Following is Part 5 of a manuscript titled “rolling thunder.”  Coincidentally, it picks up amid the Tour of California and it’s being posted on the eve of the start of its 2008 launch.  It’s like we planned it that way.

 

 As a note to those persevering the saga, we’ll be traveling for a couple of days but checking for your welcomed comments and when we get back we’ll convene our board of directors, our investment bankers, our clergy, our psychologist, acupuncturist and horticulturist, our nutritionist, our trainer, our editor, our kids and their imaginary friends, our dog cujo and the starched shirts upstairs at Bicycle.Net — and with their unanimous blessing we’ll put something up on Wednesday to give you your mid week fix.

 

Finally, we would be remiss if we didn’t remind you that this story is subject to copyright by the author. We’d hate to find this being hawked on a street-corner along with knock-off Gucci bags or uploaded onto some peer-to-peer thingy where ne’er do well Gen Xers would undoubtedly copy sections into Facebook to lend a sense of danger to their profiles.  So, please, let’s just keep this little secret between us, shall we?

Now, please enjoy.

 

ROLLING THUNDER (cont’d)

 

Chapter 8

Shamus awoke to a typical summer day in London, cold wet and gray.  The stage ahead wouldn’t be particularly challenging, but with the storm that had rolled in overnight it wasn’t likely to be a big hit with the fans, either.  What it would be, is slippery. Hopefully the prospect of treacherous roads would keep in check the ambitions and egos of the nearly two hundred riders who would line up for a shot at fame and the five thousand dollar pot for the day’s winner.  He thought about it in reverse, and concluded that it certainly wouldn’t contain him from taking a shot at the leader – but actually would have made it perfect conditions for doing so.  So Shamus knew it would be a long, hard, wet day.  At least he was starting it in the yellow leader’s jersey. 

The route for the day was to ride southward out of ‘Frisco,’ along the bay through the suburbs of San Bruno, Burlingame and San Mateo, then jut westward on highway 92 to Half Moon Bay.  From there, they’d take PCH, or the infamous Pacific Coast Highway, due south until they found La Honda road and headed inland again.  Under pleasant conditions, this stretch of the race might be among the most stunning scenery they’d ever have a chance to race by.  Today, it might be a heads down exercise, just trying to keep rain out of the eyes.

They’d follow La Honda through Portola Valley, and then it was back to civilization and paying the bills.  The race would enter Silicon Valley via Menlo Park, where most of the world famous Venture Capitalists called home, then proceed south through Stanford, where conservatives and MBAs were bred in sufficient number to offset the atmospherical impact of all those leftist Berkeley grads being spewed forth on the other side of the bay.  After Stanford, provided the racers weren’t bought and sold and arbitraged before they reached the other side of campus, they’d speed through Mountain View, Sunny Valley, the other VC enclave called Cupertino, then Santa Clara and into San Jose for finishing circuits and a yellow jersey for someone.  With the money and technology this stretch of land oozed, Shamus couldn’t believe they wouldn’t have some means of producing, or at least procuring, a spot of good weather under which they could watch these wretched cyclists perform or their behalf.  Only time would tell.

When they’d completed the non-competitive downtown circuit, which involved riding a courtesy lap for the fans that would have come out but for the unfortunate weather, the stage got underway and, to no surprise at all, attacks began immediately.  Shamus and his boys sat near the front watching who was going off and how many of them at a time, so they could best judge when to burn the energy to respond, and when not to.  To their good fortune, the top ranked teams largely hunkered down in the peleton and rolled along without any significant interest in going off the front.  The youngsters who’d jumped off the front presented little threat to win the overall race, and appeared mainly to be out to get their sponsor’s name on Versus, which was taping the event but would boil almost thirty hours of total racing down to two hours of highlights before putting the tape on the air a couple weeks after the event was done and forgotten.  Shamus thought the youngsters might be dismayed to know how little airtime their exploits might actually result in.

They rode south out of the city at a moderate pace, and then turned toward the coast.  Only then did the setting become pleasant, notwithstanding that they were by now drenched to the bone.  The beaches of Half Moon Bay, although shrouded in clouds, showed spectacular surf rolling up an otherwise skating-rink smooth ocean, and Shamus remembered Cabo and the wonderfully warm surf there.  For the moment though, he was soaked to the bone and could feel the water slosh in his shoes every time he pressed down to pedal.  It wasn’t a pleasant way to spend a day, but it beat working in an office and lately it paid pretty well.

True to form, as they headed inland on La Honda road, the weather seemed to moderate and, by the time they reached Silicon Valley, there were patches of blue peeking through the clouds, the roads were dry, and highly paid tech-types lined the streets in their near-vagrant version of casual attire.  The things that millionaires wore these days, Shamus thought to himself.

No breakaways lived to see the blue skies, though, as the peleton – let by CT – worked to pull it back in minutes before they’d arrived at San Jose for the finishing laps.  In the end, it came down to a perilous group sprint finish with about a dozen mad cyclists going full out, some weaving nearly the entire width of the street in the course of doing so, looking for the clearest line to the finish.  Photo finish showed that Kyle Mangee of the domestic team Carmax won stage two. CT got a second place finish as Flavio Ramoli was edged out for first by less than a valve stem by the Carmax rider.  Second place on the day, and preserving first place for the CT team in the overall results was a hugely satisfactory outcome in Shamus’s view.

Monday came to end unceremoniously, and Shamus was completely pleased to be sitting atop the overall leader board after two days of racing.  Tuesday would be a rest day, because no town or city ever wanted to cough up dough to have a race event on such an un-newsworthy day. 

When Shamus got back to the team bus for the transfer back to the hotel, Trusseau was waiting, and he didn’t look pleased.

“Shamus, can I have a word with you?“  He asked.

“Sure,” Shamus said as he handed his bike over.  “Is there a problem?”

“Could be,” Trusseau said as they wandered off across the parking lot.

“What’s that?” Shamus asked, immediately afflicted with a stomach full of butterflies.

