Thus the goat shall carry on it all their iniquities, to an inaccessible region, and the goat shall be set free in the wilderness

Achrei Mot Leviticus 16:1 

Greg Porter brought a wooden folding chair and cafe table out onto the balcony of his little Piedmont apartment. He sat and savored his bottle of local mineral water, imagining its healing properties cleansing his body of the impurities it had become polluted with a little over three months ago. He turned his head to see the perfect line of oak trees graciously cleaning the air for him and the Italian neighbors in his little town. Maybe Marty was right. Back in California, he had been living in a big jail cell all his life. Now he was free to wander in the wilderness. He realized what was happening tomorrow and to his own disbelief, he did not care. But he also knew that his escape could not last forever. He’d soon need to return to the city. 

It was six months ago when Marty Keller descended to the “Arrivals” platform at the Los Angeles Airport. He was feeling both a little relieved and a little disappointed that no one on the flight or in the airport had recognized him. This was supposed to be a quiet trip. His business in Los Angeles was private. He knew that in another world, among racing enthusiasts, his lean whippet body, angled jaw, and curly black hair were his signature. The cycling press called him “The Boy Most Likely.” He was the boy most likely to bring the winner’s yellow jersey in the Tour de France back to America. He had the talent and determination. He felt that it was having the perfect team that had eluded him.  This was the one thing he was not the absolute master of. People. They were unpredictable and unreliable. Marty traveled with just a light case thrown over his shoulder. He had nothing to pick up, so the baggage line could not slow him down. The cab stand had four other passengers waiting ahead of him. He imagined himself weaving through the line to get to the front, but in reality, he could do nothing but wait. Anything that slowed him down was intolerable. He checked his wristwatch. It was still possible to arrive at Greg Porter’s home just a little bit early. Not so early as to be rude, but enough to be unbalancing.

Assembling the perfect team, the one that could win, seemed like a Jenga puzzle. You finesse that last teammate with whatever persuasion and promises you have, but then some other piece threatens to become unbalanced and toss the whole thing to the ground.  In 1991, he had six great teammates, and one good one. Louis Chandler, was the team’s downfall, and during two critical stages he could not keep up properly to defend Marty’s lead.  Finally, he managed to persuade Greg Porter to come out of his brief retirement and rejoin his old team to replace Louis. 

This was an incredible coup. In 1989, Greg was the leader of this team, and Marty was just a domestique, there to support Greg, especially on the climbs. In 1987, his first win of the Tour de France, Greg Porter had broken the record speed. Then he went on to win two more Tours in a row, leading to be hailed as the Greatest of All Time. But each year he was falling a little slower, and in 1989, he squeaked out the win in the last stage by less than the length of a bicycle wheel.  Marty could see that Greg was losing his ability to keep up on the hills. They were draining his energy. Both men sat out the race in 1990. It seemed as though Greg had retired. In 1991, Marty built a great new team, but Chandler was not up to it. 

This year, Marty recruited Greg to be on the new team as a sprinter – not the leader but just a domestique. Having a former GOAT on the team was like having a revolver with an atomic bomb in one of the chambers. Exciting. Lethal.

It turned out the team wasn’t a revolver. It was a Jenga tower, and Marty’s “atomic bomb” was threatening to send all the pieces flying. Greg Porter had changed his mind. He announced he was leaving to become the leader of a newly created Belgian based team. What a pompous idiot! For three years, Marty played a supporting role on Greg’s team as a climber. Now it was Marty’s turn to lead. He would be unbeatable, but only if he could persuade Porter to stay for one more race.

It had been a tiring flight from Minneapolis. After all those hours on the plane, just waiting to get to the front of the cab line made Marty feel as though someone had spit in his face. He hated it, but he knew that the upcoming conversation absolutely positively must be handled in person. It was like a race in itself. Control your position. Force others to do the hard work so that you can draft in their back stream. Most of all, be unreadable yourself. Own the power of the surprise. Marty got into a cab, directed the driver to Culver City and went over the plan in his mind as his car pulled away from the airport.

Marty made good time. He’d be at Porter’s house fifteen minutes early, so he had the driver leave him off on the corner where he could wait another five minutes and knock on Greg Porter’s door exactly ten minutes early.

