At Speed: My Life in the Fast Lane Read Free Page B

fucking up my sprint train—and suddenly we’re engulfed. I tell myself to be patient and have faith—faith in Stannard and Gee, the only teammates I now have left, and faith in how I can read the movements of a bunch, like a weatherman reads the path of a storm. Do only what I always do: Stay not on the wheels but in them, not directly behind the rider in front but almost between two guys riding parallel to each other ahead of me to give myself the room to move forward or back, left or right in a split second. I don’t snap, although the urge is there, when riders and teams whom we haven’t seen all day while we’ve controlled the race, guys like the Spaniard Carlos Barredo, start butting in, jostling, and trying to barge us aside.
    I’m lucid and alert, but inside the last 2 km and 20 wheels back, I know that I’m in a vulnerable position. If another train suddenly surges on the opposite side of the road, I could instantly drop 20wheels and out of contention. Luckily, in Gee and Stannard I’ve got two guys who are both exceptionally strong and immensely loyal. From where I am now, you’ll get nowhere just following wheels; you have to go outside and into the wind, and to do that at 60 kph you need exceptional horsepower, which Gee and Stannard have. You—or I—also need that dedication, which I’d never question from this pair. The symbolism of me riding into the last 2 km of a world championships road race behind two guys whom I grew up with as a cyclist, with the British Federation and its Academy, will be something to reflect on and cherish later.
    One point nine km and we’re still behind the Aussies, Italians, Germans, and Spaniards, tight to the barriers on the right-hand side. I can see Matt Goss five positions ahead of me, hunched over the bars, legs chopping. Muscles don’t bulge from his calves like they do from Andre Greipel’s, Marcel Kittel’s, or any other sprinter’s—Gossy looks awkward, ungainly, but on an uphill finish like this one, he could be the biggest threat.
    One point eight and the arrowhead of the bunch sways toward the middle of the road. That movement opens a window of opportunity on the far right-hand side at one point seven: Stannard surges, makes it, Gee does the same, makes it, and suddenly they’re snapping at the Aussie’s heels, in second wheel and third. I also surge … but, maybe sensing I’m there or guessing that I’ll be following Gee, Gossy swings hard right and slams the window shut.
    Fuck .
    One point five and I’ve lost my lead-out man. One point four and I’m boxed. One point three and Stannard’s on the front, Gee’s looking around to see where I am but is dazzled and blinded by Italianblue, Australian and German white. Gossy lets me past, but I’m not looking for Gee anymore. I know Gossy will come under me before the last corner, then I’ll swing onto his wheel. It’s risky, but if I pull it off. If I pull it off …
    One point two. One point one. Then we’re under the blue banner for the last kilometer. Nine hundred. The last, right-angle righthander. Stannard slants his body and bike into the bend and is the first man to see the finish line; Gee, in second, tilts into the same arc. I’m 10 positions back, Gossy’s gone under me like I knew he would, and I’m fine here, I’m thinking now— I’m golden, this is good, real good . For days before the race we’ve debated whether to use the more aerodynamic, mid-section carbon wheels or the lower-section, lighter and zippier model, and finally I’ve gone for the latter because of the acceleration needed out of this last turn.
    As Gossy hugs the corner, an Italian rider tries to cut in. I kick, my bike fizzes in front of him, and I know I’ve made the right choice.
    Stannard’s laboring now, about to pull off, and Gee’s still turning to look for me. I shout, “Gee, I’m okay!” Gee is in the perfect spot to go for himself here, at 800 to go, and a lot of riders would, but not Gee. Gee