“There is word that the lab found a positive result from the time trials.  My sources tell me it is from a well-known rider on a podium team.”

“Here we go again, heh?”  Shamus mused.  It wasn’t exactly news these days when a top rider was outed for illegal substances.  “Any idea who?”

“No.  I’m certainly hoping it isn’t someone on our team, but I could not get any reassurance to that effect.  That would be highly problematic, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been talking with the sponsors, just in case.  One certainly cannot wait until they read it in the newspapers to begin the damage control, eh?”

“I wouldn’t think so, no.  How do they respond?”

“It’s depends, naturally,” Trusseau said, “upon who we’re talking about.  This is all a business calculation in their view, and getting the name on the TV and radio isn’t necessarily bad, even if it isn’t for good reasons.  Let’s say it is someone not so important – not French, or not you – then we have a public relations problem only.  The rider goes, we strengthen drug-testing protocols, and then it is a matter of the passage of time.  You understand?”

“Clearly.”

“But if it is a Frenchman, time and wallpaper will not be enough. There will be certain people back in France who will be embarrassed because they take pride in having a strong French cycling team.  They make sure we have what we need from the government for developing young athletes and ensuring we have access to the finest labs and equipment to stay competitive. Fortunately, this alone would not cause the sponsors to invoke their rights to cancel the contract.  It would merely piss them off, and understandably so, Trusseau continued.  To them, it’s business, and strangely enough, bad P.R. for the team still gets the sponsors name out.  It’s not like someone will avoid buying tires because some athletes took the wrong supplements during a race.  Everybody knows that goes on to some extent in all sports.  What the public wants is winners.  What the sponsor wants is their name on the TV. Naturally, Le Monde will be out for heads, and they’ll start with mine. Who knows, that may have to be the answer.“

“It isn’t going to be me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Shamus offered, cutting to what he perceived was at the heart of this little chat.

“Are you very sure?”

“You can count on it.  I’m very careful. My records are in order and I’ve been training and preparing appropriately.”

“I trust what you say, but you should know that if it were you, we would lose the franchise – and it wouldn’t matter whether you actually did something or not.  You, and me, would be treated as guilty from the moment the accusation was made.  That’s the way it works these days.”

“I understand.  It won’t be me.”

“Okay, then off to the hotel, and don’t say anything to the other boys.  There’s no need to take away their focus at this time. We’ll know for sure by tomorrow, Thursday at the latest, who’s in trouble this time.  In the meantime, I’d like for you to have a visit with the doctor, just to make sure everything is in order.”

Notwithstanding the team’s good results thus far, Shamus was subdued at dinner.  Nevertheless, he tried to avoid sending any inadvertent signals to the others.  He noted a few faces looking similarly less than ecstatic.  There were furtive glances here and there; smoke signals of worry.  Had word gotten out already?

The following day was a bye, meaning they would lie around the San Jose Radisson.  It would be sort of restful. They would put on the gear and go for only a one to two hour easy ride to keep the legs loose.  Without that, they’d be stiff when the race resumed on Thursday.  Besides the brief spin, they’d do as little as possible.

Shamus got a massage from Rene to start the day, and planned to get another one before bed.  It was a perk of the job, even if it usually hurt a lot.  He kept his conversations with Rene limited to safe topics; things he wouldn’t mind getting back to Trusseau.  Because he knew they would.

After his morning massage, Shamus spun with the boys and then they all shared a smorgasbord of high carb, low fat food back at the hotel.  On the elevator back to his room to catch a pay per view and a nap, the Frenchman Jacqui Vinot rode up with him, and got off at the same floor.  As they exited, Vinot followed Shamus down the hallway, and then spoke, “do you have a moment, Shamus?”

“Sure Jacqui, come in and relax. They went into Shamus’s room.  What’s on your mind?”

“So, have you heard the rumors, about the positive test?”

“I heard something, Shamus said.  What did you hear?”

“Only that one of us, our team, is the positive.  I hear this from a friend in Marseilles, who works in a lab that does testing for WADA.  He asked the technician, and she told him, but would not give a name.”

“Sounds bad, for sure.  Do you have any idea who it might be?”

“It could be any of us, I suppose.  I am afraid, he said, with a grave tone, eyes cast at the floor, that it will be me.”

“Is that what they said.  Did they tell you that?”

“Non, they did not say.  But last week I was having trouble keeping with the group.  My legs were not good any more.  So you know I went to see the doctor, and he gave me some supplements.  I know wht they were.  It was Testosterone cream, to help the legs recover you know.  After some days, I felt stronger, but before the time trial I was worried I would let the team down, so I used more.  It was a dumb thing to do, but I did not feel so secure,” Jacqui said, his voice choking with the realization that he his career was in serious jeopardy, and, more distressingly, he might be taking his teammates down with him.

“Time will tell, Jacqui.  Until then, let’s just keep our heads together for now, and we’ll deal with whatever comes.  For now, why don’t you hang around here and we’ll pick a movie.  I don’t think you need to be hanging out by yourself right now.”

“If you don’t mind, that would be nice.  I’m going out of my mind with worry.”

Shamus was doing what a team leader would.  He had other motives as well.

“Jacqui, so was this the first time the doctor gave you the cream?”

“Yes, the only time for me.   Marcel said I could go to the doctor for assistance with my problems, and this is what he gave me.  Marcel said the doctor gave him supplements when he was not riding well, and I never heard of this, so I trust that the doctor keeps this confidential.”

“You know, Jacqui, what a big mistake you made,” Shamus gently chided him. 

“I know, and I would never do it again.  I have not slept well for a single night since I did this.  I feel horrible,” Jacqui said, in tears.

“Okay then, let’s look forward.  We’ll try to get past this.  First we have to get that stuff out of your room in case the come by and search.  Go get it and bring it down here and we’ll figure out how to dispose of it.”  Jacqui agreed and left, returning minutes later with a half spent tube of ointment that looked clinical and sported the name Co-Testerox.  He showed Shamus the tube.

“This is the only one?”

“Yes, I have no others.”

