rolling thunder, a cycling tale, part trois
Following is Part 3 of an excerpt from a manuscript titled “rolling thunder.”
Earlier parts to the story are also posted at bicycle.net in the “Hub” under the page for System6.
We’re posting this saga to get feedback from readers/cycling enthusiasts about whether they like it or not. To the extent we keep getting hits and feedback, we’ll keep pulling back the curtain a bit further and shamelessly expose additional parts of the story.
Before you proceed though, we feel compelled by our attorneys at the big powerful law firm to advise you that this story is subject to copyright by the author. That means it is exclusively our privilege to use, sell or give away as we wish. Your rights are to soak it up and roll around in it in a state of euphoria and sing its praises to the wind, or curse it to the ends of the earth and avoid it like a rat full of fleas carrying the black plague - or pretty much anything in between - so long as you don’t copy it and call it your own.
How’s the saying go? Morals are what you do when no one is looking. So there you go.
Happy reading.
ROLLING THUNDER (cont’d)
Chapter 4
Shamus was the first of the CT riders to arrive in Gerona.
It wasn’t hard to understand why Lance and a lot of other racers made Gerona the base for their European training. Since its founding around first century B.C., the ancient walled city sixty miles north of Barcelona had gained the reputation as the city of many sieges, having been overtaken dozens of times in its history perhaps because of its pristine location on the Northwestern Coast of Spain, and because of its natural beauty.
From a cyclist’s vantage, the Catelan city was a veritable paradise offering access to the Pyrenees range as well as the world class beaches of the Costa Brava, and in between were countless lovely stone villages where one could stop for a quick cappuccino before launching onward. Within minutes, Shamus could spin over a myriad of tranquil roads with sweet climbs and swooping descents. East were the beaches of the Costa Brava, west were the Pyrenees, and elsewhere was a rolling landscape with abundant perfect loops from forty to one hundred and forty kilometers in length, with mountain passes to flats and everything in between. Within the city walls was a gentrified and culturally rich historic district with expansive parks and ample restaurants and hip tapas bars.
After he’d settled in his apartment, he’d unpacked the bike and gone for a long spin to ease the effects of jetlag and get his legs accustomed to the motion again. He arrived back in late afternoon and could already sense the buzz of riders flocking into town. Continental wasn’t the only team based in Gerona in the winter; Discovery and a couple others called it home also, so it didn’t take long before pro racers became common sights throughout the town.
He pulled up to the Café Barizon, the unofficially official supplier of caffeine to the Continental squad. At the counter he asked for a cappuccino and gave the senora a Euro, which covered the coffee and a nice tip, to boot. Before he picked up the tiny saucer with the even tinier thimble of high-octane fuel in it, he heard a shout and felt a sharp slap on the back. Shamus turned to find three of his mates in their jersey/shorts combo, or kits as they were referred to, looking happy to see him and ready to ride.
“Hey Shamus, great to see you back!” Shouted Flavio Ramoli, one of the team’s top sprinters and a no-excuses party-around-the-clock Italian. Flavio raced fast and lived fast, he liked to say. The only thing he didn’t do was ride up mountains fast. That he did slowly and with great suffering. But on the flats, Flavio could generate almost two thousand watts of power through his legs for several seconds, and that was usually all that was necessary in a sprint of five hundred metres at the end of a hundred mile race. Shamus threw his arms around the speedster and they hugged and laughed.
Accompanying Flavio were a couple of the team’s climbing specialists, the French featherweight Jacqui Vinot, and Crocodile Dundee, as they liked to call Australian Roger Milam. Shamus shook hands with each of them and there were more smiles and laughter all around, especially when he turned to find Flavio had made short work of Shamus’s cappucino; the guy was fast at everything, Shamus had shouted to the uproar of all. Other teammates drifted in until the little café looked like a clubhouse where orange, blue, and black Lycra spandex was the dress code, and nobody with any body fat should bother enter.
“You know, we were horrified by your accident,” Roger Milam told Shamus as they stood and sipped their coffees. “Honestly, we weren’t sure you’d be back after that. Everybody will be pleased as punch you are, for sure, he said with a heavy dose of Aussie accent. How are you doing with everything – body intact and all that?”
Shamus knew that Roger was genuinely concerned, but his questions hinted subtly toward the state of Shamus’s mind, more than his body. In reverse, Shamus would have the same worries.
