There were four refreshment stops on the ride, one about every six miles or so. We went straight past the first one, stopped for a quick pee at the second, had a look at the food at the third, but decided to stick with what we had stuffed in the pockets of our jerseys when we set out.
We turned onto a path crowded with walkers heading to the river bank. Trying to avoid all the people and dogs and children I dropped a few yards behind the others, and then this stupid little kid pulling a bloody great push chair walked backwards right in front of me. I had to slam on the brakes as hard as I could and fell off. There was a piece of broken railing sticking up from the ground and it gouged a hole in my leg and cut my ankle. The brat's mother came up and grabbed it and told it to look where it was going, but she didn't even come over to ask if I was all right.
My leg was hurting like hell and I felt all shaky. Les and the others must have kept on going, they probably thought I was just behind somewhere on the crowded path. I sat for a while watching the blood trickling down my leg, not knowing what to do. In the distance I saw a couple of cyclists from the ride turn onto the start of the path. I thought about stopping them, but what could they do about it? They might have had a plaster, but someone told me if you have a cut the best thing is to let the air get to it.
I decided the only thing was to get back on the bike. At first when I pushed down on the pedal with my injured leg it hurt so much I almost cried out, but if make yourself think about something other than the pain and keep going eventually you go numb. I kept pedalling away and put as much effort in as I could, hoping that the others were not too far in front. After what seemed like a long time I saw Les on the other side of the road coming back for me. He turned round when he saw me and waited for me to come up alongside him. 'Christ, what happened to your leg? You'd better stop and call it a day, your dad'll kill me.'
I did my best to smile and said 'I'm alright. Don't worry about my dad, I won't let him see.'
He wasn't happy at first, but eventually he said if I wouldn't give up I should just follow in his slipstream and take it steady. He kept looking back about fifty times a minute to see if I was still there and ask if I was OK. The pain did stop and I kept really close, so he gently lifted the speed until we caught up with his mates a few hundred yards before the last refreshment stop. I could have done with a proper break, but didn't want to hold everyone else up. One of Les's mates pointed towards a couple of parked vans under some trees on the other side of the field and said 'Do you see what I see?'
We all looked over to where, near the vans, the cycling club members had stopped for some serious eating. They had big insulated boxes for food and what looked like a tea urn. 'Let's go for it, we can leave them behind.' We were all keen to set off. Les offered to stay back with me and finish the ride more slowly with me while the others went on, but I said, 'No, come on Les, I'm all right. I may not be up to doing my turn on the front, but I'll stick behind you.' Without another word we were off.
They set a really fast pace and I was struggling to keep up. We hit a downhill stretch which I thought might be a bit easier, but the road surface was cracked and pitted and the bike was bouncing around under me so much I could hardly hold on to it; my wrists ached from all the jolts coming through the handlebars. They were clearly going to keep the pace up all the way to the finish in Windsor. When the road levelled again keeping up made me pant for breath and my leg muscles ached horrible from pedalling so hard; keeping a steady rhythm needed all my strength and concentration.
On the outskirts of Windsor we were on some old smooth tarmac, but no-one eased up. We were going hell for leather. Les kept looking back, partly to see if I was OK, but also he was looking out for the enemy, and suddenly he shouted: 'They're round the corner, they're on top of us.' The pace was forced even more and I felt myself starting to go to pieces. My wound wasn't hurting, but my thigh and calf muscles were screaming with pain and my breathing was completely haywire, I was gasping for oxygen and I could hear myself making a weird groaning sound every time I exhaled. My heart was beating like a pneumatic drill smashing up concrete. Sweat ran down my forehead and the salt in it stung my eyes. Ahead I could just make out a junction with traffic lights at green. The stinging made me screw up my eyes, but I could see the lights beginning to change. I wasn't far behind, oh please let me get through, please let me get through. The light was still amber when Les went through and I saw it go red, but I was going too fast to stop and shot across before there was any danger from the opposing traffic. Les shouted 'Yes, we've done it, they'll be stuck at the lights.' We had only a short distance to go to the entrance to Victoria Park and the finish line.
We stopped at last, and despite the stinging salt I managed to keep my eyes open enough to collect the certificate being thrust at me by one of the organisers, and I noticed that the others were dismounting. I felt so shaky and ill I was scared I might fall over if I tried to get off the bike. I rode a few yards to some bushes and got off by sort of letting the bike fall to the ground under me. The taste of sick was coming into my mouth and I went behind the bushes and threw up. Then I sat on the ground, rested my head on my knees for a while, and felt awful. When the sick feeling had worn off enough I pulled myself together, picked up the bike and walked over to look for the others.
When he spotted me Les shouted 'Hey, you've missed Martin Johnson. Come on, I'll get him to shake hands with you.'
We walked back over towards the finishing line, and there was Martin welcoming riders who had just arrived. He was wearing really flash cycling gear and looking fantastic. This was the first time I'd ever seen him in the flesh, and he looked even better than he does in photographs or on TV. Les called to him 'Hi Martin, this is the lad I told you about.'
I was in heaven when Martin turned, smiled and walked over to us. I ripped off my gloves and put out my hand to be shaken, but then I got worried, I thought the state I was in, all sweaty, congealed blood on my leg and having just been sick, he probably wouldn't want to touch me. He noticed my leg. 'Have to clean that up when you get home. You didn't let it stop you. Well done. That's what real cyclists are made of.' He grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him and hugged me.
Somehow I found myself hugging him back, I mean without thinking I'd put my arms right round him and was holding him tight. Realising what I'd done I was scared he would be angry with me and push me away, but he didn't. Instead he held me even tighter and leaned back so that he lifted me right up off the ground. While I was up in the air his hair touched my left ear and this amazing tingle trilled me like nothing I'd ever felt before in my life. Then he put me down and said to Les: 'He's great, you must be really proud of him,' as though Les was my dad or something.
Les and I walked back where his mates were longing on the grass. 'Worth it?' he asked.
I didn't answer. He knew how good I was feeling without me telling him.
Also by Alan Keslian:
Novels:
“Closer Than Breathing – A Light Gay Odyssey”,
“Goodmans Hotel”
www.gaylesbooks.co.uk
A Breathless Story
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