“Wrap it in some tissue paper and give it to me.  I’ll take it into the hall and stuff it down into the garbage bin on the maid’s cart.  Hopefully that will be the last we hear of it.  While I’m out, pick us a movie and a couple bottles of Perrier.”

They watched Terminator III – Jacqui’s choice – and afterward Jacquie thanked Shamus for his help.  Shamus knew that more than anything, Jacqui hadn’t wanted to be alone with his fears and demons.  Who would?  After the moving Jacqui returned to his own room to get ready for dinner.  That evening there was no further word about any lab results, just nervous looks and furtive glances among the team.  Shamus could watch it somewhat dispassionately.  He’d gained interesting information about the Doc’s apparent role in providing banned substances to certain members of the team, but there was little he could do anything about at the moment.  That he’d just been directed by Trusseau to go see the good Doc didn’t resonate well, but that also would be a matter for later. What concerned him most immediately was the prospect that at least two people on the team were using banned drugs, and they might be within hours of finding they’d been caught.  How many others might be involved wasn’t clear.  Even if it were just one, though, Shamus didn’t believe the team could survive such an ordeal – notwithstanding Trusseau’s assurances otherwise.

Shamus stopped down in the lobby on his way to dinner and dropped a padded overnight envelope into the US post box.  It contained the tube of cream Jacqui had given him to dispose of.  He shipped it off to Mary Ives, whose lab would give it a thorough going over, gathering fingerprints, manufacturer, chemical composition, lot number, location of manufacture, date of shipment, date of sale and any other information that would figure into whatever case they were assembling.

After dinner, Shamus stopped by the Doc’s room.  Gabelli welcomed him in and asked Shamus to take a seat on the couch.  Doc wasn’t dressed in a smock, so it didn’t look like he was planning to undertake any physical exams or blood tests.  He always put wore the smock when he was about his business. 

“Thank you for coming by, Shamus.  Trusseau said I should expect you.”

“Sure,” Shamus answered.  “But I haven’t the faintest idea what you might need.”

“Just to talk, for now, is all.”

“No needles, how pleasant,”  Shamus responded with a legitimate smile. He tired of the constant poking and prodding athletes got for the pleasure of doing their jobs.

“No needles, that’s right.  Can we speak confidentially?”

“You’re my doctor, so that’s supposed to be part of deal.  As for me, I keep my business to myself.”

“Wonderful,” Gabelli said, wringing his hands as he did so, in a way that suggested to Shamus that he was troubled, or at least nervous.  Seemed to be going around at the moment, he thought.

“Straight to the point, then, I will say that it is understood how riders need good supplements from time to time, so they can do their work.  The life of a racer is not easy, and keeping top performance throughout the year is not normal for nine months.  There is much pressure to always perform, and the body can fail the rider if too much is asked of it.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“My job has two parts.  First is to keep the rider healthy, and repair any damage from falling or getting sick.  The other part is more holistic.  I am here to help the riders find the supplements they need to do their job at top form, while not getting in trouble with the Doping Controls.”  Gabelli paused, either for cinematic effect, or because he was fighting instability in his intestines and sensed that he might be losing the battle.

“My point is, you have become the team leader, stepping into the shoes of Monsieur Jouyet – our good friend Gerard — who was very much loved on the team and throughout France, but of course had such the tragic accident in last year’s Tour.  You need to know that the team, and many others, including Trusseau and of course myself, are now embracing you as the heir to the team.  But with that, there are certain risks and responsibilities we should discuss.”

“Absolutely.  It’s an honor for me to be thought of this way and I’ll do whatever I can to meet the expectations that come with this.”

“We know you will, and a part of this is to ensure that everything you do is above suspicion at all times.  Because you are not French, but leading our team which is, there will be an above average amount of criticism for any mistakes or weaknesses you may show, and then Le Monde of course will make up any charges they want to, without care for the facts.”

“So you have some advice for me?”

“Oui.  I would like to speak discretely, but it may not be so effective, since my English is not always so perfect to deal with, how your say, ‘nuance.’  So, here is the point.  You must be at all times careful not to take food or drink unless it is absolutely safe.  Sadly, there is the risk that someone puts just a little bit of something in what you eat, and we lose the team.  It is not out of the question that this could happen.  Second, you must advise me as soon as possible whenever you are in contact with Doping Controls.  It is complicated and quite political, provided we have time to become involved.  Lastly, if you are not satisfied with your performance, you must see me.  I may be able to give you something to help, but more importantly I can ensure you don’t get the wrong things, which cause big problems for the team, you understand?”

“I think I do, yes.”

“Finally, I need to ask you, and you need to be entirely honest in your response, which will stay only with me, you have to trust.  I need to know everything you may be taking for supplements that is not shown on your list.  Is there anything you need to for me to be aware of?”

The list Gabelli referred to was a diet plan each rider was under strict order to follow.  There were to be no deviations, unless approved in advance by Gabelli.  If one did deviate, the rider was supposed to disclose this immediately to Gabelli. 

“Nothing I can think of,” replied Shamus, notwithstanding the little pick-me-ups Daniela was providing him with, but he had no way of knowing whether Gabelli knew about that.  “Perhaps I’m prone to a latte now and then, but nothing more serious.”

“It is remarkable how much you’ve improved since Sydney.  Everybody has noticed, but they say you are training very hard as well.  As long as this is the case…”

“I’ll come straight to the point,” Shamus said heatedly, tired of the dance.  “I’m getting stronger because I’m working harder.  No more, no less.  The lab will not find any irregularities in my specimens.  I know there are concerns about doping on the team, and some nervous individuals at the moment, but there’s no reason to worry about me.”

“Of course, Shamus,” Gabelli reassured, as if he’d known that all along. Shamus thought that perhaps Gabelli was aware of the EPO that Daniela had provided to him, in which case he’d have to chalk up Shamus’s response to a blatant lie, and a lack of the trust the doctor was attempting to leverage between them.  Either that, or he didn’t know about the EPO, and Shamus’s response was reasonable, though a bit stretchy given his apparent improvement during the past four weeks following the Tour Down Under, in which he’d intentionally sandbagged for this very purpose.  All in all, it created a complex situation with a number of possible outcomes.  Shamus wondered what Gabelli was thinking in response to his comment about other riders on the team being nervous about doping results.  He was sure that would be hoisted up Trusseau’s mast, post-haste.