Greg had just ripped a piece of chicken breast with his teeth and was chewing it when he heard the knock.  Realizing that it was perfectly in character for Marty to show up just a bit early, Greg made no effort to hurry swallowing what he was chewing. Instead, he took his water glass with him as he opened the door.

“Awwgh my gaaahd. Yerr ehly,” he said through chewed chicken and a grinning mouth as he met Marty.

Marty put his arms out to embrace his old teammate, and Greg reciprocated, spilling some water onto the back of Marty’s shirt as he did.

“Oh my God, you’re early!  I don’t know if you understood me the first time.”

Marty gave Greg a power handshake and then a playful smack in the face. “It doesn’t matter what you have in your mouth. You never make any sense no matter what you’re saying.” He pushed his way past Greg and then hurled himself over the back as well, flopping into it and landing prone across all three cushions of Greg’s sofa. “Pardon me for getting too comfortable. The flight here was bruising.” He waited for Greg to come around as he took a wooden chair for himself. “I don’t understand why you choose to live in the middle of all this concrete. Get yourself to the outdoors, man. When the cab took me down here, I was feeling sorry for you, having to live in a big jail cell.”

“I like what I like. We have different tastes.”

“They don’t have to be,” Marty assured.  When we were on the same team, I felt like we were one person sometimes. Did I have your back? I WAS your back. I was your muscle. I was your draft. I was the thread that connected you to every man in the team. You can plan and coordinate until you shit in your pants, but a great team speaks without words, like a beehive. And we were a team of killer bees. We can be a great team again, but I have to lead it. I loved leading last year, but that whole race, all through training, I was missing the bond between us. It killed me. It crushed me. Well, you were right about Louis. I can’t let it happen again. We are a great team, and we’re gonna win, but only if we’re together.”

“I look forward to competing with you. It will be an exciting race. You gotta give me that.”

Marty let that expression bang around in his brain, aware that it could mean two opposite things. Did Greg do that deliberately? Should he press him? There seemed to be no choice. “When you say ‘competing with you’, do you mean you want to compete on our team or against our team?”

“Marty, I know why you came out here. I told you my plans. I’m leading the Belgium team. I let you come to talk me out of it because… I guess I owe you the courtesy. I respect you. Sometimes I fool myself into thinking I love you, even when you’re an asshole. But the last two years let me sit back and just watch the races. I realized what caused us to almost lose in eighty-nine, and I realized that I still got it. I got one more shot at a victory as a leader. If I let that slip past me, I’ll never be able to live with myself.  I’ll only ever think of the potential left behind, not the achievement.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing you say this. You must be fuckin’ out of your mind.  You are the GOAT. Everyone knows you’re the GOAT. You’ve won the most races. You’ve beat the records. No one is ever going to take that away from you. And sure as shit I’m not gonna take that away from you. I’m looking for one victory, and that requires the best team and until I hear otherwise, the best team by definition includes both of us. You have a choice. And you should thank me for giving you this choice. You can be a domestique on a winning team or you can be the leader of a losing team. My choice is always to be on the winning team. Because I’m a winner. I was born to win. And you were born to win, and it makes me sad and angry that you’d fuck yourself this way. I’m giving you the chance to ride and I’m giving you the chance to win, and that is not going to happen with any other team.”

“The Belgians are good, Marty. I’ve done some training with them. You don’t appreciate what they’re capable of.”

“You’re making me say it. I’m trying not to say it, and you’re making me say it. Okay. I’ll say it. I know what they’re capable of, and I know what you’re capable of. You are not currently capable of being the leader of a winning team. If you ride with them, you are going to lose and you will forever damage your reputation. If you want to keep your reputation as the GOAT, you have two choices. Ride with me, or just retire and stay out of racing.”

“I think I know what’s going on, Marty. You’re afraid of me. I know you want to be a leader. I know I kept you down.”

“It’s my time.”

“But it’s not your time, you fucker. No one knows better than me what you’re capable of. Not even you. And I know what the Belgians are capable of. And together, we’re going to kick your ass, and you know it and it scares the crap out of you.”

Marty had hoped that lying across his former leader’s couch would relax him into a feeling of authority. Greg’s insult jabbed at all of Marty’s muscles, and he could no longer sit still. He pivoted around until he was sitting straight, thrust his elbows into his thighs and looked Marty straight in the eyes, trying to knock him over with laser vision.