“Yeah, the bods okay. I took time off the bike and went surfing twice a day, like you always said I should,” Shamus responded. Roger was an avid surfer and praised Sydney’s beaches as a shark-infested heaven on earth, for its warm, rideable water. Roger smiled broadly at the mention of surfing and the prospect of a newly converted surfer on the team to share tales with. “But I’ve still got some skeletons in the closet upstairs. Nothing major, mind, but my confidence got sacked in that pile-up. I’m afraid I won’t pull the same kind of power I was last season when I had all eight cylinders working. I’m not planning to mention it to Trusseau at this point, maybe it’ll pass, you know?”
Roger looked at him gravely. Racers lived in a netherworld where mental toughness is king, as long as you also have physical toughness. You need a good mind, sure, but you also need good legs, Lance used to say in sizing up his opponents. Talking about confidence crises at the start of training camp was like carrying a flu bug into the team bus; just knowing it was there made everybody edgy.
“Yeah, that’s to be understood,” Roger responded. “You’ll get it back, I’m sure, and let me know whatever I can do to help. All of us want our Big Diesel at a hundred percent.”
“Thanks a million, Dundee. I’m still planning to teach you how to ride up a mountain this season!” Shamus said to lighten things up. His work wasn’t done, but he’d made an important start by getting the word out that eyes should be kept on him for any weakness.
Over the next days, Shamus planted similar tendrils of doubt among other confidants, and made at least one such comment within earshot of Claude Charmaigne.
When the team went out on its daily rides, Shamus was his natural self, laughing, chatting and happy, until the pace got hot or they pushed up into the hills. Not to be overly dramatic, Shamus worked and stayed up, but the look on his face showed discomfort. He was sure it wouldn’t go unnoticed how early he went into the red zone compared to how he’d ridden last season. His face showed uncertainty. His body lurched side-to-side trying to push power through the pedals. His feet made uneven circles, wasting energy. He feigned cramps and fatigue not dissimilar to what the younger riders on the team were genuinely experiencing at the end of certain efforts, but such exertion wasn’t expected from more seasoned riders. As he massaged out phantom charley horses, concern registered on the faces of his mates. They’d looked forward to his leadership this season, stepping up to play lead man on secondary races, and potentially even the big races in Gerard’s absence; instead they saw him unable to be counted on. In Shamus’s mind, he’d done all he could to attract help. Now it was just a matter of seeing what type of help would come.
The season was not yet officially underway, but it was never too early to test riders’ fitness and get some extra attention for the team sponsors. Each year, as cycling’s popularity grew, additional races found their way onto the pro calendar, usually in places that benefited from temperate climates. The Tour de Langkawi, in Malaysia, and Australia’s Tour Down Under were early year races used for such tune-ups, providing opportunity for some low-pressure racing and a chance for riders to perhaps pick up some prize money and improve their chances of being assigned to bigger races later in the year.
Shamus got selected for the Tour Down Under, and was thankful for it. The alternative was Malasia, and of the two, Langkawi was known for both its intense heat and humidity, whereas the Australian race was only hot, and was six days of racing rather than ten. The TDU involved 670 kilometers with anywhere from 90 to 150 kilometers on any given day. In addition to a bevy of European competitors including Chocolade Jacques, Unibet.com, Bouygues Telecom, Milram, Credit Agricole, Predictor-Lotto, CSC,Ag2r-Prevoyance, and Agritubel. Special invitations, meaning you can come because we’re short a few riders, were awarded to South Africa’s Barloworld, HealthNet andNavigators Insurance from the U.S., and local teams including the New Zealand National Team, Australia-UniSA, and SouthAustralia.com/AIS.
Shamus was appointed team captain for Continental Tire. His goal would not be to win particular stages, but it was hoped he would ride a consistently strong race, losing little or no time each day, and thus gain a podium spot for the team in the overall results.
The first day was a warm up race, a fifty-kilometer prologue to the main contest, involving a twenty-five lap circuit around Adelaide. Shamus knew his team had brought a competitive squad, and he’d be pressing his team to ride aggressively – it was his first shot as team leader, and he’d want to show he was capable of good results. In the relatively flat prologue, expectations were that it would be a day for the sprinters unless a successful breakaway emerged. Shamus ran the team by the books and Continental worked the front of the peleton, or the main group of riders, so that any breakaway was chased down in short order. At the end of the day, all the teams went into the last kilometer together and a predictable frenzy occurred as over a hundred riders fought for position to pull their sprinters toward the line. Shamus took a pull early on, generating speed for the team and helping their Austrian sprinter Francisco Chiarello to move toward the front. After a few seconds at maximum effort he peeled away and the rest of the Continental squad continued to accelerate past. In rapid procession, each of the team’s riders did similarly, until Chiarello was set loose at over fifty-five miles per hour to fly toward the finish.