“Anything you ask from me, I’ll provide, and I’m fully aware that I’m likely to be tested by Doping Controls on a nearly continuous basis.  I intend to stay perfectly clean so there will be no reason for anyone to worry.  However, if my performance begins to suffer, I’ll be happy to come to you to and discuss what’s available to help me.  Is there anything more you want to discuss tonight?”

“Non, Shamus.  I appreciate your coming by, and just know that I am at your service.  We are all on the same team, oui?”

“Oui,” Shamus reponded, rising from the couch and making his way to the door.  Nothing about the meeting had given him any sense that the good doctor was on the up and up.  To the contrary, Gabelli gave off every impression that it was his job to ensure people passed tests, more so than that they stayed clean in the first place.

Shamus got only halfway down the hall and his thoughts had already shifted to the next day’s race, which was to depart from the town of Salinas, which lay about sixty miles to the south of San Jose.  As the crow would fly, one could ride it via highway 101 and the entire distance would be just under a hundred and thirty miles.  A full day in the saddle, but not out of the ordinary by any matter.  One oh One ran down the middle of a valley running more or less north-south, and as such there wouldn’t be much terrain to fight, nor to look at.  Ridges would line both sides of the route for the entire distance, but they wouldn’t venture into them, and there wouldn’t be anything in that five hours of pedaling worth a snapshot, nor would there be anyone lining the rounte, since it was very sparsely populated farming country through the area. 

Instead, the race organizers did the reasonable thing and ran the route back down the coast along the PCH.

Rather than riding the short route, they’d add thirty miles or so to turn the stage into a world-class photo op as they passed through Big Sur and then whizzed past the infamous Hearst Castle, of the clan that raised celebrity abductee cum bank robber, Patty Hearst.  They’d made money filthy amounts of money in newspaper publishing, before that became just another business.  The stage would head for its finish via a brief diversion inland beginning at Morro Bay, which was one of the jewels of the California coast and a breathtakingly beautiful spot of earth and ocean, provided one shielded their eyes as they rode past the not so lovely nuclear facility they locals had chosen to adorn their beach with.  At least it kept local property prices reasonable.  Finally, they’d roll into the ancient Spanish mission city of San Luis Obispo, and their long day would mercifully be ended. 

The route down PCH wouldn’t present with any significant climbing, but the road would undulate continuously and they’d fight an inevitable crosswind coming off the sea.  Fortunately, there was no rain in the forecast.  The route’s length opened up the possibility of limitless breakaway attempts.  CT’s strategy would be much the same as in the previous stage – stay near the front, try to avoid being stuck doing all the work, carefully watch the breakaways to see if one should be allowed to succeed, and if the whole peleton rolled into San Luis Obispo together, then work to set up a good finish opportunity for the team’s sprinters, Francisco Chiarello and Flavio Ramoli.

After they’d been bussed down from San Jose, the peleton assembled in town, did a ceremonial lap through it, then rolled out of Salinas at a leisurely seventeen miles per hour.  To the legs, such a tourist pace felt welcome.  The price to be paid was the possibility of extending six hours of riding into seven or eight, which would weigh heavily on the sit bones for days afterward.  Invariably, this pace wouldn’t hold, and less than two miles from town the first breakaway attack came with two riders off the front, then others rushing to bridge across, until more than a dozen riders were on their way to San Luis Oblispo and hoping to outrun the peleton the whole way.  The peleton lifted its pace into the low twenties to keep it sporting, and rolled along.

After five hours’ effort, the breakaway sustained most of the advantage they’d accumulated, which peaked at five minutes ahead of the peleton.  However, as they neared Morro Bay, it was clear the peleton was picking up the pace, and the gap to the leaders was falling regularly.  Shamus and his squad were left to the heavy lifting, with virtually all the other teams assuming proper positions to suck CT’s wheels and hide in the slipstream.  The peleton caught the breakaway group with less than five miles remaining to the finish.  At that point, it became inevitable that a group sprint would decide the winner of the day.  CT stayed at the front to best position their two fast men, but with less than three miles remaining, Chiarello flatted, and even with a quick tire change his chances were gone. 

When a half mile remained, the pace rose to thirty, then thirty five miles per hours as every team poured it all on to get their sprinters lined up.  CT had theirtrain lined up, with Shamus at second to last and the sprinter Ramoli in last position.  Over the finishing half mile, each man would give his all for just seconds then move out of the way and let the next man do so, until it would be down to Shamus to lead Ramoli the last two hundred and fifty meters down Santa Rosa street, with Ramoli then picking the right moment to sling himself past Shamus for the win.  

As they got inside a thousand meters from the finish, the speed and the jostling increased, and by five hundred meters out it was a virtual frenzy of riders moving ahead and others trying to get out of the way.  High speed crashes in these finish zones were very common, needing only the brief touch of two wheels, or for a bike to brush up against the roadside barriers that protected the fans from the riders.  Shamus was watchful of all this chaos, but in truth there was little to be done about it. One couldn’t pay attention to everything, so the best practice was just to ride intuitively and let your skills and experience guide you through.  Ramoli clung closely behind Shamus, their wheels separated by less than six inches. 

When the rider in front of Shamus popped off at the two fifty mark, Shamus’s job was just to go full out for the finish, and Ramoli’s job was to eventually shoot past him.  They’d practiced it countless times.  Shamus lowered his head and spun with one hundred percent effort, knowing he would only have to do it for a few seconds. It immediately burned anyway, since he’d been close to full out just keeping up with Marcel Clerc before he’d pulled off and left Shamus to bring it home. 

