I eased past the sleeping body of Trish, and stumbled into the bathroom. It was seven o’clock. I washed and dressed in the bathroom, tying my hair back with an elastic hair band. Then I slipped downstairs in my socks, carrying my cycle shoes to avoid waking the sleeping trio.

I made myself some tea, feeding Kiki and letting her out in the garden afterwards. It smelt cold and miserable, why did I let Henry persuade me into this ridiculous ride idea? I drank my tea and made some toast, it felt odd without Tom being here at this time. I hoped he was all right–he was so important to me.

I washed up my dirty crocks and pulling on my Gortex jacket, went to check over the two bikes, I presume Henry would want the Tarmac. In the light of the fluorescent strips in the garage I checked it over, I couldn’t find anything wrong with it, even the tyres had stayed up. Alas it was too big for me to ride which is the only way you can tell if a bike feels right. My own Specialized, needed some air in the tyres but that was all, but I checked out the brakes and chain. I fitted the lights to my bike and tested them, the batteries seemed okay–but then they should, the lights were unused except for testing.

I was just finishing fitting the brackets to my bike when I heard a car pull into the driveway, Henry was spot on time. He wandered in and watched me fitting the lights. “Morning, young lady.”

“Morning, Granddad.”

“That’s right, make me feel old before my time.”

“If I’m a foster mum, then when Simon and I marry, you’ll be a foster grandfather.”

“I suppose I will, although by then Stella might have five or six.”

“Hmm or eight, like that woman in the States.”

“They always think big in the States.”

“I heard a rumour she already has other children.”

“As long as she can afford to look after them all, and gives them lots of love, I don’t care how many she has.”

“I do, I think it’s ridiculous, how many boobs has she got and are they the size of a cow’s?

“Jealous are we, Cathy?”

“Yeah and no. I wouldn’t want eight kids; full stop. I’d rather have a couple I can afford and bring up properly, giving them time and encouragement.”

“Well you’ve got your couple now, I can’t believe that Trish had the bottle to go and speak to the judge, like that.”

“No, it’s almost too fantastical for words, especially as he sat and listened to her.”

“She’s going to need a bit of spirit if she continues on her path to femininity.”

“Oh, she’s plenty of that all right. As for her long term agenda, she seems fixed on it at the moment. I shall have to speak with the shrink she sees and also with Mermaids.”

“Not the fairies then?”

“Ha ha, no Mermaids is a charity that helps GID kids and their families.”

“Strange name.”

“They might say the same about Stanebury.”

“Touché, Madame.”

“Simon’s shoes are over there, I suggest you try the bike to make sure it feels okay, he’ll be miffed if there’s anything wrong with it, it cost him six thousand.”

“Geez, that is absurd.”

“How much did your Aston cost?”

“How did you know I had an Aston Martin?”

“I’m psychic.”

“I suppose my blabber-mouthed son, told you?”

“No he didn’t. I just guessed, you’re a patriot at heart, so cheapo Italiano or gruff Germanic motors would be out of the question. It had to be an Aston Martin.”

“Hold on, I came in an Audi, and I have owned a Ferrari, and Monica has a TT, and we have a Mercedes, too. I don’t think your reasoning fits the facts.”

“What about being a psycho or what?”

“Psycho, that sounds more like it.”

“Thank you, Lord Stanebury, I love you too.”

He sat and pulled on the shoes, “God, they didn’t have lumps like this under them the last time I rode a decent bike.”

“You used toe clips?”

“Yeah, only they called ‘em rat-traps in those days.”

“Do you still ride with them?”

“Back at home I do.”

“You’d better practice, getting them in and out of the pedals, and remember you need to disengage before you stop.”

“I’ll manage.”

“That’s what I thought the first few times I wore them, but I only did after I fell off the first few times, the tarmac burns teach you to remember.”

“I’ve had a few of those from my old racing days.”

“I’ll bet. Anyway, give it a go up the road and don’t forget to practice the shoe release and re-engagement.”

“How d’you change gears?”

“The brake handle on the right is the back mech, and the left is the front one. You push it over to change down and push the little button here, to change up. You’ll get the hang of it, even Simon did. The same in reverse for the front mech.”

“Up down, shake it all about. You need a pilot’s licence for this.”