In the end, Australian Mark Renshaw of Credit Agricole produced a slightly better-timed effort and claimed the victory in front of sixty five thousand spectators. Continental’s Chiarello bagged fourth place, closely behind two other Australians including Hilton Clarke of Navigators Insurance in second and Barry Simon of SouthAustralia.com-AIS in third. Continental was satisfied with the finish, though not excited about failing to put a man on the podium. However, the squad had functioned smoothly and their man had missed first place by less than the length of a bicycle.
The next morning a hundred and eleven riders and seventy two thousand fans lined up for a one hundred and fifty five kilometer route through South Australia’s Barossa Valley wine growing region, starting at Mawson Lakes and finishing in the town of Tanunda. Where yesterday’s ride had been short and intensely quick, today would be a long hot one, with every rider nervously watching for signs of a breakaway. Continental’s strategy was similar to the previous day’s – stay near the front, send a rider with any breakaway, and shut down any breakaways they didn’t manage to get a rider into. After that, it would likely be a sprinter’s day again so they’d position Chiarello for the final half kilometer and see if he could bag a win.
An eighteen-strong group formed only sixteen kilometres into the stage. Continental sent two riders, including Australian climber Roger Milam and French time-trial specialist Marcel Clerc. Slowly over the remaining hundred and thirty kilometers, teams who hadn’t gotten a man in the breakaway worked at the front of the main group to close down the gap. As a result, the pace remained fast all day, average over twenty-five miles per hour.
With only thirty kilometres remaining, the breakaway group was caught, setting up the predicted group sprint for the win. While Continental had played the breakaway well tactically, for almost a hundred and twenty kilometers their leader had floated near the back of the peleton, instead of near the front where he should have been. By sitting at the back, he couldn’t see the action that was occurring – breakaways and so forth. Clearly to all, he was suffering from the heat and the pace. For a top European pro to be struggling so, was the cause of considerable speculation within the peloton. Shamus’s teammates knew this type of speculation could fuel attempts of lesser teams to send men out the front to test how much weakness Continental’s leader was experiencing, and possibly to put enough time on him as to make him no longer a contender for the overall race.
The peloton could be as ruthless as a frenzy of feeding sharks. Even if the breakaways failed, it meant the group would have to ride extra hard, and riders were loath to use any unnecessary energy. By the end of the day, the team’s morale was divided – they were euphoric their sprinter grabbed the win by inching past the powerfully Tasmanian, Karl Menzies, riding with the UniSA-Australia team; at the same time, they worried about Shamus.
Back in their hotel, the team met in the dining room for the evening meal and celebrated Chiarello’s big win. When Shamus joined the team, he offered a hug and a toast to Francisco. After the toast, many eyes remained on him, though, looking for signs, and looking for answers. Shamus said little about his anemic performance, focusing instead the team’s attention on the positive news of the day. Eyes looked at other eyes. Unspoken questions were asked. No rider could confront another – especially the team leader – about such a matter. It was the sports director’s job to do that.
Shamus excused himself when he’d finished his meal, and headed to his room. He didn’t get to the elevator before being joined by Philip Olivier, the Frenchman and former rider who traveled with the team’s A squad as the Directeur Sportif.
“A good day for Francisco, eh?” Olivier mused.
“He’s already in good form,” Shamus responded. “Anyone who can hold off McEwen on his home turf is having a good day.”
The diminutive featherweight rider Robbie McEwen rode for Predictor Lotto was capable of expending incredible amounts of energy for short distances. He also seemed to have a knack for finding openings between riders where others would have been blocked out. Being lighter, stronger and wilier than anyone else in the business made him a wickedly effective sprinter, and few doubted that he was the best.
“And your own effort today,” Olivier continued, “how were you feeling?”
“Not good,” Shamus answered. “I’m not in the shape I need to be, that’s clear. Maybe I should have spent more time on the bike during the off-season.”
“But your colleagues are also just starting to get their legs back, so I wonder why you struggle more than they did,” Olivier pondered. “Are you injured or maybe something wrong with the diet?”
The elevator arrived and they stepped inside. Each pressed a number and the doors closed.
