Since coming to London almost a month ago and making that vow about alcohol, Paul has developed a taste for sarsaparilla. His favourite is Baldwin’s, which they serve at the eel house. Once or twice he has offered to pickup the vats of the stuff from the supplier on Walworth Road as a favour to Belinda. The sugary drink helps when he’s tired after cycling. Most people drink beer for lunch, but it just makes him sleepy.
Dropping off the vats, Belinda often tells him there’s a man, in Fremantle, Australia, who writes to her about once a month. Long letters on thick paper, asking her to send him a case or two of the bottles. The man’s done well for himself, he’s a landowner, with his own herd of camels for rent. People use them when crossing the scorched plains. She tells Paul the man has enough money for dresses and meat on the table every day, but that he misses the eel and the drinks of England. Belinda has a way of leaning into him when he’s sitting down, her hip resting against him. She usually brings over more drinks than he has to pay for, always smiling. Most days he’s too tired to think properly about women, and anyway they’re too complicated.
In the past few weeks he’s lost weight and gained speed. Silas has had Harry look him over and offer him tips a few times, but with all the work Paul’s not had a chance to practise in a velodrome. But that’s about to change today, he’s been told. Silas has arranged for him to race in Peckham.
Paul has gone past the small arena a few times doing deliveries, so it’s easy enough for him to find the way there today. By the looks of it, the little arena is about to be demolished, but there are still races. Posters scream of Daredevils and Prize Money. The faded colours of the flags on top of the stadium don’t inspire much confidence but it’s a welcome change from the deliveries.
He looks at the signs and streamers, at the crowds and the stalls selling oysters and clams, at the colourful tricycles selling drinks. He walks past the service entrance to the velodrome when someone runs out, shouting about how late he is. After a few stammered excuses, Paul realises Silas has given him the time the race starts, and not the time, about an hour earlier, he was supposed to turn up to register and warm up.
Paul apologises and asks about prize money. The answer is pleasantly surprising. The sum is more generous than the velodrome suggests. He’s still not used to the inflated economy of the nation’s capital.
He’s been told Harry will meet him and make sure everything runs smoothly, but since Silas got the time wrong Paul’s not counting on Harry being there.
He rolls into the velodrome and warms up for a couple of laps, to get a feel for the gradient and the concrete surface. The oval is 1,175 feet. Just a distance to be broken down into laps, pedal strokes and breaths.
At the sound of the starter gun Paul takes a chance on his legs and lungs. After just a few laps his thoughts are dreamy yet clear. The race seems to pass in front of him like a play at the theatre.
It’s very different from practising with the Wyld boys. There was order, there. Commands shouted out by the team captain. A well-drilled line of men surging around him. This is dangerous. This is chaos. After a few laps, where he has been out front, smirking with the ease of cycling on a track as opposed to the streets, he is caught. Left behind. He looks up at the sign board by the finish line. His heart stops when he realises how many laps are left.
He pushes hard. His breath rasps through his lungs as he catches up with the main group of riders. Spurred on by the jolt of happiness he feels when he passes another racer, he climbs up in the line of men, until he’s third. Then second. He stays there. Focusses on not losing an inch. Keeps his eyes on the man’s calves. Up, down, up, down.
After what seems like an eternity, he hears a bell. He has just entered the last lap. He decides he will wait forty pedal strokes before launching an attack. Thirty-thirty-one-two-three-four… a violent tide of pain. Sawing on his handlebars, swinging his bike as if it was an axe, the man in front of him stands up and sets off. Paul assembles everything he’s got left, which isn’t much. With half a lap left he hasn’t caught up. With a quarter of a lap left – even in the last bend – he hasn’t caught up. Out on the home straight at last, he leaves the air stream behind the man and pulls out next to him. With twenty feet left they’re neck and neck, with ten no different. With five feet the man’s front wheel is in front of Paul’s. With three feet Paul pushes the bike out in front of him, as if he wanted to get rid of it, which is true at that moment, and that seals it. Paul wins by a tyre.
He can’t breathe for two more laps. He feels the man he just beat pat him on the back, a friendly gesture of defeat, before they both slow down and get off their bikes. Walk, on unsteady legs, back to their bags and woollen suit jackets.
Sitting down after the race, looking at the winner’s envelope, Paul starts to plan which flat on which street with which colour front door and what food in the cupboards he’ll buy now that he can make so much money in an afternoon just by sweating a little. Or actually quite a lot, as it has been a few hours of cycling. It has been hard work but at times almost enjoyable.
Harry comes over and pats him on the back, says, ‘You did well today, really well. I missed the start as Silas told me the wrong time, what a dumbbell.’
Paul nods. Harry continues, ‘Just now I’m late for something but I’ll see you at the next race, if not before.’
Paul’s head is spinning. Not from tiredness or hunger, but from the prospect of making money as a cyclist.
An oily little man comes over and demands a thirty percent cut for the booking and handling fee. Paul tries to argue, but the man shrugs his shoulders and says, ‘It’s part and parcel.’
Paul pays and the man, who promises him more races, then walks off.
In the middle of his elation Paul realises that there are much faster and fitter cyclists than the Saturday crowd in Peckham. But with that comes the insight that there are races that will pay a lot more to win. Today was good, but he knows he can do better. He will have to train well, eat well, sleep well. Devote himself in a way he didn’t think was necessary. Or imaginable. The prospect of it makes him smile as he gets back on the bike again for the cycle back across the river to his waiting bed, his buttocks only smarting a bit.