“You were always an arrogant fuck, and you’ve only gotten worse in your old age. If you ride with the Belgians, you come in third. I come in second. Hans Stockhausen.” Marty was waiting to see when he’d need to invoke the name, and he chose the right time. He could see that he had Greg’s attention.  “Does his name raise your pulse a little? He’s ready. He’s strong and he has a great team and he’s going to beat us both. Divided we lose. United, we run Stockhausen off a cliff. Hans thinks that this is his year, and it is his year unless we prove him wrong.”

“So, you’re afraid of both of us.”

“Don’t you understand it’s not about Hans, or his team, or the Belgians, or anyone out there? It’s about you and me, working together.”

“Hans is no one to fear. Hans is your little flare that you shoot to get my attention and distract me. I’m your fear. You want to talk some more? Admit it. Admit that I’m your fear. Fuck Hans. You want to face your fear? You’re looking at him. You don’t need me on your team. You need me out of the race. Say it. Say that I’m your fear. I won’t be your domestique, but maybe at least I’ll still respect you. Say it. Tell the truth.”

“Fuck you, Greg.”

“I’ll ignore that. I’ll ignore that because I know you like winning. You want to be on the winning team? I’ll give you one option. Make me leader. You said it earlier. You can be a domestique on a winning team, or you can lead a losing team. Those are YOUR options, Marty.”

Greg was just four years older than Marty, but Marty was now seeing every line in Greg’s face. Marty felt like a tiger, and he wanted to rip Marty’s face apart. Could Greg see that? Marty struggled to stay in control, but Greg’s arrogance made him unworthy of respect.

“I flew to Los Angeles to speak to someone who I thought was rational. A former teammate of mine who I loved. And now you demote me and degrade me. I worked hard to earn the spot as the leader. I am at the height of my powers and your powers are on that slippery slope downward. But you don’t see it. You want to take us both down? There’s nothing I can do.”

Marty got off the sofa and started looking around for his pack. He got it and tossed it over his shoulder, and he walked to the door.

Greg tried to bring him back in. “Hey, I appreciate your coming all this way to talk. Why don’t you at least stay for lunch? We can talk about something besides racing.”

“I don’t need your lunch. My flight leaves tomorrow. I’ll head out to my hotel and maybe go see the sights. I’ll go to the Walk of Fame and see if you’ve got a star there. Oh, no, I forgot. Athletes don’t get a star on the walk of fame unless they’re bad actors. Well someday you’ll be in the reboot of Kindergarten Cop and I’ll visit your star next to Arnold Schwarzeneggar’s.”

Hours after Marty slammed the door behind him, Greg was surprised when he saw Marty’s name appear on his phone. He considered not picking it up. He wondered if Marty had really been strolling around on the Walk of Fame, snorting at Arnold Schwarzeneggar’s star.  Greg wanted to find out what his old teammate had to say, why he was reaching out now.

“Greg, I’ve got a plan. A compromise. A test. Do you want to hear me out?”

When Greg’s heart pounded as he wondered what the catch was, he realized that he really wanted to ride with his old team. The Belgians, they were just bodies, a means to an end. “Let’s hear it.”

“I want to see that you’ve still got it. Let’s find a one-day race. Your choice. Anything we can get into and train for. Milan. Flanders. Big enough for a challenge, but not a reputation make-or-break. You’ll be the leader. If we win that race, you get to take us to the Tour de France. Anything else, you agree to support me there. Unless you totally crash, in which case fuck you. I’m giving you a hard time, but I know you. You won’t crash. And then next year, you can retire, you can support me, whatever you want. It’s your call. But this year, we race in the Tour together no matter what. It’s just a question of who leads and who supports. And the one-day race will decide that”

A deep breath gave Greg enough time to figure it out. “I got three words for you man.”

“Don’t make me guess.”

“Fuck the Belgians,” Greg shouted.

Greg could hear his old teammate smash his fist into his palm. Marty brought the phone close to his mouth. “Believe me when I tell you this. I really do hope you win this one.”

“Oh, I’ll win it.”

“I got a question that I have to ask. Are you gonna ride this clean?”