With a hundred meters left, Ramoli’s time had come, and he was off his seat and accelerating through the slipstream providcd by Shamus.  There was no looking back or around.  Ramoli could only pick his line and follow that all the way through the finish.  Just at the moment he chose to move right and sling himself around Shamus, a sprinter from T-Mobile was coming up in that same line, having already shot forward from his lead-in man.  The T-Mobile rider swerved right and managed to miss Ramoli’s back tire, avoiding immediate trouble, but wasn’t able to regain his balance quick enough, and as he got even with Ramoli, his bike wobbled just inches toward Ramoli’s and both riders looked in horror to see that their handlebars had become overlapped, and snagged on each other.

It was a virtual standoff that lasted a fraction of a second.  Should either rider follow their instinct and try to accelerate, both would come down.  In the fraction of a second it took them to realize this, their chances of actually winning the day’s stage evaporated.  At sixty miles per hour, the final hundred meters took the riders about three seconds to cover. Therefore, if a rider withheld effort for even a half second, that was one sixth of the entire distance.  Shamus, all the while oblivious to his teammates predicament, rode head down and full out, and unwittingly had two men literally bound together beside him, creating an almost impassible situation for any others sprinters to maneuver around.  Two seconds later, Shamus rolled across the finish line in first place, followed by two others who finally managed to get around the siamese sprinters but didn’t do so in time to win, and then Ramoli and the T-Mobile rider coasted to a stop but before they did so were already exchanging curses in Italian and German and preparing to come to blows over who had caused this mess.  Race officials quickly separated the two men, fully aware that two relatively featherweight men clad in colorful lycra outfits and shaking bony fists at each other wouldn’t make a fight worth watching.

Not only did Shamus retain the overall leader’s jersey, but he picked up an additional one for winning the day’s stage.  How to deal with his teammate Ramoli, who rightfullly should have been wearing it, was a worry for later.  For now, Shamus was escorted directly to Doping Controls, then, having made his donation, was off to the podium for kisses and flowers and a jersey to add to his collection.  All the complexities of his world could wait.  For this moment, Shamus would just be alive and happy.

When the announcer called his name, Shamus climbed the steps then went through the choreographed motions of getting his picture taken with local civic leaders who’d no doubt chipped in to get the race to come to their fair city; got his picture taken next to the two models who provided the ceremonial kisses, then climbed onto the top of the boxes on the stage that had been arranged with the first place racer, standing six inches higher than the second and third place riders, who flanked him on each side.

When the model-kiss moment occurred, Shamus stared straight ahead so as to please the cameras in the crowd, and didn’t particularly notice the girls.  They were just doing their jobs, same as him, and it always went smoothly if one kept that in mind.

When the model on his right whispered, “Allo, Shamus,” his face froze because he knew the voice, but couldn’t immediately place it.  Without being too obvious, he glanced his eyes her way and saw an attractive young lady, but the result was the same – certain familiarity, but not recognition.

He looked out over the crowd and searched his brain for where this voice and face were stored.  Since he’d won the day’s stage and was still the overall leader, there was a repeat of this ceremony, and the young lady, sensing Shamus’s inabilities, whispered the next time, “it is Eve, you idiot!”

Shamus was shocked that an Interpol agent accompanied him on the podium, but far more so that Eve was an absolute knock-out in a sparkly dress, six inch heels, professional makeup, and her hair freed from the tight bun she’d kept it in when they’d met.  She smiled up at him, pleased with her surprise; he remained dumbstruck.

 

Chapter 9

Characteristically, once they got down off the podium the racers made themselves available for interviews and then signed autographs before finding the first opportunity to escape back to the hotel and their infant-like routines.  Shamus did this, but lingered in the area after the last autograph hunter had bagged his bounty and left. 

He looked around for Eve; it shouldn’t have been hard to spot her in a crowd where two exquisitely dressed models mixed among a sea of t-shirts and cutoffs.  Nevertheless, she was nowhere to be seen, nor was her companion.  Just out of his line of sight, they’d been captured off the other side of the stage for their own PR activities, principally involving reenacting their dual simultaneous cheek-plants, but now on aged, over-weight businessmen seeking a cheap thrill, and local politicians seeking their smiling mugs in the next day’s fish wrapper. When Shamus spotted her at this, he was suddenly sympathetic for how much more enjoyable his job was than hers, at least at the moment.  When it came to forced affection, it was better to receive than to give, for sure.

Finally Eve broke free of the grasps of dirty old men, and came to where Shamus stood.  Somehow, she hadn’t lost her smile despite having been ogled at and groped in the course of her modeling duties. 

“That’s really disgusting; bet you hated every moment of it,” he said to her.

“I haven’t been so much the center of attention in a long time.  It was not so good, but not so bad, actually,” she said with the ever-present smile.  This wasn’t the tightly wound Agent-Eve he recalled.  She was actually a woman, and quite fetching one, at that.

“Well, maybe it’s the new uniform that did the trick.  You look fantastic, if I may say so.”

“Of course you may.  And thank you.”

They drifted off from the podium area to a quieter grassy area behind the stage.  Shamus wasn’t worried that their appearance together would raise any eyebrows.  Looking at her now, he was sure the only repercussions would be envy.

“So what brings you out here?  I’m glad you are, but you certainly could have just phoned.”

“I wanted to spend some time with you to get some questions answered.  The investigation is making better progress lately, but there’s still a lot to figure out.  Some of this is hard to put together from phone calls.  And what girl would turn down the chance to come to California to be an actress, if just for a day?  I’m only human, after all.”

Shamus was highly distracted by her.  It had certainly been easier to concentrate on matters at hand when she played the part of a prude, rather than a princess. 

“Yes, well we’ll have to meet for dinner and then run off to live happily ever after, if this going to play in Hollywood,” he said, suggesting only half-jokingly what was running through his heart anyway.

“Well, let’s start with dinner, anyway.”