“Only because it flies, it’s one of the fastest bikes manufactured for the mass market. Bettini has one and so does Boonen.”

“And who has one of those?” he asked pointing at my Ruby.

“Emma Pooley, why?”

He shook his head and started off down the drive. I ran after him, the saddle was fractionally too high. Simon is quite tall. I just managed to hold him up as he disengaged his cleats. We adjusted his saddle and he tried again, I locked up and followed him out, fitting my head light to my helmet, and donning my safety glasses and gloves.

As I rode away after Henry, I noticed two little faces pressed against the bedroom window. I waved and they waved back with enthusiasm. I caught up with Henry about quarter of a mile down the road.

“These gear changes are good once you get used to them, not sure about the flipping pedals, nearly came off back there.”

“I did warn you. You’ll get the hang of them eventually.”

“This bike is magic.”

“It is nice; it’s also very pretty, but so is the Roubaix.”

“Come on let’s get riding, how about we do one of my old training runs.”

“You rode round here?”

“Oh yeah, Simon’s cottage was our holiday cottage in this part of the world and before we got one in Menorca.”

“Okay, your Lordship, after you.” Henry took off at quite a rate and surprised me with his acceleration. I had to pedal quite hard to stay with him, once I’d managed to catch him. He was breathing hard as well, but he kept going. My fears of his fitness levels seemed well founded.

After a few miles, and my legs had warmed up–I use the term advisedly, it was bloody cold, and despite my neoprene overshoes, my feet were like the surface temperature, freezing.

Theoretically, if you have the tyres at the correct pressure, they grip the road quite well, they are thin so may even melt thin ice, they certainly expel small amounts of water, even without much tread on them. So far the roads had been reasonable, salted in places on the major networks, but now we turned up towards the downs.

Henry stood on the pedals and began climbing the hill, he was in a higher gear than I was; I was still seated and spinning the pedals although as the gradient rose so did the effort required, and finally I was in my bottom gear and Henry was still dancing on his pedals. I’ll bet he was a hill climber.

He began to open a gap and, angry with myself, I dug deeper trying to get on his back wheel again; wheel-suckers may not be popular in cycle racing, but I began to wish I was one at that moment.

I didn’t catch him until the top of the hill, where my legs felt like jelly and my chest was heaving. The front of the balaclava I was wearing was wet with my breathing through it. We went along the ridge for a mile or so, then began to descend. Once again he flew off ahead of me, and being heavier he was building up speed more quickly. I began to click up through my gears and pedal quite hard; I began to gain on him, at last.

I didn’t know the road that well, but I suspected sooner or later there’d be a junction of some sort. There was, a cross roads, with the priority against us. Henry didn’t seem to notice and a car had to brake to miss him as he flew down the hill. I slowed and made it across the junction safely.

Finally down the bottom and back on the relative flat, I reckoned he was either tiring or playing games with me. I caught him and stayed on his rear wheel. We rode like this for maybe three or so miles, and I recognised where I was. We continued back towards Tom’s house, and he was definitely slowing. Was it a ploy–or was he tiring?

Now he dropped below fifteen miles an hour, and with half a mile to go, I decided to up things. I dropped a cog to pass him and once clear, clicked back up and speeded up to about twenty five. I heard him come after me. It was possibly a ploy–too late for me to change things, I put my head down and went for it.

There’s a short but deceptively steep rise towards Tom’s house, I dropped a gear and stood on my pedals almost sprinting at it, then down the other side, I clicked up and hammered on the pedals, two hundred yards to go, I caught sight of him drawing level.

My legs were jellied and my chest was heaving, he had to be hurting too. Geez, I’m only half his age. Disgusted, I found another burst of energy and went into full sprint mode, throwing the bike from side to side as I gave the chain my all. I actually overshot the drive, I was doing thirty five miles an hour. Henry followed me and as I slowed down, he drew level again, his breathing was ragged and he was tomato red in the face.

“Bloody hell,” he puffed, “where did you learn to ride like that?”

“Sussex,” I gasped back, “But I wasn’t good enough for the team.”

“Who was in the team, Lance bloody Armstrong?”

“No, the ladies team,” I joked and he nearly fell off his bike.