“I don’t think so, but let’s see tomorrow. Maybe it was just the heat. I’ll get some rest and maybe I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”
“We need you to be at your best, Shamus. We’re counting on you this season and you must do whatever is necessary to provide leadership, non?”
“Yes, I understand,” Shamus agreed as he got off on the second floor, leaving Olivier in the lift with an uncertain look on his face and many thoughts on his mind.
Shamus had already been massaged, which was customary after every race, and, as team leader, he was served first upon returning to the hotel. He looked forward to a good night’s sleep after a hard day of riding intentionally slow and watching his own team as a dozen others watched him. As Shamus got his kit organized for the following day, laying out the team jersey, matching padded shorts, socks, sunglasses, and fingerless gloves, he heard a knock at the door, and opened it to find the sougnier Claude Charmaigne.
“Bon soir, Claude,” Shamus said.
“Bon soir, Shamus, I came by to see if there is anything you need for tomorrow. I understand it was very hot today and brought by extra bottles of water and sports drink in case you are a little dehydrated.”
Shamus took the stubby plastic bottles from Claude. “Thank you Claude, this might help.”
“Please let me know if you need anything else. Olivier said I should give you any assistance you request.”
“If I think of anything further, I’ll ring you, Claude. Thanks again,” Shamus said. Shamus closed the door, then, for no particular reason, opened it an inch and watched Claude walk up the hallway toward the lift. Before Claude got there, a door opened and Olivier spoke a few words with Claude, then closed his door again. Shamus went to bed and slept fitfully.
The rest of the TDU was relatively uneventful. The team won no other stages, but secured a second and a third place on other days. Shamus finished in reasonable form on paper only, only because he’d never fallen completely out of the main group, so each day he’d gotten the same time as the peleton, placing him in fortieth overall for the six days. Given that he’d been expected to finish well up in the top ten, fortieth signaled problems. His teammates were diplomatic and offered plenty of statements of support, but they were tepid comments along the lines of you’ll get there, and don’t worry, and belied the fact that they were worried. Very worried. For each of them, riding on a successful team meant job security, money from sponsors, and attention from other teams who may want to offer them even more money than they made presently. Riding on a struggling team was, of course, a completely different experience. The fact that their champion, Gerard Jouyet, was not only not riding, but had died, already left a cloud over the team, and while Shamus was respected and well liked, it was always a significant question as to whether the number two rider could successfully step up to number one. First impressions were that Shamus would struggle mightily in trying to fill Gerard’s shoes.
Claude came by each evening with water bottles and offers of assistance, if Shamus needed any. On the final night before they departed Australia back to Gerona, Shamus answered the door and left it open, turned and flopped down on a couch. He was near tears. He said, “Claude, I don’t know how I let this happen, I just didn’t have the legs out there.”
Claude set the bottles down, closed the door and grabbed a chair. He pulled it opposite of and very closely to Shamus, and said, “is there any way I can help, Shamus, anything at all that I can do?”
Shamus sat, tormented, tear-stricken, then finally looked into Claude’s eyes and said what was on his mind. “You got anything stronger than Gatorade?”
Claude thought, and then carefully chose his words. “Let me see, Shamus. Maybe we can find something to help you. There are still four weeks until the Tour of California; plenty of time to make improvements, yes?”
“Sure,” Shamus said, wiping his face with a handtowel. “I’m sorry, Claude, I’m just a little stressed right now. I wasn’t strong out there and I’ve lost something since the Tour. I’ll talk to Olivier and see what he thinks.”
“That’s a good idea Shamus; you should tell him if something is wrong.“
Shamus was legitimately torn up inside, and his torment was heightened by that fact that he’d caused his under-performance in the race. It would be simpler if he knew that he’d just not trained well enough, because then he’d get on the bike and ride hard until he had. He’d raised his performance level to new heights many times that way. It was much more disturbing to underperform because you chose to do so, and might have to do it again, and again. He was taking his long awaited shot at leading the team and purposefully blowing it up. Whether his season or his career could recover from it, would be a question for later. For now, he could only remind himself that Gerard needed him to pull hard, and so that’s what he would continue to do.
Claude left Shamus in his misery. Claude would be inhumanly busy over the next twenty four hours getting all the team’s gear packed and onboard the flight back to Spain, shooing the riders and staff onto busses for transfer to the airport, divvying out the tickets and mediating inevitable seat assignment squabbles. The biorhythms of the team put huge loads on everybody, albeit in different cycles. The riders put in maximum exertion for up to five hours a day, then spent the other nineteen sleeping, eating, playing video games, getting medical attention and massages, and generally trying to avoid any physical exertion whatsoever. For the staff, the work burden was also high, though the rest portion often was five hours or less, as care and feeding of the team along with assembly and disassembly of their gypsy caravan on a daily basis kept them hopping for up to twenty hours daily, and occasionally around the clock. Claude knew his next sleep wouldn’t happen until they were all safely off the ground and headed home.
