AFTER AN EARLY BREAKFAST, Burke jumped into his car and drove hard toward Mont Ventoux. His chances of getting anywhere near the mountain would be nil because there would probably be at least a quarter million people lining the route on the flat parts of the stage with at least the same number perched by the roadside of the famous climb. He’d do what he could and then leave.
Still, he knew a Tour de France stage featuring the Ventoux would be special, and he felt himself getting excited to see some of the stage. It wasn’t the highest mountain in France by any stretch, but, for Burke’s money, it represented the toughest climb at twenty-two kilometers, with a 7.1 percent average gradient and winds that usually blew with ferocity. By the time the riders made it to the top, they’d be physically and mentally exhausted. Burke certainly had been when he’d done the Ventoux.
After two hours of speeding and then having to slow down to a pedestrian pace as traffic increased, Burke approached the small town of Bédoin, where the race to the Ventoux would really launch. He decided to try a country road north of the town. It would probably be jammed by fans by this time, but it was worth a try.
The road wasn’t as busy as he expected, and he managed to get a few kilometers closer to the actual base of the mountain. He parked by the side of the road and near a farm that looked like it needed some attention. He had a kilometer to walk to get to the road where the cyclists would go by.
Walking along a potholed dirt path, Burke was still five hundred meters from the main road when all kinds of parked vehicles and then the outlines of thousands of people came into view. He cursed at having to do all this for a silly-assed blog or maybe a few words in someone else’s newspaper article.
When he got within one hundred meters, sounds of merriment reached his ears. There had obviously been some serious partying going on.
He approached a group of eight middle-aged fans, who were each decked out in a red-and-white, polka dot replica cycling jersey that honored the leading rider in the mountains. They seemed sober, and that probably put them in the minority.
He introduced himself as a blogger for a newspaper. No one seemed impressed by that. He asked where they were from.
“Holland,” said a bespectacled man.
Burke wondered why they weren’t wearing jerseys featuring the Dutch national color of orange, but didn’t ask. The quicker he got his information, the quicker he could leave.
A short, plump man in the group pointed a finger at Burke. The man’s face was scrunched up in concentration. Then he broke into a grin, and Burke knew what was coming next.
“You’re the Paul Burke who used to be a rider and who was on TV, yes?” the man said in English.
Burke nodded.
The others broke into smiles. They may not have recognized his face, but they knew something about the name. Burke silently cursed YouTube.
He went through a short list of questions he’d prepped.
How long they had been there? Two nights. Had they come for the entire Tour de France? Just for the Ventoux. Was it their first time watching the TDF live? No, they’d seen stages when the race had gone outside French borders into the Low Countries of the Netherlands and Belgium. Did they have a camper? Yes, two. How did they pass the time while waiting for the race to show up? They played cards. Why did they drive so far for one day’s stage? Because the legendary “Giant of Provence” is not on the TDF course except every few years. Were they having a good time? Absolutely. What would they do after the Ventoux stage? Drive home, maybe stop outside Paris for a night.
He got their names, thanked them and then moved on to three young, happy-looking men draped in American flags. He went through the same routine. The answers weren’t as thoughtful as the responses from the Dutch, but that was likely due to the beer the men had obviously been drinking.
Just as he thanked them for their comments, one of them piped out in a Texan accent: “What’s the deal with these cycling coaches suddenly dying?”
“You mean Den Weent and McManus?” Burke asked.
“Yeah, those guys,” he said. “I mean, that’s pretty fucking strange, don’t you think?”
Burke agreed.
“Gotta wonder if they’re connected,” the Texan suggested.
One of his friends scoffed at that idea. “One died of a heart attack, and the other guy, Den Weent, croaked from being knifed,” he said. “You can’t orchestrate a heart attack, dummy.”
“Maybe not,” he replied.
Burke nodded. The deaths had to be coincidence, but it was strange nevertheless.
He thanked them and was set to move on when the Texan blurted out, “Aren’t you going to ask us who’s going to win today?”
Burke had been surprised that the three were familiar with the deaths of the two men and that one of them at least knew Den Weent’s name. Now they were willing to provide the names of the Ventoux winner?
“OK, tell me,” Burke said, figuring these three might end up being the focus of his blog. They might be a little drunk and somewhat rowdy, but maybe they knew their stuff, cycling-wise.
The Texan went first. “Pieterangelo is my guy,” he said, naming a tiny Italian climber who was useless on the flats and in time trials but went up the side of a mountain at an astonishing speed.
“He’ll be close, but Alvarez will win,” said another.
“Which Alvarez?” the Texan asked, impressing Burke even more with his knowledge. There were at least two riders named Alvarez in the race.
“The Colombian. The leaders will let him go because he’s no threat to the overall title.”
The third man offered his perspective. “Good picks, but the winner will be—drum roll, please—Pavel Kladinsky. He’ll do it on a small breakaway.”
Burke thanked them once again.
“Hey, dude, I bet you’ll find a link between McManus and Den Weent if you try hard enough,” the Texan said. “It would make a great fucking blog if you could get it.”
Burke smiled at that as he left. The three had been impressive with their selections for the stage winner. As for finding a link between the deaths of the two trainers, Burke knew it was absurd to think the police hadn’t double-checked that possibility, however improbable it seemed.
But he still had a niggling feeling that somehow, he might know something about McManus and Den Weent that could be valuable.