Page 40 of Rogue Riders Duet
Paul grunts. “You hungover or actually in pain?”
“Bit of both.”
He gives me that sideways look of part exasperation, part surrender, but I know he’ll make it happen, even if it means juggling the schedule again. We have two physios for the team, including four elite riders and four juniors, and their time is strictly divided. No favorites, no extras.
Except for me.
When I go for too many days without having my muscles tortured, my back turns into a disaster. And yeah, I’m aware I take more than my share of physio hours, but Paul lets it slide. He likes results, and I bring them, including flash, drama, and podiums, even if I need more time on the massage table than most to keep making it look easy.
It isn’t.
My legs still move, the bike still obeys, but somewhere between the start gate and the finish line, the fun packed its bags and left. I’ve been off this season. Not enough to derail me, but enough that the itch under my skin feels more like a splinter I can’t dig out. I’m winning, still grinning, still being the Luc Delacroix everyone expects.
But on the nights that are not like last night, the nights I don’t throw myself into chaos, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, feeling as if the whole damn world is on mute, my back hurting with the weight of carrying a version of me I’m not sure I can keep being.
The big silver cabin sways gently on its cables as we reach the gondola platform, and it’s already half-loaded with at least fifteen riders and their entourage. I come to a stop just short of the door and tug at the edge of my hoodie.
Toulouse peeks out, ears twitching in the breeze.
“Stay tucked, mon amour,” I murmur, gently nudging him back inside. “It’s going to be crowded.”
Behind me, someone calls, “Let’s go, sixty-nine.”
Probably one of the juniors. Smartass.
I flash a grin over my shoulder and step aside. “After you, peasants.”
They do as they’re told, leaving me to step in last, just as the doors slide closed.
Boots scuff, backpacks thud, and bodies press too close. Funny how I don’t mind the closeness in a club, but cable cars?
Fuck no.
The gondola sways slightly as it climbs. Otis is somehow next to me again, rambling about line changes and course conditions in a way only someone still green enough can. Meanwhile, I’m fantasizing about throwing myself out the window.
Toulouse’s nose twitches near my neck as we pass a patch of sunlight. He’s the only reason I haven’t gone fully feral this morning. I lean against the cabin wall, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding how much I’m checked out of the conversation.
The gondola jolts as it reaches the top, and everyone piles out, our bikes having been left behind at the bottom. Track walk is just that. A walk. No tires, no speed, just boots on dirt and too much talking.
I hate it.
It’s not that I don’t care about lines, I just know I’ll feel them better on the bike, and I don’t need to stare at a root section for thirty minutes to know whether I can float it. I’ll know when I hit it.
Still, I follow, because skipping two track walks in a row would be pushing it, even for me.
The air up here is crisp, too clean, and it makes my temples throb. I adjust my hood so Toulouse isn’t getting blasted by the wind, and we start the descent.
Otis is in the front of the pack, already pointing at the first corner with too much enthusiasm, and I trail along in the back, hands in my pockets, playing the part.
“This rut’s deeper than it was last season,” one of the juniors tells the other.
“Is it?” I mutter, my bad mood dying for an outlet. “Or are you just overthinking because you haven’t crashed yet?”
A few chuckles, but Paul doesn’t even bother to glare anymore. He knows this is my version of participation, especially after a night like last night.
The track winds down through steep rocks and tight trees, and some sections are steep enough that the juniors slow down just walking. I take them with casual strides, memorizing more by feel than sight.
This track is brutal. Fast. Technical. But I’ve ridden worse, raced worse. Survived worse.
