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“Brring! Brring!”
Uggh, it cannot be eight o’clock. I roll over in the tiny cot and dangle my arm to the ground. My fingertips brush the hard grain of the wooden floorboards, until they reach the soft cotton t-shirt I threw there the evening before. I sit up in bed and catch my breath, shocked by the cold. My eyes adjust to the grey morning light. I glance down at my naked torso. My skin is covered in a million tiny goosebumps that ignore the border between the rich brown of my arms and the pale white of my chest. My ribcage is defined. My belly button is stretched taut against my abdomen. Here in the little room, I seem otherworldly.
A dull ache lingers deep in my muscles. Maybe I overdid it this week. I remove the sheets to expose my lower half to the frigid air. My limbs stiffen in the cold. Each knee protrudes bonily — my skin vacuum formed against my skeleton, shaping deep hollows into both sides of my knee caps. My calves hang flaccid from my shin bones. I run my hands over my thighs — beneath the skin, I feel a faint pulsing web. I put on a battered sweater and sweat pants and pull a toque over my head.
Sitting up straight, I raise my right knee over my straightened left leg and hook the back of my left elbow to its outside. I rotate my torso to the right and feel a release of popping vertebrae ripple down my spine. I repeat this in the other direction and turn my thoughts to what lies ahead.
The significance of the day is at once immediate and at the same time abstract. I’ve built its importance up in my mind, but here, now, reality is indifferent. My aim is too complex to converge into thought. It is of no matter — today, the race will unfold and my body will react. My mind will be on a different plane. I will ride on instinct. This is what I tell myself.
I stand up and reach for the ceiling then relax and let the last remains of sleep drift away. Outside, a rooster crows and rain drops beat against the windows. A gust of wind blows against the house. No worries. It will rain on everybody. I slide on a pair of jeans. The cold denim warms against my skin, familiar fabric insulating me from the outer air. I put on my shoes and open the door.
The stairway creaks as I descend. Below, I hear voices speaking in their odd, guttural tongue. Their words seem to be choked with consonants. I smell coffee. I enter the room and am glad to feel a little warmth on my cheeks. Inside, an old man is sitting on a brown leather couch, making gruff sounds into the telephone. My mind is too dull to make much of the conversation but I guess it is something to do with business. Always business.
The gaffer rattles the phone back onto its moorings.
“Goedemorgen. Koffie?" he grunts.
“Ja, lekker,” I stutter, already tasting the stale, bitter essence in my mouth.
I crave its warmth and clarity. I take a seat and reach for the paper lying slapdash on the coffee table. Flipping to the back pages, I glance over columns and columns about national football, notice the scores from England, and then find a few articles about racing. I can just make out the gist of the stories. I read who won where in events more glamorous than mine but am struck by the emptiness of the articles. The writers offer bland accounts and regurgitate press releases — I imagine the reality on the road.
My coffee arrives, strong and black, and I take a sip. The hot liquid flows into my chest. A rush of awareness envelopes my mind. The old man is in the back somewhere, bustling about, so I sit alone and flip through the paper for a few more minutes, gleaning bits and pieces about an unfamiliar world. I feel an ache in my stomach and decide it is time to eat. I walk over to the kitchen. The floor is made of cold tile and the room smells of chemicals and earth. I get a plate from the cabinet and retrieve four slices of brown bread from a plastic bag in the cupboard. The bread is soft, just thawed from a time in the freezer. I place the four pieces two-by-two on my plate, walk over to the refrigerator and pull out a plastic box. Inside, slices of cheese are arranged, each piece hand cut thin.
I go back to my plate on the counter and place two pale slices on the first piece of bread then reach back into the cupboard and pull out a jar of home-made cherry jam. I open the jar and spoon a generous mound onto the top of the cheese, and then lick the utensil clean, enjoying the sweet tang in my mouth. I place the second slice of bread on top and cut my sandwich in two. Inside the cupboard, I replace the jam with a jar of chocolate spread. I am tempted to eat a spoonful right there but restrain myself and allow myself a modest smear on the next piece of bread. I complete this second sandwich and again cut it in two before walking over to the table to think.
Fuck this rain. I can already hear the awful scraping of carbon on pavement, hear the yelling, and feel moisture sinking into my raw skin. You will float through everything, I tell myself. In my mind, I hit a cobbled berg at full speed.
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I finish my bread and eye the spice cake on the counter. Should I? The race is 200 kilometres. I cut myself a small piece. I leave the kitchen and trudge up the stairs, the wooden floor boards creaking under my feet. In my room, on the ground, lies my bag, still packed from the evening before. I tear it open and dump out the contents, so that they lie in a wreath around me. I begin to pack again.
First, I reach for my shoes, a pair made specially for me, with a carbon-fibre sole moulded to my foot and a soft leather upper. On the bottom, a plastic cleat is placed to match my pedalling style. My shoes are scuffed and scratched, the first layer of the carbon bottom already flaking off in a few places. Next, I grab my socks — I have packed two pairs to be sure. They are bright white for vanity’s sake, and the cuffs are longer than most. Then come a set of oversocks, these too in an impractical white, to serve as a small layer of insulation to place over my shoes and fend off the chill.
Next are a pair of leg warmers, a soft-shell legging with a layer of fleece on the inside. My arm warmers are similar but come in a sleeve form — they follow into the bag. I pack a pair of half-fingered racing gloves that are ripped a little on the palm into a separate compartment, and then throw in a pair of long-fingered, insulated ones for insurance. Next are my undershirts. I have two of them. Once white, they are now yellowed. I have a short-sleeved version made of a kind of thin wool and a long-sleeved one with more insulation. My shorts are made of lycra and are a little stretched. They have a pair of built-in suspenders. I have long- and short-sleeved jerseys that are red and blue and plastered in logos. Three pockets line the lower back of each.
My helmet barely fits into the bag, and I have to stretch the zipper to get it in. The plastic shell lined with hard foam seems fragile for its duty. In the front pocket, I put my racing licence — the team has a copy as well, but I never trust them to bring it. I unzip the bottom compartment and toss in a small mint-tin full of safety pins that I will use to fasten my racing numbers. My shower stuff and spare clothes go in a separate, smaller bag. Ok, good, everything is there.
Downstairs, I hear people beginning to arrive. Voices laugh, and feet shuffle about. I pick up my bag and trudge towards the door, glancing backwards and scanning the room to make sure that I am not leaving anything behind. I walk down the stairs into a kerfuffle. My team mates are there, getting prepared.
"Hey jongen, how is it?" someone yells in my direction.
“Ahh, good mate.”
"Goede benen?"
"Yeah, we'll see.”
I go to the bathroom and take my time to hide from the hoopla. Finished, I head to my bike in the garage and fiddle a bit. With the cold aluminium stem in one hand, I raise my front wheel off the ground, rotating it with my other arm to inspect the tyre. I keep aware of small cuts or holes and watch out for the slightest imperfection in the sidewall. I check each side, and then give the wheel a quick jerk and release it. All I can hear is the whoosh of the air, as I watch the wheel turn. The hub spins, silent, maintaining its momentum. I look down from above and make sure that the rim is true, never wavering from its line as it turns. Perfect.
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