That evening, toward nine, the phone in Shamus’s room rang and it was Claude who said only that he had mentioned their conversation to Olivier and they thought they could help, and would talk further on the airplane.
Contrary to his expectations, the discussion that occurred onboard the Quantas widebody hadn’t brought any untoward offers, but rather, Shamus had found himself cornered in the midship galley as the rest of the passengers watched the movie or slept, receiving a not so pleasant stripping down by Olivier, with Claude listening on. Olivier explained in English when he was calm, and French when he wasn’t, his profound disappointment at Shamus’s struggles throughout the TDU.
He more or less accused Shamus of being of weak mind and character; especially biting from a Frenchman, Shamus thought, and then further questioned whether Shamus was either permanently hobbled psychologically as a result of his traumatic crash last season, or not impaired, but simply unable to perform at the level a team leader should. When Olivier stomped off toward his Business Class seat, Claude left without further comment, stopped short of the curtain separating the unwashed masses from the nicer accommodations closer to the front of the plane, then slid back into his Economy seat and put on headphones so as to catch the rest of the movie. At that point, Shamus felt he’d overachieved in one sense — having planned to fail at one task, but instead having accomplished it at two. He turned toward the back of the aircraft, found his own seat and slumped into it, installed his IPod earphones and queued up some Buffet.
Chapter 5
The team eventually completed their circumnavigation of half the globe that separated Spain from Australia, arriving uneventfully back in Gerona. Once there, they fell back into familiar training patterns and the mood of the squad lifted as the rusty edges they’d seen at the TDU were once again in a bit better perspective, and hope rose that any question marks about the upcoming season could be addressed with a good showing in February at the newer but far more prestigious Tour of California. Although the event was only a few years old, it was already becoming a favorite among the top pro teams who looked forward to a beautiful race setting amid relatively mild weather and the kind of first class pampering they’d very rarely enjoy as they traversed from event to event across the Continent.
Shamus rode strong as the team headed out daily into the southern foothills of the Pyrenees range, and, while not quite giving it the hundred percent effort of an aspiring team leader, he held back very little. Too dismal an effort, he figured, risked team management simply giving up on him as heir apparent to the team leader spot, and stuffing him back into the pack to ride as an overqualified domestique for someone they’d secure off the open market. In this business, finding a new top rider was merely a matter of the sufficiency of one’s bank account.
Olivier gave Shamus positive encouragement in public, while at all other times it felt as if Olivier’s eyes burned a hole through him. Claude was mum, more or less, and Shamus wasn’t sure whether he should expect anything further from him.
Shamus relayed this information on a regular basis back to Eve. He wasn’t given a significant amount of instruction or guidance in return, because as a practical matter nothing was yet underway. Claude was the gateway, it was still believed, and there was ample speculation that Olivier might be entangled in any unseemly goings on, should the investigation succeed in uncovering such. Eve encouraged him to keep working, informing him that many of Interpol’s investigations took a very long time to become active. Shamus dreaded the thought of dragging out an apathetic performance over an extended period, but comforted himself that if the investigation fell flat and yet his career stumbled as a result of the things he’d done to push it along, there would always be Cabo, or at least for as long as he could afford it.
More pleasantly, since they’d arrived back in Spain Shamus had managed to attract the attention of Claude’s counterpart, Daniela Antonacci, a pretty young Italian lady who typically accompanied the team’s b-squad in their travels. Shamus wasn’t sure what he’d done for that to happen; he’d certainly been far too distracted with the various complexities in his life to see it coming. First were polite smiles exchanged across the dining room, and then occasional friendly words in passing. Soon, it progressed to evening walks through the streets of the Old Quarter, meandering its narrow alleyways and cobbled streets, all largely unchanged in five hundred years barring the lack of Jewish citizens, following their purge from Spain centuries earlier. They’d select a spot for tapas and wine, and later they’d go for dinner which, in typical Catelan style, was a laid-back event not starting before eight thirty and not finishing before eleven. Along the way, the embers of a relationship began to glow.
