you’re a Viper Boy in the making? Why do you even need to ask?’
Luca sighed but decided instead to wonder why the spectators were waving ski poles. Didier let him sigh again before fixing him with a searching stare.
‘It’s blown my mind,’ Luca said honestly. ‘There has to be a catch.’
‘Did you see Le Grand this morning at the village?’ asked Didier, having waited for Jesper Lomers to overtake and be out of earshot.
‘Yeah,’ Luca replied, ‘talking to Magnus Backstedt.’
‘I saw him in a corner with Bo Hamburger,’ Didier remarked.
Luca pedalled on ahead to reflect and, instinctively, Didier held back. Luca wondered whether those riders had also been told that it would be a travesty not to nurture talent, that they too had the makings of true champions and that Système Vipère would be honoured to have them? Two women bouncing ebulliently in bikini tops provided timely distraction and Luca cycled on, living for the moment, riding the day’s Stage, his body knackered, his soul exhausted. Eventually, he sat up and looked back to see Didier, his team-mate, room-mate and friend, riding alongside the yellow jersey. Neither Vasily nor Didier spoke but Luca could sense some deep communication between the two. Like yesterday. Intrigued, he dropped his pace and returned to the bunch at the same time as Vasily, Fabian and a clutch of final-week glory-seekers sped off the front.
‘Fuck! You’re going to Zucca MV, aren’t you?’ Luca asked Didier accusatorially. Didier looked confused. ‘You and your new best friend Vasily,’ Luca probed. ‘He’s been sent to lure you, hasn’t he?’ Didier looked resolutely ahead, picking up the pace to pursue the breakaway. Luca matched his speed. ‘We can’t be on rival teams,’ he bemoaned, ‘and anyway, I can’t believe he’s picked you and not me after I rode with him that day I won the Stage.’
Didier glanced at Luca. ‘I’m not going to Zucca, I’m staying with Megapac.’
‘But Vasily asked – right? He’s been wooing you,’ Luca probed, ‘all that shoulder-rubbing yesterday. When I came by, he flicked me – stopped talking and his stare said it all, said for me to fuck off.’
‘It was a sensitive subject,’ Didier said.
‘He was trying to poach you,’ Luca said sulkily, ‘and I really thought he rated me.’
‘Listen to you!’ Didier snapped. ‘You’ve got transfer fever bad – it’s affecting your ride. It’s affecting me. I’m completely knackered but I’m away. Adieu.’
Cat contemplated Didier’s ride. For a quiet rider, a bulwark for Megapac, a stalwart of the peloton, LeDucq was suddenly making a huge splash, pelting after the breakaway, dropping anyone attempting to take his wheel.
‘Blimey,’ Josh marvelled out loud, ‘what’s he on?’
‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Cat.
Vasily is pleased to see Didier coming up to his group but instead of slowing the pace to welcome him, he accelerates forward causing Fabian to motor after him and the hangers-on to grip hard to hang on. It doesn’t offend Didier. He understands the Russian’s motive and Didier is motivated to reach them and ride on. There are 50 kilometres to go, Didier’s head is down and he is cycling strongly, attaining great rhythm and maintaining utter focus. Conversation is sparse amongst the group but it is clangorous in Didier’s head. Over and again, he hears Vasily’s confrontation of yesterday.
‘You cannot make a thoroughbred from a donkey,’ had been the yellow jersey’s opening line. Didier remembers how he had not known how to respond, that he could not fathom what Vasily meant, nor why the Russian had let a break containing his main adversary go so he could hang back and talk equestrianism. ‘You are no donkey,’ Vasily had continued, ‘nor are you a thoroughbred. But you are a fantastic workhorse. I have respected you for many seasons.’ Didier had nodded his gratitude, still baffled and even more so when Vasily had played his next card. ‘I don’t want to lose respect for you – it would pain me.’
Didier LeDucq checks the computers on his bike and his pulse monitor. He’s racing well, strong enough to take a turn at the front, well enough to allow his mind to wander back and reflect on what had been said the day before.
‘When I used to do amphetamines, my eyes were like piss holes in the snow,’ Vasily had launched, ‘my skin was terrible – I was covered in spots. I was more aggressive off the bike than on and I could rarely sleep. Unless I had valium.’
‘Speed is shit,’ Didier had said, hoping it was what Vasily wanted to hear.
‘EPO is worse,’ Vasily said. ‘When I first took it, my kidneys felt like balloons full of water bashing the base of my back. My vision went queer, my joints hurt, I’d get nose bleeds. The migraines – terrible.’ Vasily had stared hard at Didier who felt that to nod energetically was the best reply. ‘But,’ Vasily continued, ‘soon enough it was like waking in a new land. I wanted to train hard, I could ride with reduced suffering and I recovered quickly. What a drug!’ Again he had confronted Didier with his hypnotic stare.
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