Cycle Chase Number One

The last aid station wasn’t worth stopping. Jackson wanted to podium, that’s all that mattered to him. He was chugging along, spinning his wheels as fast as was functional, with only ten kilometers left in the course. Breathing heavily with calculated precision and matching each rotation of his pedals with an inhale or an exhale. His calves were tight, tingling, and uncomfortably from the past two hours of hard, relentless motion - up and down over and over - moving his bicycle precisely at the rate he’d practiced during the previous months of training. A thin layer of sweat resided on his brow that he had no other choice than to let drip down under his racing glasses, stinging his eyes with saltiness and a mild vision impairment, although, stubbornly unwilling to slow down in order to wipe clean or even blink in the happenstance he’d lose his cadence and spot in the chase.

For Jackson, everything came down to this next section of the race. All the work, the trade-offs, the early morning training sessions, the calorie counting and aggressive dieting, the expectations he’d set for himself of success today. His gaze was relaxed, yet vicious, and it was intentional to afford more strength allocation to his legs, where the strength of his entirety resided. Still, flying forward, he kept looking up from the tarmac just enough to keep track of the racer in front of him. That was the only way he knew where to go.

Jackson knew everything he needed to know about the person in front of him. His name was number seventy three with a blue and white and yellow jersey. The body was large enough for him to draft behind, which had lasted for the past hour. The rider had brown hair set in a pony-tail tucked under his helmet. He was chasing him hard, as was everybody in that small lead pack, closing in on the last leg of the race. Was rider seventy three aware of Jackson riding his tail? It didn’t matter. Seventy three was just a figure Jackson would erupt past, soon enough, as was the plan all along, if he reserved enough nitrous oxide in his tank to overtake the rider at the proper time. Then, maybe, he could get in front, and get on that podium. In fact, Jackson felt he needed to get in front. It was his primary mission.

Time was running low, though, and Jackson’s opportunity to take the lead had to be timed just perfectly. He’d win the chase outright if it worked out in his favor, yet, failure could result if he pushed out too early or too late, or maybe rider seventy three was just that much better and wouldn’t allow Jackson to overtake him during the last sprint. Everything was possible and impossible, but irrelevant as he pushed on in the chase.

Bells and whistles rang out all around. On lookers were engaged, cheering on the race, the riders exuding severe passion and commitment to the hunt, to the drive they’d all been working towards for days, weeks, months, possibly years. Although, Jackson didn’t hear any of it. His brain told him to breath, to pedal, to stay low and as close to rider seventy three as possible. Ride his draft, conserve just enough energy, keep oxygen flowing through your blood and be prepared to transition into overdrive, he repeated softly to himself.

A fast, arcing downhill section approached and caught Jackson off-guard. It was his first misstep of the entire race. He squeezed the brakes barely, but enough to slow his velocity relative to seventy three who crept forward and out of his immediate line of sight. Only five kilometres remained. Jackson felt other riders encroaching on his space like hawks circling their prey. Never did he alter his focus nor look up and away from his front tire. There wasn’t any place to hide and knew, from his experience and training and practice, that escape existed only forward. He needed to salvage more power, more try hard that he wasn’t sure where it would arise from. Be the chase, Jackson, you aren’t done yet, he echoed under exhaustive breathing that mimicked a five cylinder diesel engine pumping air in and out of his rapidly depleting body. Seventy three reappeared, that blue and white and yellow jersey still out in front, moving fast, unrelenting, but close once again.

A flying insect smashed into Jackson’s glasses, splattering his vision, moving at thirty five miles per kilometre as the road flattened out and then angle slightly uphill. He was unaffected, focused, and irresolute by the external variables of the course. Jackson had trained to ignore what wasn’t in his control. His legs were churning red hot coals now, burning and unstoppable and his determination was inflammable. More bells, more whistles, more people along the sides of the roads barricaded from the riders, cheering and hollering and subtly in the background to the riders as the peloton narrowed on the finish the line. Jackson was aware as much as he needed to be.

Seventy three pushed hard, his pony-tail loosening from its tucked in position, flapping loosely in the wind as the rider accelerated. Jackson stayed close though, crouched low and as aerodynamic as he could be, dissociating the pain in his legs and replacing the lactic acid in his muscles with all the emotion he’d poured into the hundred kilometres of this race. The competition he’d gone all in on was transpiring with each second and each meter he advanced down the course. Committed and pugnacious and hardened, Jackson stayed close. He was still in the chase as the finish line merely down the road.

Jackson turned off his thoughts, stopped his internal mantras, and narrowed his focus even more as his eyes became slits of stinging salt and dirt and water. Screaming like a rabid animal he stood up and put every last drop of fuel into his legs, flooding the rotors with all he had, his momentum picked up parred to a beastly acceleration he had never experienced prior. Suddenly, rider seventy three was parallel to him, a hands reach out to his right, and all that existed were the two racers, neck and neck out in front. Then, just as Jackson felt the reservoir run dry, he noticed seventy three drop out of his periphery and the checkered black and white finish line just meters out in front. Like a blur of supersonic speed, he flashed past the finish line while his legs gave out.

Coasting first to a nominal speed then to a slow roll and eventually to a stop, a crowd swallowed him up. Jackson couldn’t tell what was going on. The oxygen and blood in his body needed a moment to regenerate what was lost seconds earlier, but as he came back to the reality of the situation dozens of people were cheering and applauding him in a circle of triumph. He’d won out the chase, he knew it was official now. Stepping off his bike, Jackson stumbled downward without anything remaining in his legs to regulate his stability. Yet, as he was heading to the ground, the crowd caught him and lifted him up. Unable to speak still, unable to stand on his own, Jackson smiled victoriously upon a mountain of his own success. He turned around and seventy three was there, cheering him on, congratulating the winner of the chase.