One particular night, as they sat in a little café adjacent one of the town’s many small parks, holding hands and enjoying being young and together, Daniela said she’d brought a gift for Shamus. His immediate reaction was a feeling of guilt for not having thought of getting her one first. As she gave it to him, she said that she liked Shamus a lot, and hoped they could continue to find time together once the season got underway and she went off with her squad, and he with his. He said he hoped so too, and meant it, but didn’t bother to add that he couldn’t fathom how it could actually work. But she already knew as much. Once the team headed out, it wasn’t dissimilar to going on the road with a circus troupe: many towns, many events, constant traveling, and very few opportunities to get home until the tour was over. For the two of them, the schedule of events would be different ones, making chances of crossing paths slim, at best.
Daniela then said she cared for him and was concerned about how hard someone had to work to be the lead rider for a top European pro team. She said she knew he could become a fine leader, but there was so much pressure on him she worried he would push too hard, and perhaps get hurt. Shamus was actually quite pleased by this, as he couldn’t recall the last person who had worried much about his welfare. It occurred to him that Gerard had been that person, and only with his help had Shamus gotten this far.
Daniela continued, “I bring you a gift for the challenges ahead, and she removed from her bag a box in decorative gift-wrapping. It is not for now. Take it home and open it later, she said with a warm smile, and then leaned across the small table and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.” At that, he all but forgot the other gift.
Back in his room that evening, after he’d walked her back to her apartment and collected a kiss goodnight, he grabbed a bottle of water and slumped into a chair, planning to savor the feeling for as long as possible before heading off to bed. He leaned forward and pulled off his jacket to get more comfortable in the overly warm room that suffered at alternating times from radiators that either wouldn’t work at all, or were positively unstoppable. As he wrangled out of it, he felt the box she’d given him back at the cafe. He quickly removed it, admiring the beautiful gift wrap and bow she’d clearly put some time and effort into, but hardly wanted to open it when he could keep it forever as is, and be just as happy. However, he knew Daniela would ask him how he liked his gift when he saw her in the morning, so preserving it intact wasn’t really an option. Curiosity was getting the better of him anyhow, so he carefully undid the bow and removed the top from the box, pulled out some of the cotton fluff that surrounded his gift, and saw the sparkle and shine of something chrome-finished. He’d always liked the look of sparkling chrome on just about anything, but when he recognized what lay inside, he was bewildered.
It was a medical grade hypodermic made of shiny steel and glass.
He noticed beneath it was an opaque plastic sleeve from which were molded a series of ampules, each filled with a small amount of clear liquid. As he lifted these out for inspection, another tiny box was found, and within that were a dozen hypodermic needles.
None of this made immediate sense to him until he read the non-descript note which had been inserted along with the other items, and it said, Vitamin E, one ampule per day each leg. Discontinue prior to medical procedures.
He could read between the lines. Vitamin E referred to EPO, or erythropoietin, rather than the antioxidant alpha-tocopherol one gets from their one-a-day’s and certainly needs no needle for. The key was to know just when to discontinue use in order to preserve the benefits of EPO, but sufficiently flush any traces before drug testing.
Shamus sat staring at his gift, shocked no less than had Daniela gifted him a crack pipe and a handful of rocks. He felt completely repulse by it, and even more so at the thought of actually using it.
Shamus couldn’t get past the contrast of the elegant little box containing such poison, any more than he could accept that lovely Daniela had just become his dealer, and he her presumed junkie. It was a long time before Shamus went to bed that night. He phoned Eve and relayed the news, which was at the same time very bad and possibly good. Life would have been a lot more enjoyable for Shamus if Daniela had turned out to be just a pleasant girl to spend time with and Claude had proven to be the team’s drug dealer. Eve had been aware of Shamus’s burgeoning relationship with Daniela and knew this would be hard for him to accept, so she contained the thrill she felt that the investigation was finally beginning to make progress again. She gently coached Shamus to keep his head on straight, continue to play along, and see where things went from there.
The next morning, Shamus went to the hotel dining room where the team met each morning before launching out on their daily training rides. He arrived early, hoping to get a moment off the side with Daniela, but she didn’t arrive until the meal was nearly finished, and there was little chance for a quiet word. When he caught her eye, he merely mouthed thank you, and smiled. She would be looking for his reaction, and he wanted her to see that he didn’t reject her offering.
