now. But at least he had the win to make him feel a bit better. His body was beaten, sore, and full of pain, but he felt light inside.
LeMond treated him to an uncharacteristic burger and beer at Petrol, a local pub and eatery. Buck removed the bun to make the burger more paleo but didn’t refuse the beer. If you’re gonna take on carbs, at least pick your battles.
They chatted amiably over the table top, but after a few minutes, LeMond’s face darkened and he grew quiet.
“What’s up?” Buck asked.
“Well,” LeMond began, moving a hand open as if he were turning the page of a book. He looked around the room. Regulars propped their elbows on the bar, smoked cigarettes, and chatted among themselves. No one appeared to be looking. LeMond leaned in anyway. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to close the New Lyon team.”
“What?” Buck said—around a mouthful of sweet potato, it came out as an odd yelp.
LeMond nodded.
“Why?”
LeMond’s shoulders rose. “I don’t know. My hunch is they don’t think we’re French enough. They want New Orleans to represent the Southeast region. Obviously it can’t be Miami. They’re not French at all.” The Southeast region was comprised of the former US states of Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, Florida, and Georgia, though the state governments were now all lumped together under provisional French rule. Miami was a city of strong Latin American heritage and had never been much of a cycling powerhouse.
“So they’re just going to close our program? Even if we beat them?” Buck asked.
“That’s just the thing. I don’t think we were supposed to beat them. I think Bernard has made an inside deal to be the new coach at New Orleans. Their coach is an older man, ready to retire. I think Bernard has been grooming Polini to be his team star at New Orleans. Then he planned that surprise crit so Polini could beat you. Then maybe they lose to New Orleans, the New Lon team gets shut down, so the teams get to merge? I don’t know. I mean, Polini’s a decent sprinter, but he’s no stage racer.”
“So New Lyon loses to New Orleans, they close our program, and Bernard gets to take over the New Orleans program?”
“I think that’s the plan, yeah. Don’t know for sure, just suspicion.”
“So what do we do?”
“We have to be very, very careful. Keep our heads down. Don’t trust anyone. Prepare all your food yourself.”
Buck snorted. “Come on. You think they’d go that far?”
LeMond gave him a wide-eyed look. “Cycling is everything to these French. The local New France officials have to show France we can produce a rider good enough to win the Tour.”
“But the French haven’t even won their own race since 1985!”
“Exactly. And the bigwigs here in New France want to curry favor by bringing the yellow jersey back to France.” Well, that much was obvious, at least. France wanted to win its own bike race. No big surprise. But that New France and the New Lyon officials were willing to collude with New Orleans to bring about a win was.
“Well, we can do that,” Buck said firmly. “We can get that win for them.” Here he was once again, sounding awfully confident about wins that were by no means in the bag. Since when had this become his thing, promising he would win? Sure, it worked out today, but winning a local crit and taking a regional title were two different matters entirely, not to mention a national or a Tour de France win. He might as well be promising that not only was the moon made of Chèvre, but he’d jump really high and break off a hunk of it.
Buck had another thought. “Wait, why doesn’t Bernard just close the New Lyon program and go to work in New Orleans? Why all the secrecy?”
LeMond shrugged again. “Who knows? Some kind of political thing probably. Someone’s got a piece of paper somewhere that says it has to be done ‘zees way’ but not ‘zat way.’” LeMond used an exaggerated French
LeMond treated him to an uncharacteristic burger and beer at Petrol, a local pub and eatery. Buck removed the bun to make the burger more paleo but didn’t refuse the beer. If you’re gonna take on carbs, at least pick your battles.
They chatted amiably over the table top, but after a few minutes, LeMond’s face darkened and he grew quiet.
“What’s up?” Buck asked.
“Well,” LeMond began, moving a hand open as if he were turning the page of a book. He looked around the room. Regulars propped their elbows on the bar, smoked cigarettes, and chatted among themselves. No one appeared to be looking. LeMond leaned in anyway. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to close the New Lyon team.”
“What?” Buck said—around a mouthful of sweet potato, it came out as an odd yelp.
LeMond nodded.
“Why?”
LeMond’s shoulders rose. “I don’t know. My hunch is they don’t think we’re French enough. They want New Orleans to represent the Southeast region. Obviously it can’t be Miami. They’re not French at all.” The Southeast region was comprised of the former US states of Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, Florida, and Georgia, though the state governments were now all lumped together under provisional French rule. Miami was a city of strong Latin American heritage and had never been much of a cycling powerhouse.
“So they’re just going to close our program? Even if we beat them?” Buck asked.
“That’s just the thing. I don’t think we were supposed to beat them. I think Bernard has made an inside deal to be the new coach at New Orleans. Their coach is an older man, ready to retire. I think Bernard has been grooming Polini to be his team star at New Orleans. Then he planned that surprise crit so Polini could beat you. Then maybe they lose to New Orleans, the New Lon team gets shut down, so the teams get to merge? I don’t know. I mean, Polini’s a decent sprinter, but he’s no stage racer.”
“So New Lyon loses to New Orleans, they close our program, and Bernard gets to take over the New Orleans program?”
“I think that’s the plan, yeah. Don’t know for sure, just suspicion.”
“So what do we do?”
“We have to be very, very careful. Keep our heads down. Don’t trust anyone. Prepare all your food yourself.”
Buck snorted. “Come on. You think they’d go that far?”
LeMond gave him a wide-eyed look. “Cycling is everything to these French. The local New France officials have to show France we can produce a rider good enough to win the Tour.”
“But the French haven’t even won their own race since 1985!”
“Exactly. And the bigwigs here in New France want to curry favor by bringing the yellow jersey back to France.” Well, that much was obvious, at least. France wanted to win its own bike race. No big surprise. But that New France and the New Lyon officials were willing to collude with New Orleans to bring about a win was.
“Well, we can do that,” Buck said firmly. “We can get that win for them.” Here he was once again, sounding awfully confident about wins that were by no means in the bag. Since when had this become his thing, promising he would win? Sure, it worked out today, but winning a local crit and taking a regional title were two different matters entirely, not to mention a national or a Tour de France win. He might as well be promising that not only was the moon made of Chèvre, but he’d jump really high and break off a hunk of it.
Buck had another thought. “Wait, why doesn’t Bernard just close the New Lyon program and go to work in New Orleans? Why all the secrecy?”
LeMond shrugged again. “Who knows? Some kind of political thing probably. Someone’s got a piece of paper somewhere that says it has to be done ‘zees way’ but not ‘zat way.’” LeMond used an exaggerated French
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