It was the downhills that scared Dom the most.
He’d once read that cycling defines the man, and as he mounted the brow of the hill and followed Andy down into the first curve of the big descent, he couldn’t help but agree.
Andy was hunched low, hands on drop bars, head down, arse up, and he was already moving noticeably ahead.
Dom’s hands were feathering the brakes. They’d ridden this descent together several times before, and it was always at this point that the fear bit in.
The garish pink house flitted by on the left, big dog barking from the raised deck and old man sitting in his garden rocker as usual, a bemused expression on his face.
On the right was a low hedge guarding an incredible view across the Monmouthshire countryside, shimmering and hazed in the growing heat of yet another scorching day. And then the road curved around to the left and grew steeper, and there was no going back.
The breeze blasting past his ears carried a distorted ‘Yeaaahaaaa!’ from Andy, and Dom grinned and hunkered down over his handlebars. As the road straightened into the long, steep descent, Andy was speeding away from him.
Dom always thought about what could go wrong. He knew the route pretty well, and so could swerve around the two portions that were rough and holed. But he’d once seen a squirrel dart across the road just feet from Andy’s spinning wheels. If that happened to him, he’d either strike it and spill, or panic and grasp the brakes, which would probably result in a skid and crash.
There was one area of road halfway down that had slumped, kerb bowing down the hillside and road surface cracked and dipped where it was starting to collapse. Trees shaded the road for the last mile of descent, and in those shadows it was harder to see the surface. He might get a bee trapped in his helmet or, worse, behind one lens of his glasses. A puncture at over forty miles per hour could be catastrophic.
At the bottom of the descent was another bend, not too severe, but at those speeds he’d have to steer on trust: trust that there was no car coming the other way in the middle of the road; no cows crossing; no crows feeding on the slick remains of a crushed badger, or—
But as he switched his hands to the drop bars and the wind rushed past his ears, Dom realised that today felt different. Maybe it was the three straight weeks of record-breaking heat and cloudless skies. It could have been the thrill of being out so early, enjoying almost traffic-free roads for the first hour of their ride.
Or perhaps it was because he and his wife, Emma, had made love on their patio the night before. He’d been worried about being seen, even though the garden of their modest detached home was hardly overlooked. She’d soon seen away his fears.
As his speed increased and he reminded himself to be loose and relaxed, he yelled in delight.
Andy still beat him to the bottom, disappearing around the bend twenty seconds before Dom.
Dom moved into the centre of the road and raised himself slightly, trying to see through the trees and shadows and make out whether anything was coming in the opposite direction. He swept around the corner and drifted back towards the left, and as his momentum decreased he switched down a few awkward gears and started pedalling. He’d have to get his gearing sorted before the descents. One more thing he should work on.
Andy was waiting for him half a mile further on. He straddled his bike in the village hall car park, gulping down a drink and looking cool in his expensive shades. Dom came to a stop beside his friend, breathing hard, not from exertion but from the thrill of the descent.
‘Fifty-one!’ Andy said.
Dom checked his bike computer. ‘Forty-eight. Fastest I’ve done down there. Felt good today.’
‘Do one thing every day that scares you.’ Andy was fond of the Eleanor Roosevelt quotation, and it always made Dom smile. On these long rides with Andy, he’d usually manage two or three things, at least.
‘Christ, it’s scorching already,’ Dom said. Now that he’d stopped the sweat ran down his face and soaked his jersey, even speckling the hairs on his legs. Andy looked sweaty too, but it seemed to suit him more. His T-shirt was tight and clingy, but whereas Dom’s jersey showed his pudgy waistline and lanky arms, Andy’s clung to his flat stomach and broad shoulders.
‘You’ll beat me down one day,’ Andy said.
‘Doubt that.’
‘Should do. You have a distinct weight advantage.’
‘Yeah, yeah, thanks.’
Andy grinned. ‘So, cake and coffee with the Moody Cow?’
‘Damn right.’
Moody Cow was not the name of their favourite pit stop on this particular route, nor the woman who ran the cafe. That was the Blue Door and Sue respectively. But she’d given them enough stern looks to invite the name which had become permanent.
Andy reckoned she fancied him and was playing hard to get. Dom thought it quite likely. Over the two years he’d known Andy, Emma had called him grizzled, rough, and lived-in, and his string of casual girlfriends attested to his effect on the opposite sex.
‘Race you!’ Andy said. He caged his drink bottle, clipped in and moved off without looking back.
Dom followed. He was pretty good at sprints on the flat, and had been working hard on his turbo trainer over the previous winter to improve his power. Nevertheless, it took the whole two miles to the village of Upper Mill for him to catch Andy, and even then he had the weird feeling his friend let him win.
‘Pipped me,’ Andy said outside the Moody Cow. ‘Coffee and cake on me.’ He leaned his bike against the fence and opened the big blue door.
Dom watched him go, leaning on his handlebars. He was exhausted, breath heavy and burning in his chest, legs shaking. Sweat ran behind his biking glasses and misted them, and he had to take them off. Andy had hardly seemed out of breath.
‘Bloody hell, fat bastard,’ he muttered, taking deep breaths and feeling his galloping heartbeat beginning to settle. In truth, he wasn’t fat at all. Compared to most men in their early forties he was way above average when it came to fitness, even though he carried a few pounds extra. But Andy wasn’t most men, and Dom really wished he could stop comparing himself to his friend. They were good mates, but their lifestyles were chalk and cheese, and he wouldn’t change a thing.
Leaving the bikes against the timber fencing that surrounded the cafe’s front garden, he chose a table in the shade.
There were a couple of elderly couples having their morning coffee, and at the garden’s far end a group of businessmen nattered over fluttering sheets and a laptop.
There was also a couple of women, maybe in their early thirties, dressed in tight shorts and vest tops. They’d obviously been for a run, water bottles discarded on the table in favour of tall fruit smoothies. One of them caught his eye. He smiled; she glanced back to her friend.
Dom unzipped his jersey halfway, self-consciously turning his back on the women. As he sat down and kicked off his bike shoes, one of them laughed softly. It was nothing to do with him. It can’t have been.
He took the phone from his jersey’s back pocket and slipped it from its pouch. There were no missed calls or texts, but he took a selfie with the cafe behind him and sent it to Emma. Refuelling stop, he typed with the picture.
Andy appeared and scraped a seat across into the sunlight before slumping in it. ‘The coffee stop of kings,’ he said. ‘Our lovely hostess will bring our morning repast forthwith.’
‘Nice.’
‘Ahh, this is the life.’ Andy stretched