Back in his hotel room, Shamus googled to find the best restaurants in the city, and of course his question was definitively answered in point zero zero six four seconds.  If he didn’t like the answer, there were a million one hundred and sixty thousand others to choose from.  He went with the first link recommended, scanned it quickly and saw that his best bet was an upscale Italian joint.  He picked Buona Tavola, rang them and reserved a table.  He called Eve’s cell and told her he’d come by her hotel, which was on the same block as his, and they could cab over from there at six.

Eve had changed from the ball gown she’d worn earlier, but fortunately hadn’t reverted to the strict agent look he recalled from their first meeting.  She was still a lovely young lady when he met her in the lobby of her hotel.  Shamus felt like a kid on a first date.  He forced himself to remember that it wasn’t a date, and he should act accordingly.

Dinner lived up to its rating, but who could screw up pasta, anyway?  And it wasn’t exactly as if he’d paid attention to his food.  He hoped she found it useful to meet this way, because he’d been far too distracted by her to keep track of the issues they’d discussed.  It had been only a minor damper on his psyche when she’d retrieved from her bag a notebook and begun with a long list of questions she’d thought of before making the trip.  By the time they were done, tables in the restaurant had largely emptied and the staff milled about.

“So, my turn to be curious.  The vials of EPO I sent to Mary — any results back from the lab?”  he asked.

”Yes, and this must be off the record, okay?”

“Sure.”

“It is not what we expected.  Usually it is low grade or even contaminated when we get drug samples from athletes.  They are usually getting batches that are past their expiration date, or were to be discarded for some reason, but a person retrieves them to sell on the street.  This was quite different.”

“How so?”

“What you sent to us, that Daniela had provided to you, is not even in circulation yet.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“It is in testing for future use.  It has not been approved by the FDA, so it should not be given to doctors or pharmacies.  Certainly it is unusual to be in the black market.  This suggests someone wants to get it out in the market.”

“Well if it’s not in production, then there can’t be that much of it around, right?”

“Precisely so.  So if someone is supplying it to you, we think that someone wants to see what will happen if you use it.”

“Like I’m a guinea pig, or something?”

“Yes, but a very special one.  Not an average person or even an average athlete, but a top athlete in an endurance sport.  It would be very valuable for a drug company to know how an EPO drug worked in such a person, without waiting years to get approval to run such tests.”

“That makes me quite mad, the idea that they would give me not only something dangerous, but something new and experimental to see how I reacted to it.”

“Yes, it should,” she responded.  “And your improved results since last month would have them thinking that there is reason to be pleased with this new drug, non?”

“Have you been able to figure out who’s making this stuff?”

“We’re making some progress, but it is not determined yet,” Eve said in her soft but stilted English, which was just one more thing Shamus found desirable about her.  His list was growing longer by the moment.  “It comes out of a Chinese factory, but that is almost always the case.  Drug production is highly outsourced these days.  The formula could most likely be from one of five companies, including one in Germany, another in France, and three in the U.S., including one very small one that is doing investigations in these areas in conjunction with treating certain diseases.”

“Would Amgen be one of the U.S. firms in question, by chance?”

“They are one of the two large firms.  They have patents on such medicines for legitimate purposes and it is public information that they are experimenting with derivatives of these drugs.  There is nothing so unusual about that.  All the pharma companies do these things.  It is called product line extension.  However, this process costs very much money, takes years, and subjects the process to FDA oversight and verification.  But why do you ask about Amgen specifically?”

“They’re a very peculiar choice to sponsor a bicycle race, wouldn’t you say?  It’s not like there’s an obvious relationship between what we do and what they do.  We ride bikes, they make drugs.  Would sponsoring a bike race increase sales of their drugs?”  Shamus asked rhetorically.  “But that’s not all.  Recently I saw our team manager Trusseau, sports director, and team doctor entertaining the Amgen people in the VIP tent, along with some others.  When I mentioned that to someone, I got told more or less to keep my nose out of it.  The response I got wasn’t dismissive, but defensive, and made me feel like I’d touched a raw nerve.”

“You should be very careful.  Some people may have a lot at stake personally and professionally, and they could be dangerous,” Eve responded.

As Gerard learned the hard way, Shamus thought.  Then he admonished himself; nothing like bringing up death to put a damper on a nice night out.

“Interesting point that Gerard will be a hero forever in his country, and if it is true that he died because of what he knew about the doping, then it was not such a bad outcome for the team.  Unfortunate, yes, but nothing that would upset the sponsors,” Eve pondered aloud.

“From what Trusseau says, it would have been a virtual windfall.  No PR is bad PR, seems to be the mantra.  Gerard’s death put the team in the press for months on end, and then they promote the number two rider and move on.  If only I were French, it would have been perfect.”

Eve had no response to the statement, but none was expected, either.

Shamus shifted gears to a new topic.  “Do you know I sent Mary Ives some Testosterone cream that a rider gave me – he said he’d gotten it from Gabelli, our team doctor.  He’s worried he’s been caught by the labs — there are a lot of rumors going around right now.”

“If it is a Monsieur Vinot, then it is true that he was found out, but not for Testosterone.  It was EPO, I am certain.”

Shamus pondered the discrepancy, and came to the conclusion that made the most sense.  “Great, so he’s on more than one drug.  What’s going to happen to him now?”

“Nothing, for now.  We have put a, how do you say, ‘gag order’ on these results indefinitely.  We do not want the investigation complicated by news that a rider on your team has been found positive.  Unfortunately, we may not be able to stop the rumors, but for now, no news.”

“That will be helpful, and it’s good to see Interpol can manage this.  I truly hate for tonight to end,” Shamus said wistfully, ”but I’ve gotta get back to the hotel and sleep, or else I may be slow tomorrow.”

It was the shockingly late hour of nine thirty.  For most adults, a good time to be out to dinner.  For a professional racer, it was past bedtime.

“I will be in California for a few days.  Maybe if you want to have dinner with a podium girl again, you will call me.  Unfortunately, I have no more opportunities to put on the fancy dress again.  My career as an actress is, sadly, ended,” Eve said with a broad smile.  She was clearly enjoying being out in the field working her project.

