Initially, his information pleased Cat, made her feel safe and relieved. Then it worried her.
Oh shit, is he coming on to me? I’d better ask about his wife. Thank God I lied about having a boyfriend.
‘How does your wife feel about you being away so much?’
Why the fuck did I say ‘Yes I have a boyfriend’?
‘That’s cycling,’ Josh shrugged.
‘Par for the course,’ Cat defined, ‘riders and writers and mechanics alike, hey? A life on the road. Presence of partners rare, discouraged even.’
‘Exactly,’ Josh replied. ‘How does your bloke feel about you being out here? Surrounded by menfolk away from their womenfolk?’
‘He’s not bothered,’ Cat said quickly, wondering quite what Josh was trying to ascertain, ‘he knows that consummate athletes have very low levels of testosterone.’
Josh roared with laughter. ‘Should have! We’re in cycling – the levels should be low but most of the peloton probably have pretty normal levels.’
‘Hmm,’ Cat acted, holding her finger to her lip in exaggerated contemplation, ‘how can that be? Can you imagine! If all that training depletes their testosterone level to that of a normal man – imagine their levels if they weren’t pro cyclists. Stallions!’
‘Oh my God,’ Josh feigned, ‘Cat McCabe, is that sarcasm? You wouldn’t be suggesting that their testosterone levels are unnaturally enhanced?’
‘Doping?’ Cat gasped theatrically. ‘In cycling?’
‘Where does medical care end and doping begin?’ Josh said with a serious edge. ‘Low testosterone can cause osteoporosis.’
‘Too true,’ Cat replied honestly, ‘let’s not talk about it.’
‘You sound like the UCI,’ said Josh accusatorially, referring to an accusation frequently levelled at cycling’s international governing body.
‘Doping is cheating,’ Cat defined, ‘but health is another matter altogether. How does the UCI set this arbitrary level? They’re saying that if the cyclists take stuff to boost their levels to within a hair’s breadth of the set line, it’s not doping. But they’re taking stuff – period.’
‘There’s the rub,’ Josh said, ‘let’s not talk about it.’
‘More banned substances than any other sport,’ Cat continued quietly, looking out of the window at wheatfields winking in the sudden sun after the rain, ‘and more dope controls too. Let’s not talk about it. Not today.’
‘Sure,’ Josh said, ‘because there’ll be many occasions when we will.’
‘Is it still rife?’ Cat asked.
‘Some do, some don’t,’ Josh said, ‘it’s difficult to quantify, what with sophisticated masking agents and the fateful turning of blind eyes – which I would rank as being more criminal than substance abuse itself.’
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ Cat said for him.
Don’t fall from grace, heroes mine. Don’t shatter my admiration. Or that of that lovely old boy by the roadside over there with his grandson, waving. Don’t bring shame on your beautiful sport. Don’t harm yourselves. Ride well. Ride from the heart, but use your heads.
They drove on, noting banal agricultural details of the route that would nevertheless add essential colour to their reports.
At least I’ve deflected attention away from my love life.
‘Anyway,’ Josh said, ‘before diving off on such an unsavoury tangent, I do believe we were talking about testosterone and your bloke.’
‘Who?’
‘Your boyfriend.’
No he’s not. Not any more. I don’t have a boyfriend. I’ve lied and I don’t know why and I don’t know how to get out of it.
Cat, you should say something. Your silence is too loaded. Josh might read into it; might think he’s in with a chance if that’s what he’s into.
‘Does he not mind you being in such a vastly male-dominated world?’
‘Oh,’ said Cat, noticing with great interest that the blue tone to the land had changed to lime green over the last few miles, ‘I can look after myself.’
Get yourself out of it – tell him ‘Actually, we just broke up’. Say ‘Sorry, Josh, I don’t know why I said that because, in truth, my boyfriend left me’.
Yes, but if I do, he’ll know I’m available. It will be hassle I don’t need and I’ll be judged on my sex first, my journalistic skill second.
Luckily for Cat, Josh was suddenly far more interested in the race report coming through on Radio Tour. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked, turning up the volume. ‘Fabian Ducasse and the Viper boys are still at the front – I don’t know why they’re putting on pressure today.’
‘It’s probably like an army parading tanks and weaponry,’ said Cat. Josh agreed.
‘One six three,’ Josh said, quoting riders’ numbers off the radio, ‘thirty-one, seventy-five.’
Cat checked her list of riders. ‘Thirty-one is Cipo,’ she said, ‘seventy-five – Tom Steels. Hey! 163! Go Travis!’ she cheered for the victor of the first hot-spot sprint. With the memory still vivid of Hunter Dean’s wink, of her quote from Luca Jones, US Megapac had swiftly become her personal team.
‘Stanton’s good,’ Josh nodded, ‘maybe not quite a Stage winner but his riding’s already respected.’
‘Look at this road,’ Cat remarked. It ribboned out before them, seemingly for miles, straight and mostly flat.
‘Meaning?’ Josh tested.
Why are you still testing me, Josh?
Why not ask him?
No. I’ll just answer him. Obviously I still need to earn my wings.
‘Well, a road like this hardly encourages anyone to attack – it would be much ado about nothing. The pack would just watch such a rider peg off. He might manage around 45 kph but the bunch could stream after him at 60. Of course, there was that Stage where—’
‘Jesus!’ Josh whispered, his hand on the volume control. Cat concentrated hard.
‘Fuck!’ she exclaimed. Josh had been about to say the same.
‘Two-thirds of the bunch have gone down,’ he murmured.
‘Shit!’ said Cat and Josh in unison.
Gratitude to God