One thing that changed immediately, was that he no longer had to hold back on his riding. Clearly someone would be paying attention to his response, and looking to see whether he was taking advantage of it. He didn’t intend use the drugs, but wanted to leave every impression that he was. Each day he pushed harder, and by the second week he was riding training circuits as if life depended on it. Soon, he was putting pressure on the mountain specialists when they ventured into the hills, and when he led out the sprinters he made a point of trying to stay with them to the finish line rather than dropping off after his pull. After each session, he egged on his teammates to join him for a couple more hours, and when they did he took them out for a grueling session of intervals and kept it up until the point of complete exhaustion. It wasn’t long before there weren’t any takers, which was a relief. Nevertheless, the team chatter got higher and higher as people started making comparisons between their new leader and famous workhorses of the past, such as Eddy Merckx and Lance Armstrong. Shamus felt fantastic about his teammates’ growing confidence in him, and even better for knowing he was doing with grit, not shit.
Daniela was staying busy and although they found few opportunities to spend time together, she made it apparent she was pleased to see him whenever she did. Shamus felt torn for having such a crush on her, and yet thinking she was probably harming others by providing them with the same illicit goods she’d given to him. Soon he faced a critical point in their relationship, in that the supply she’d originally given him was now theoretically nearly depleted – provided he’d used two ampules a day of the mysterious liquid, as recommended. So if the façade were to continue, he needed more of it. In fact, he’d shipped off the entire doping kit to Eve for evidence and lab analysis to determine what was in the vials, and possibly where it had been manufactured.
“I’m riding a lot stronger these days, I think,” Shamus said as they walked among the walled gardens. Gerona’s walls dated back to the town’s origination in the first century B.C., when the Romans settled it along a popular trading route. I’m really looking forward to our next race, he added.
“The whole team is talking about your improvement,” Daniela responded. “They say you are a new man lately.”
“It’s the vitamins, I’m sure,” he said with a knowing glance toward her. “I just didn’t have it in me before that, but now I can’t seem to find the red zone anymore. I just keep going and going.”
“I’m happy for you, of course,” Daniela said. “Many riders find it helpful, so there’s no reason you should not.”
“Right. So I’m about out of it and was hoping to could get more, if that’s possible.”
“Yes, of course I can help you. But there are only two weeks until the team is in California, so soon you will need to stop taking it soon, you know.”
“Then how will I keep up my performance?” Shamus asked. “I don’t want to go back to where I was last month.”
“Not to worry. The benefits last for weeks,” she informed him.
“You’re sure about this?”
“Gabelli told me.”
“He knows about this?”
“He knows about medicine,” Shamus.
“Does he know about my vitamins then?”
“Doctor Gabelli knows what he needs to know. What one rider is doing or not, is not his great interest. There are training plans showing what a rider needs to be doing to compete. Anyone can get these. Dr. Gabelli knows that, so if he is asked, he cautions about possible side effects, interactions of different supplements, the impact on drug controls testing, and such things. What he knows about any particular person would be what that person cares to tell him, non?” She replied, not quite answering Shamus’s question.
Shamus wasn’t sure whether she was being intentionally evasive, or perhaps testing whether he would push her to respond, or trust her. As he mulled this over, he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to know, as a personal matter, but was certain that Eve and her colleagues would want to know everything. Before he could come to his own conclusion about how to proceed, Daniela gave him his answer.
“Shamus, I hope you know I would never tell anybody anything. Even Doctor Gabelli. If you want to discuss any matters with him, you are free to do so, and I have to trust that you would leave me out of that, of course.”
Shamus decided patience was in order, accepting her response without further question. After a few moments, the issue seemed to pass. Shamus was confident Daniela was more experienced than he was in these awkward little chats that transcended personal relationships and delved into the dirty little business of dealing drugs to athletes more afraid of the consequences of not taking them, than of getting caught doing so.
“How much will it cost?” Shamus asked, getting down to business.
“Five hundred Euros buys one week’s supply. If you give me nine hundred, I can get two weeks,” Daniela responded.
Shamus skipped the issue of cost for the moment. “And how do I know this is the right amount to be taking? Is it healthy?”
“Sure it is. It is what many others do. Some more, some less, but for most it is similar. Many riders have their own doctors to check these things with, if they do not consult with the team doctor. Of course you can do that also.”
Shamus leaned in close to Daniela, so that she could hear him whisper, “how do you know this stuff isn’t made in somebody’s bathtub? How do you even know what this stuff is? I’m worried I’ll wake up with extra fingers and toes, or parts that don’t work anymore!” Shamus’s face wore a serious look that said, all kidding aside, he was genuinely worried the ampules could contain virtually anything, and wouldn’t it be easy for someone to fill them with tap water or something less innocuous.