At the same time, Shamus had become absolutely smitten with her.  He knew he’d be thinking about her a lot in coming days.  Hopefully that would make the miles just a bit shorter.

In the cab back to Eve’s hotel, she asked him if he’d run into any other former racers, and he said he hadn’t but possibly because he was getting to bed early, and they didn’t have to. 

“It is interesting about Monsieur Pagnoli,” she said.  “He travels quite often, and when we compare the dates from his passport to the racing calendar, it seems that he attended many Pro races since he retired.”

“Like how many?”

“Well, last year for example, he traveled to cities hosting a pro race during each month, including some quite far away like Langkawi in Malaysia, as well as the Tour of Poland, Tour of Germany, the Tour de France, and the Tour de Georgia here in the States.  He visits just during certain dates, and then departs.  His credit card shows that he likes to rent motorcycles.  Perhaps you boys become to accustomed to having only two wheels, non?”

“That sounds like quite an expensive habit, how do you think he can afford that – it’s not like he made so much money during his career to retire in his mid thirties and travel the world.”

“Oui.  Monsieur Pagnoli is not wealthy.  His bank records show that he has some money, but not more than twenty thousand Euros saved.  It is maybe not so much of a surprise that his credit cards show he spends more money than he earns, according to the tax records.  Therefore, he is getting some money ‘on the side’ as we like to say, and that can be big trouble for him one day.  Obviously, we have suspicions about how one travels so much and makes all this money.”

“They say drugs are the second oldest business,” Shamus finished her thought.

“Precisely.  It cannot be coincidence that you receive a box of EPO right after Monsieur Pagnoli visits your hotel.  We are checking now to see if he can be traced back to Daniela.  Maybe she worked on his team before, or they have friends in common.  We think this will be proven, since she told you the EPO was coming to you from a colleague.  Probably the money will lead us to put them together.”

“That’s certainly where I’d start,” Shamus offered.  “I presume you’re pulling the same financial records for Daniela?”

“It has already been done.  D’accord,” she said, slipping back into French perhaps as she wearied from a long day. “We find more money going out from her than we find coming in, but the bank account stays full.  So maybe her father is a wealthy man who can give her money each month, we say, but we find he is a pensioner who has no money of his own.”

The next morning it was back in the busses early for a two hour drive down to Santa Barbara to kick off the fourth stage from there to Hollywood, which was a shade under ninety miles of fast riding down Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH as it was locally referred to, plus another ten miles in a circuit finish to entertain the stars and wannabe’s on Hollywood boulevard.  It being a weekday and their arriving in Tinsel Town coinciding with the start of rush hour, led Shamus to speculate a lot of people would be lining the race course against their own free will.  He imagined people got used to the traffic gridlock LA was notorious for, but he didn’t know how they did it.

On the bus, Shamus chatted up his teammates, keeping spirits high.  They had an extra passenger along for the ride, as Wrench had come onboard the bus rather than traveling in the support truck.  Apparently the bus was having its own mechanical challenges in the form of a strange whining noise coming out of the rear area as they went down the highway, so their driver Eli Grossman had asked Roger if he would come along and give a listen.  It was a rented bus, and after a few miles Wrench declared to Eli that the U-Joints connecting the drive shaft to the rear differential were most certainly groaning out their Our Fathers, and maybe the rig would survive to San Diego but not much farther. 

His work done, Wrench found a soft drink in the fridge and a place on the rear couch to read his Popular Mechanics magazine, sporting for the third decade running a picture of a flying car we’d all have in our garages one day soon, Shamus observed.

Something about the low grinding noise coming up through the rear floorboards must have acted like an electric fence to the riders, because none of them would sit back there, leaving Wrench and his magazine a comfy and spacious piece of real estate to call their own.

Shamus wandered to the back, IPod earphones pushed deep inside his head, and found a place to flop.  On the IPod’s tiny screen he watched a video he’d downloaded before they left the hotel.  Pirates of the Caribbean II with Johnny Depp.  Even better than the first one, he thought.  After a while, Shamus removed the buds, got his own drink and settled back down in the spot he’d taken earlier.  He looked around and noted the other riders were similarly lost in their various distractions, well-skilled at killing time.

“Another win today in the cards for ya?”  Shamus heard Wrench’s voice ask.  He turned to see that Roger had set down his magazine – probably had it memorized by now, Shamus thought — and apparently wanted some small talk.

“You never know, but I think it’s not supposed to work that way.”

“How’s that?”

“If it’s really Hollywood we’re going to today, then the favorite can’t win.  Wouldn’t sell any tickets to see that story.  Got to have a young kid or an old man come up with the win.  Better yet if he’s sick and injured at the same time, and there must be a pretty girl in the script somewhere.”

“Like a podium girl, you mean?” Wrench asked with a leer.  “We saw you trying to audition one behind the stage yesterday.”

“Shameless bicycle groupies,” Shamus responded. “They’re all the same.”

“So she didn’t get the part then?”

“I find it’s best not rush to judgment, so we’re keeping the communication lines open,”  Shamus said. 

“Bravo, my man.  I knew you weren’t stupid.”

“At least not that stupid,” Shamus bantered.  “So the bus is kaput then?”

“Certainly looking for its final resting place.  She looks nice enough, but I don’t think anybody’s been taking care of her.  Underneath, she’s a rusty bucket.”

“You can tell all that by sitting here, or did you crawl under?”

“I don’t need to have a look-see.  I could close my eyes and tell you ten things wrong with this vehicle.  I’m like a bus whisperer, I suppose,” Roger opined.

“So I’ve got a question for you then, oh channeler-of-all-things-mechanical.  What the hell do you think happened to me in the Tour last year?  Did the bike fail, or was it something I did?  I’ve looked at the tapes and photos out on the web, but I can’t figure it out.”

“Seeing as how I was in charge of taking care of the bikes, I’m surprised it took you this long to ask about it — but I can’t blame you for doing so.  I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that, generally starting with whether I forgot to tighten your quick release or did a bad job gluing your tubulars on,” Wrench answered.  For some reason, he always talked about machines as if they were females.  Shamus worried Wrench might be prone to confusing the two from time to time.

