AFTER THE INTENSE INTERVIEW with Fortin and Côté, and the time-pressured blogs for Lemaire, Burke was surprised he had, in cycling parlance, “good legs” as he hammered the pedals for the first couple of kilometers. The sense of strength could quickly disappear, but until then, he made the most of it and kept the power on.
He passed a handful of other riders, a couple of whom praised him for his efforts as he shot by. The compliments felt good. Bit by bit, Burke knew he was getting fitter. Maybe he’d go into some veterans races if circumstances allowed.
When he saw a side road that would lead him away from Grasse and into the hilltop villages farther north, Burke took it on a whim. The first village was at least another ten kilometers, but he expected his legs could handle the challenge.
And they did. Feeling strong, he rode past the first village and then past the second, pushing higher as the scenery grew more rugged with craggy hills that climbed and climbed. Behind him, the communities along the coast got smaller and smaller.
After forty kilometers of nonstop climbing, Burke stopped by the roadside, gasping for breath and sweating profusely but happy with his efforts. There might be prettier views in France, but Burke struggled to believe it. It seemed he could see all of the Côte d’Azur stretched out far below him. This was one reason he wanted to stay in the area, regardless of what happened to taxes. Hélène, though, was rapidly becoming the real attraction to remaining.
To the north were steeper hills. Stone farmhouses were scattered along the distant slopes. The people who carved out a living up this high were tough indeed. Much tougher than a pro cyclist and definitely sturdier than a blogger.
Burke relished that his mind had largely cleared away all thoughts of the Petits, Fortin, Côté, Lemaire and everyone else who had burrowed into his brain in recent days. All he had thought about on the way up was working on a good cadence and enjoying the spectacular scenery. Cycling could do that—take you away from your worries and into a different place.
Burke decided to do one more hill. He didn’t have to worry about time since the descent would be fast—maybe forty-five minutes at most, and that would leave plenty of time to clean up before Hélène arrived. And after all the wild traffic along the coast, it was a pleasure to ride along a road that had virtually no traffic; he hadn’t seen a vehicle in twenty minutes.
He did the next hill in five minutes and then turned his bike around. He thought about detouring into one of the villages, but the thrill of the upcoming descent appealed far more.
With a gentle breeze behind him, Burke let his machine go, and soon, he was flying down the hill at sixty-five kilometers per hour. Always a good, fearless descender, he leaned into the twists and bends of the road with just the slightest touch on his brakes. He knew any car behind him would struggle to keep pace.
On one stretch, he hit eighty on his odometer. His heart pounded with excitement.
As he took another curve at maximum speed, Burke heard the engine of a car behind him. It must have come out of a country lane.
As usual, he let his ears tell him what was happening behind. He had long ago learned that if he listened well, he could judge the exact position of an approaching vehicle by sound, as well as the distance between them. He didn’t need a mirror.
The road straightened, and Burke shot a glance over his shoulder as he heard the driver accelerate.
It was a black car, and it was coming quickly.
The road turned gently to the right, and Burke kept a tight line near the side of the road. He was doing eighty-five kilometers per hour.
The driver was getting closer, taking greater risks than even he was. It was time to let them pass. If another vehicle approached them at that moment, they’d all be in trouble, especially Burke.
He feathered the brakes, instantly dropping to sixty.
The vehicle was right behind him.
“What the…” Burke glanced once more over his shoulder.
He had only enough time to register that the car wasn’t lined up to go around him. Instead, it was only a few meters directly behind him and getting even closer. The driver seemed intent on hitting him or driving him right off the road.
Burke yanked his handlebars to the right. It was his only chance.
His bike jerked off the road surface, and for a second, he was airborne, flying over grass and rocks and right toward a clutch of trees. When his bike touched the ground again, he had no control. The front wheel struck a large rock and crumpled on impact, stopping the machine and dislodging Burke like a human payload.
As he flew through the air, Burke knew he was going to die. This was his last millisecond on the planet.
He crashed into the widest part of a tree trunk, his left shoulder, hip and leg taking all the impact. Blinding-white pain shot through his body as he rolled along the gnarled surface of the small forest.
He came to a stop. Then he tried to move.