list of ingredients and squirt a small amount into his hand, rubbing his
fingers together. He'd chosen a particularly greasy sort. Christopher had tried it but felt like he was going to slide right off his bike. Rolf
grimaced at his now-shiny hand.

"You are most fussy about what you rub on your butt." Biondi picked up a tube of sunscreen.

"Unlike you!" Rolf spat out a word Christopher didn't recognize.

Biondi did, and perhaps it was best Christopher couldn't understand or even identify the language he snarled back. The short, bitter exchange
resulted in Rolf's whirling to the door with his bicycle, leaping on once he reached the sidewalk. The rack of lip balms he knocked over on his
way out rang and rattled for a few seconds after the rider disappeared from view.

"Rolf is on edge today; I ask forgiveness for him." Biondi's apology added to the shock Christopher was quite certain was
making him look stupid. "I'll fix this." He set a tube upright, smacking it into place. He stared at the shelf, not glancing
at Christopher.

"Uh, you don't have to..." Catching a tube that rolled to the edge of the shelf when Biondi picked another up,
Christopher set it on its wide cap, his hand brushing the cyclist's. The brief contact went straight to his groin, though perhaps his stupid-face
kept it from showing. Not that Biondi was looking. What the hell had Rolf said? Something obscene about a product every serious cyclist used?

"My teammate made the mess." Biondi knelt to collect creams from the littered floor.

The fallen rack allowed Christopher a strategic retreat. Cursing his reaction under his breath, he righted the stand and collected the handfuls of tubes on
display cards. By the time he had the balms hanging neatly again, Biondi was waiting quietly at the register, his bicycle at his side like a well-trained
Great Dane. Scurrying over, Christopher focused on the bright teeth showing against the rider's lightly tanned face--he'd
recovered something of his earlier mood, but the strain hadn't left his eyes. Lycra cycling leggings, or possibly cycling shorts with separate
leg warmers--Christopher dared not look closely enough to decipher which Biondi was wearing--didn't leave a lot to the
imagination, although the pliable chamois liners did soften the outlines of the wearer's package. Something he had no business looking at.

"Thanks," he said, unfolding the bills Biondi offered. "You didn't have to do that."

"I did. I don't want you to remember Antano-Clark riders for bad things only." He tucked the sunscreen into one of the
elasticized pockets on the back of his jersey. "My name is Luca Biondi, and I hope my team will be welcome here another day." Extending
his hand for the change, he smiled like he meant it, holding Christopher's eyes with his light blue gaze.

"You will. Uh, they will. I'm Christopher Nye."
Smooth, real smooth. Try not to come across as star-struck or hopelessly horny, will ya?
Brushing his fingertips across Luca's palm while
counting out quarters and dimes probably spoiled any hope of appearing suave. Luca didn't seem to mind. "I could try to get some
Cham-Paste for Rolf."

"That's kind, Christopher, but it's not the Cham-Paste Rolf truly wants." The smile flickered, then returned.
"I will be back another day, to be sure of a welcome." Luca wheeled his bicycle out of the shop, swinging one whipcord leg over and
joining the west-bound traffic on Pearl Street. Christopher followed with his eyes, the floor to ceiling windows letting him enjoy every flex and twist.

Luca Biondi was welcome to anything he liked.

The third team rider lurked in the back, where Christopher found him thumbing through a magazine, swinging his helmet by one strap. He looked up from the
pages, eyes wide.

"Can I help you find something?"

"No, no, nothing, thank you." The rider craned his neck to see over the racks. "Have they both left?"

"Yeah. They seemed a little annoyed with each other." Understatement seemed like the best way to information.

A muscle jumped in the rider's jaw. "You could say that. I don't want to get caught in the middle. No matter who's
riding GC, I just do my job."

The domestiques in the team fetched, carried, fought the wind, yielded their whole bicycles or one wheel if needed. The "servants" had
their moments as climbers or sprinters if they had the strength, but the general classification riders were the ones who stood on the podium to accept the
accolades due the winner. The rest of the team existed primarily to make it possible for the GC to succeed. "Isn't Antano-Clark in
enough races to make two or three GCs necessary?" His journalist's ears waved frantically enough to create a small draft.
Mustn
'
t scare the source.