“And what do you think?”

“Well, I’m still not sure.  First, the bike disappeared with the Gendarmes and never turned up again.  I went around asking about it while you were in the hospital, but nobody could find it.  I wanted to go over it myself.  So I looked at all the same photos and videos, and even drove up to that same section of road and looked at the skid marks.  Then I took one of the bikes higher up and rode down like you were doing around that same corner.  It took me four tries to get up the nerve to do it at the speed you were going.  Finally I figured out the right line and let her rip.”

“And?”

“It had to be mechanical failure.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t something I did?”

 “Because what you were doing wasn’t that hard.  You had the right line around the turn and the roads were dry.  I didn’t find any tar or oil stains, so I don’t think you slipped.  Then the video doesn’t show you wobbling back and forth, as you would if you had a flat tire and were trying to steer through it.  The rear of the bike just swings a few inches left, stops swinging, and the side-force flips you over sideways.  Having a quick release come loose wouldn’t have mattered; both wheels had weight on them, so gravity would have held the bike and the wheels together.  If your chain failed, your body would have changed position and maybe the video would show your legs spinning too fast, but I didn’t see that happen.  The forks and the handlebars were still on the bike while you were sliding down the road, so the front end didn’t fail, either.”

“So what that leaves the frame.”

“I’m guessing the right chainstay gave way.”

Shamus knew the lab had already come to this conclusion.  Either Wrench was very good at this, or he wasn’t speculating.

“How normal is that for the Madone?”  Shamus asked, referring to the ten thousand dollar, all carbon Trek Madone bike that the team used.  It was the best bike model from a top manufacturer.   Lance Armstrong had ridden Trek bikes most of his career before he retired.  These bikes weren’t particularly experimental – amateurs and pros around the world had ridden them millions of miles.  Anything that didn’t work well was known and fixed.  Frame failures were given very serious attention because although they weighed less than a thousand grams, or about two pounds, half of the ten grand price tag was for that two pound piece of carbon fiber artwork.  Trek didn’t like giving out replacements.  Frame failures, as well as fork failures, were also given serious attention because companies like Trek didn’t like to pay the medical bills and pain and suffering of cyclists who took a header when the bike broke.

“I’ve never heard of a chainstay failure on this bike.  Never.  And Trek, they say they’ve never had a warranty claim for one.  I talked with friends who own bike shops and other mechanics, and they say the way you break it is to put it in a vice and hit it with a big hammer.  Hard. Or you could just cut through it with a hacksaw.  But I check the frames every time you boys come in, and I feel them for dents.  And when we wash them each night we look for cracks around the joints and stress points.  We could miss something for sure, but if you had caused the damage by taking a spill or hitting a curb of something, we’d have looked it over extra carefully, and we wouldn’t miss a chainstay about to fail.”

“So, if someone were to mess with one of the bikes to try to make it fail, is this the way you’d go about it?”  Shamus asked.

“Me?  Not a chance,” Wrench answered, and Shamus sensed Roger would deny having the capability to do such a thing.  “I wouldn’t start with the chainstay.”

Shamus listened carefully.

“Let’s say you do mess with the chainstay, then you get just what happened – it comes apart at some point when you put a lot of side stress, like on a fast downhill turn.  The good thing is that you can almost count on it working, and count on it being okay the rest of the time.   But the kind of accident we’re talking about – your accident – attracts inquiry because it’s so dramatic.  That wouldn’t be a good idea, in my view.  Me, I’d probably file down the quick release skewer to weaken it, or maybe just loosen the nut on the steerer tube.  In the first case, your front tire locks up or maybe even falls off the first time you hit a good bump.  Or with a loose steerer, you hit a bump and suddenly you your handlebars are pointing in one direction but your front tire is pointing another.  Probably makes you coast to a stop and wait for the team car to bring you a new bike.  These are the kind of things you could do to mess with someone’s bike and nobody’d think a thing about it.  Maybe they’d just blame the mechanics for sloppy work.  Nobody would go off to jail for it, though.”

“That’s really cheery, Roger. Remind me not to piss you off,” Shamus responded.

“Will do.  So you spent weeks in bed following the crash, right?”

“Yep.”

“In all that time lying there, did you figure out who you’d pissed off?“

“No.  You got any ideas?”  Shamus asked.

“I don’t know you so well, but trouble usually starts with differences about women, money, or religion.  Now that things have quieted down in shamrock land, I’m guessing religion isn’t the issue, and for god’s sake you boys are traveling in this bus nine months out of the year without hardly a chance for girl trouble even if you did meet one, so I wouldn’t bet on woman troubles.  Which leaves money, doesn’t it?”

“It would seem to.”

“So, have you borrowed money and not paid it back, or are you doing anything that gets in the way of someone else making money then?”

“No.  Other than collecting my check from Trusseau each month I haven’t been involved with other people and their business.”

“I didn’t expect so — which is why I don’t think anyone wanted to hurt you, per se.”

“You’re saying someone wanted to harm someone else, and they did it through me?”

“I can’t make it work any other way, can you?  The question is who might have been in the crosshairs.  Gerard certainly came out the worst of all of ya, but that’s because it happened while you were in a breakaway and the rest of the team was five minutes behind you.  If you’d all been together riding through the mountains, the whole lot a ya would have gone down like bowling pins.  As the top domestique, I’d bet someone thought there was a good chance you’d be in front of the team, and therefore it was your bike they monkeyed with.  After the accident, I looked closely at all the other bikes and none of them had any problems.”

“You think Gerard was the target maybe?”

“That’s where I can’t help you at all.  I’ve got no idea what kind of business you or Gerard or any of the other boys are into.  One hears rumors, of course, but I make it my business to stay out of others’.  My life isn’t very complicated and I don’t want it getting that way, so I do my own thing and try to keep my thoughts to myself. “

“Good theory, anyway.”

“Is that all it is?” Roger asked.

“Well, I used to think the same way, but it didn’t seem to work out very well for me.”