We were promised crepes (there were no crepes), baguettes (there were no baguettes), bocce-type games (does cycling count?), and French music (when off the front, I heard Phoenix’s 1901 play, so that totally counts).
When that apparently all fell through, they found a guy who spoke French to introduce the start of the race. I don’t speak French. But I swear I just heard him say…
“Did he just say we’re racing to be the champion of Chicago?” I asked Dave at the front of the start line, as we both laughed.
Up until that point, I thought this was a simple training race, a mid-week prep crit that was meant to serve as a tune-up, a way to train that leadout, a way for sprinters to jump into a break and see what that’s all about. But now I knew much better. It’s Bastille Day, and clearly my French-speaking opponents already knew that we were in no ordinary crit; we were battling for the French National Championship of Chicago. There would be no horsing around. Except for the horsecops I saw wandering around during my warmup – they’d surely be horsing around.
The gun erupted (there was no gun). I eyed my challengers and thought about what I would tell them if I could communicate with them. Je m’apelle Liam. Would they even understand that? Oui. I don’t even know what that means. Vive le Tour! Huh? Man, I wish I knew more French.
Attaque! Ooo, I knew that one. So I did. On lap two, while Tommeke was pulling on the back straightaway. And so begins our odyssey. When I say “our,” I mean my bike and me. Because at first, no one wanted to bridge up. So I came back, and Dave attacked. That didn’t stick, so I came back with another counter maybe a lap later. This one stuck.
Chris Padfield joined up, naturally, and I was happy to be relieved, at least for a while, because I was solo for much too long. He then took a few pulls that were a bit much for my feeble legs, and he dropped me maybe a lap and a half after joining. Au revoir, monsieur. I remained in what had previously been “the front of the race” and was now “no-man’s land” since Padfield was farther up the road. The field behind me was splintering, and -- well I’ll be! That looks like Marcel Statechamp off the front of the main field, trying to bridge up to me! So long as you don’t bring other people with you, Moyer, I’m cool with that. A few laps later, Dave’s chipper “Hey buddy!” woke me from my reverie-filled crepe, I mean crepe-filled reverie – no I don’t. The two of us marched on -- the Soldier Field parking lot our Champs Elysees -- attempting to get to the ringleader. With the sun slowly setting, we were tailed by a train of two totally tubular team Tati riders, who, together with the two of us, took to trading pulls to track down that tall time triallist. The gap hovered around 15-20 seconds, while the lap counter reeled off lap after lap. Losing time to go in the race, but not gaining time on the man out front. Not good.
I was sitting in, catching my breath, and felt better with every second. On days that you have it, you often get a feeling that cannot be described my mere words. It’s a feeling of unstoppable certainty. Like a vision. I am unbreakable. You cannot beat me. I will win.
To tell the truth, I wasn’t feeling this 10 minutes into the race. Definitely wasn’t feeling it when Chris bridged up to me, nor when Dave came and we were trading pulls. But once our group of four – two xXx and two Tati – began a quick, steady rotation, that feeling came. All it took was a bit of wind-catching at the back of a group. It was a most assured feeling of “this race is over; I win.” And I was saying this to myself as the time gap was still sitting at 20 seconds and there were maybe 14 laps to go. I’m saying this to myself after hearing Kenny Labbe announce to the crowd that Padfield had just made contact with the main field and was now a lap up. Somehow, despite all this information that strongly hinted at the contrary, I simply knew: I would win.
Once the lap counter ticked down to 11, I had to leave the peacefulness of the four-man group and venture back out on my own. So I attacked, and chased as if the World Championship of Chicago were on the line. I’m getting closer and closer, using some points-race knowledge from the velodrome – in regards to timing when you lap the field -- to plan my ultimate regrouping. Crossing the start/finish line with three to go, I make contact with the back of the field. I am tempted to tell Briney, who’s been busting his ass all race to make sure Dave and I could stay off unimpeded, that I’m there. But Padfield is at the front of the group, and I don’t want him to hear. Espionage. Sneak attack. Ninjabike. So I don’t tell Tom, and on the windy backstretch, I stand up on the pedals and sprint past the whole group. Apparently Dave was in that group, too? None of this made sense to me at the time, but no time to think! Time to ATTACK! Padfield is a bit surprised, and I have a gap on him. I am going all-out, hoping I can keep this gap to the line. Two laps to go. That is a long time to hold a man of his caliber off. I don’t look back. I’m so confident that I just know he isn’t on my wheel. Close, but not on it. One lap to go. Haha, I’m totally going to win. Windy backstretch, I get low, look underneath my arm, down behind me, and boom. There he is. On my wheel. And the pack is following him. Whoops. I immediately sit up. We’re now at roughly 500 meters to go, but that includes 2.5 turns, and I don’t know how long I’ve been giving him a free ride behind me. Did I foul this one up? He stays glued to my wheel, we slow more, and the pack swarms around us. Yelling. Chaos. Yet we’re still going slow, he’s still behind me. Let them have their field sprint, hooray. I wait for him to attack, listening attentively, watching shadows from the street lights. We turn left. Just one and half turns until the final 50 meters to the line, and it’s still cat and mouse. I see Tom, a remnant from the field sprint, shoot by us. “Hey, Tom!” I remember saying, though who knows how loudly. Nor why I was yelling that. We’re roughly 150 meters from the line. I jump, take the last couple corners ahead of Chris, and stay ahead of him to the finish.
I am the Chicago Champion of the Universe.
Later, on the podium, I am flanked by two of the most beautiful French women I have ever seen (they were not French.) Bernard Hinault (Kenny Labbe) shakes my hand, and recommends I join him at his estate in Bordeaux once the tour is over (he politely asks if we could speed the ceremony up because he has to get home). The ladies hand me a novelty-size bottle of champagne (red tote bag with a water bottle inside), the contents of which I jettison all over my adoring fans (teammates), some photojournalists blinding me with their flashbulbs (Luke and others with iPhones), and of course the now-giggling podium girls (I didn’t actually get champagne).
“Je t’aime, mes amours,” I tell the two as they each kiss one cheek. “Je t’aime.”