"We are, but when Luca was announced as GC for Paris-Roubaix, Rolf thought sure he'd get the
Giro d'Italia
."

"And he didn't?" If Rolf was riding the big Italian stage race at all, he'd be some kind of super-domestique
.

"He's not doing Paris-Roubaix, and he'll be riding the
Giro
, but as Luca's lieutenant."

Rolf had just been cut out of the two highest-prestige races of the early season. "Maybe he'll be GC for the
Tour de France
?" Rolf would want his conditioning to peak for late June instead of May for the
Tour.
Christopher held his breath--none of this
had been in the cycling news so far.

"We don't know, but I wish the
directeur sportif
would make up his mind, because Rolf's going to crack if he
doesn't know soon." The rider spoke softly, glancing around as if he expected Rolf to pop around the corner.
"There'll be hell to pay if Luca gets that too, even if he's twice the rider on time trials." His lips tightened
and he stared at the magazine, though he now held it with a serious tilt.

"How's Luca looking for the early season races?" That was a much safer topic; Christopher would stop pushing a man who looked
like he'd already said too much.

The rider looked up with a sunny visage. "Good." Slapping the magazine back on the rack, he zipped his jersey back up.
"Training at altitude sucked at first, it sucked for all of us, but it's like he's part Sherpa. Climbs like he could ride
that bike up Everest."

"Whoa, that's some endorsement." The
Giro
had several stages in the Alps and the Dolomites. The classic races in
Belgium had
hellingen,
the low but brutally steep Ardennes hills, rather than mountains to go with its shitload of
pave
flats and
climbs. Christopher grinned back. "How about sprints?"

"He's so going to kick ass at sea level." The rider clapped his helmet back on, wheeling his bike toward the door, with a
detour at the register for his magazine. "Luca is looking damned good."

Christopher watched the rider leave, but it was Luca's broad smile and black lycra-clad legs he saw in his mind's eye. Yeah, Luca
Biondi was looking damned good.

Chapter 3

Stu begged off riding, pleading the need for a rest day. Knowing Stu, he'd probably overdone the twelve-ounce curls the night before. Christopher
could choose his route to suit himself, so a moderate pace on a long climb sounded good--it was a very mild day for February.

He'd gained altitude steadily riding up Lefthand Canyon and in a mile or two he'd start the serious climb toward Ward, a small town
about three thousand feet higher than Boulder. He wondered what category of climb the entire twelve miles to the top would be considered.

"Coming up on the left!" was becoming a familiar refrain. Twice in the last two weeks he'd been overtaken by the team. A
clump of riders went around him two at a time--and yes, Biondi was in the pack.
Will he recognize me?
Christopher had no
illusion of
being easily identifiable in what was nearly a uniform worn by hundreds of cyclists today--a black, white, and red jersey, black Lycra leggings,
helmet, and sunglasses.

Once around him, the riders slowed their sprint, reforming into a peloton. All Christopher saw was ten of the most toned hind ends on the planet, attached
to steel-muscled legs, drawing away from him. One rider dropped back, and it didn't matter if he was dressed the same as the rest of the team and
hiding behind high tech shades, Christopher could pick out the slender, wiry physique of his favorite GC rider.

"Join us!" Luca surely didn't ask every random cyclist that. Before Christopher could make his mouth say
"yes," Biondi was giving him a shove toward the pack. Coming off his bike became a real possibility, because Luca had one hand on
Christopher's rear end and had increased his pace. Without intending to, Christopher pedaled faster, but he couldn't accelerate fast
enough to keep that hand from getting
really
smashed against his ass.

He'd seen dozens of races where spectators, mechanics, or coaches had physically flung a rider back on the route, pushing until he was going so
fast the pusher was left behind at last. Even a helping hand from the team car was possible, depending on what had happened. A coach or
soigneur
could bring a rider back to speed, giving momentum with a friendly boost through an open window. And there weren't a lot of places to grab on
without spilling the cyclist across the pavement. A rider who got bent out of shape when someone touched his butt would have to work seven times as hard if
he had to slow or stop for any reason.