Daniela smiled broadly as she listened.
“Shamus, you watch too much TV, I think,” she said, laughing in amusement at what he must be thinking. “These supplements do not come from a man on the street corner, mon ami. An important person from the company who makes this, Amgen, ships these to me – absolutely the same as the doctors get. So there is no need to cook this up in the kitchen, when you get the real thing. Maybe it is expensive, but it is worth it not to have extra fingers and toes, non?”
With this, Shamus knew he’d gotten an important piece of information – albeit no evidence to back it up – which was the ability to steer Interpol toward at least one person who was involved in the distribution of EPO, and potentially a way to implicate the manufacturer at the same time. Clearly it wouldn’t be hard to track down an Amgen employee who was making shipments to Daniela.
“Five hundred Euros is quite a lot, he shifted attention to more pragmatic issues. That could be thirty thousand dollars a year. “
“Well, the way to think about is this: Last year in the Tour de France, the person who got eleventh place had a salary of three hundred thousand Euros, while the person who got tenth earned six hundred thousand. But how much better was the time? Less than a minute after twenty days of racing. So if you’re one minute faster during all those days, that can more than double your salary. Three hundred is good, but six hundred is much better, non? And if you can ride maybe three or five minutes faster during all those days, you finish in the top five positions where everybody is making one to two million salary, plus money for winning big races, appearance fees for showing up at little ones, and especially all the advertising money from the big companies. So you invest thirty thousand, as you say, and the payback can be quite nice.”
“Unless you get caught,” he uttered.
“Of course, you have to be very smart to be a winner. If a rider pushes too far, it could hurt his body, or have him disqualified. That is why so many have their own doctors for advice. It is very important to be careful.”
“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” Shamus asked.
“Sure, but I make certain I get to know the person first, so I can believe we can trust each other. Then I am careful also.”
“So how can I get the money to you?” Shamus asked.
“Put the Euros in a bidon and give it to me any time you wish. I will put the ampules for the supplements in bidons I will place in the cages on your bicycle. Just make sure you check because it will be not good for you to go for a long training ride with no drinks in your bottles!”
One item that was ubiquitous to a racing team was the refillable water bottle, or bidon, often with the teams colors and logo emblazoned. Riders would use several of these each day, so the team helpers, or Soigieurs such as Daniela, had unfortunate task of washing out hundreds of these each night and refilling them with water or sports drink. Even with a dishwasher machine available, it was a time-consuming and mind-numbing nightly process. By morning, new and freshly filled bottles were distributed and a table of high-calories snack foods and energy gels was laid out so riders could fill their pockets before heading out for the day.
“What happens when I go on the road; how will I get them then?”
“You will have to trust me; I have colleagues who will take care of this.”
“So someone else will be involved?” Shamus questioned. “I don’t want to have to trust more people with this business.”
“Honestly, the person who delivers does not know and does not care whom they are delivering to, and they do not know what they’re delivering. It’s just boxes with bidonsinside, if anyone should look. But a couple of the bidons have something extra, is all. They bring them to your hotel and leave them with the front desk for you — not in your name, just for the room number I give them. In the worst case, if someone found this out, there is nothing to indicate that you have anything to do with these bidons, other than they were left with your room number. Questions could be raised, but who could say for sure this is your doing? Daniela assured. Trust me, this has been worked out and there has not been a problem this way for others. The alternative is that you have to take supplies with you while you travel and risk that they turn up in your things. I think that is not a good idea, non?”
“Why do I feel like I need a doctor and a lawyer?” Shamus asked mostly to himself, depressed at having gained a glimpse of the machine that turned fresh young bike racers into doped athletes. Quickly it became clear the economic pressure to join the system, so as to ensure one wasn’t at a disadvantage to others when each place higher in the standings was worth many thousands of dollars to the rider’s contract – and the margin of effort separating riders was unbelievably small.
“If you should want such assistance, there are people who know about the needs of a professional rider, and I could give you some names,” Daniela responded, not recognizing the sarcasm in Shamus’s comment. Shamus, in turn, thought Daniela was certainly proving herself to be a full service soigneur.
It wasn’t until Shamus got to San Francisco for the Tour of California that it became apparent who Daniela’s colleagues might be. He’d heard stories among fellow racers about the black motorcycles that came and went from team hotels during the course of major races. It was jetlag that led to his first encounter with one of these, and unfolded a bit more of the story Daniela had awakened him to.
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