“You’re asking me on a telephone if I’m doping? Are you tapping this line?” Greg was angry that Marty would bring something up like this now, but he admitted to himself it was a question that had to be asked.  He knew that doping was illegal, but he also knew that you couldn’t win unless you did.

“I’m not tapping the line.  We win as a team. I’m in it to win it. We work together.”

“Well, I hope you have a plan, because WADA has been sniffing up everyone’s ass.”

WADA was the World Anti-Doping Agency. Everyone in bicycling knew that doping had gotten out of control. WADA had a need to prove that they weren’t as toothless as the press cut them out to be.  They had gone on a quest to recruit some doctors and scientists that were possibly three quarters as smart as the doctors and scientists that the teams hired for themselves.

“Greg, we all know the rules have changed. That’s why you want to be with this team. Trust me when I say that we’re two, no ten, steps ahead of everyone else. That means the other teams, and it means the WADA fuckers who’ve never ridden a bicycle who look down on us.”

Greg gave some thought to what he could safely say. He wanted to trust Marty. “Marty, if you’ve got the tools, then I’m in it to win it too.”

“That’s all I needed to hear, buddy.”

The two men settled on the Milan Spring Classic held in March. It would give them three months to train and still leave another three months to prepare for the Tour de France. They’d know after Milan who would be leading, and they’d need to train in that formation. Even though much of the team had once been led by Greg, he had been absent. Marty was the de facto leader now and Greg needed to accept Marty’s leadership on many issues so that the team could function. Because of the way Greg had abandoned the team, Greg’s teammates treated him more with respect than with trust. Greg could see that whenever he led a strategy discussion, the new teammates would look to Marty for approval. “Are you okay with this?” Marty developed a little piece of sign language to communicate with the others. He’d jut his jaw out to signal “I’m okay with this” and he’d tilt his head to the side to signal “I’ll work this out with Greg later.”

Marty had also hired a new team doctor, Doctor Philbin. Every team had a doctor that was doping the team, and every team knew it. They knew it because they knew what an athlete was capable of without drugs. It was impossible to win. Increasing your red blood cells could give your body a 5% advantage in a six-and-a-half-hour endurance sport where victory was measured in one-tenth-of-one-percent. The introduction of a new doctor to the team gave Greg indigestion. Their old doctor Spadafore knew all their secrets. He knew what chemicals the team had been given; he knew when to time them in their routine so that they would be difficult to detect. But Marty knew something else. Spadafore was behind the times. WADA had finally caught up. All Spadafore’s methods were detectable now. Philbin was an innovator. He had a giant black and grey wave of hair and he wore thick black framed glasses that made him seem foppish and nerdy at the same time. “People talk about science and art as though they were different things. Science IS art.” It was Philbin’s favorite expression. “Science without art – that’s high school science.” Philbin understood the tests. He reproduced them all. He developed new tests for doping schemes that hadn’t been invented yet. It was his way to fully understand the difference between what was “untraceable” and what didn’t leave a trace. The goal was to change an athlete’s body in a manner that made it perform in a super-human manner, but through processes that were naturally human.  You don’t improve performance. You change the body so that it improves its own performance.

It took a few weeks before Greg could feel the difference. Not just in the way his body had improved, but in how it felt differently than when Dr. Spadafore had been manipulating it.  His strength and endurance felt more natural, as though his body had always been this way.

However, during training, things seemed off. If Dr. Philbin’s methods were untraceable, they lacked the edge of the old ways. Greg wasn’t feeling like a leader when he trained on hills, and his teammates could see it. 

“Are you still up for this?” Marty asked him. “The spot as a supporting sprinter is always here for you if you’d like me to lead. There’s no shame in falling back.”

“I’ll thank you for your offer, and I’ll give it back to you so that you can shove it. I’ve got this. I’m taking us to victory.”

But as Greg continued to train and fall behind his own expectations, he felt that Dr. Philbin’s doping routine was bullshit. Sure, there was a need to be cautious, but there was a need to win. Maybe this routine was good enough for the other teammates. They were doing well. This was not a winning situation for Greg.  Over the next two weeks, Greg regretted taking the deal with his old team. He felt that he had been set up to fail. His team was not going to win in Milan, and that meant Greg would be taking a supporting role at the Tour de France.  It was unbearable. Sure, he’d made a deal with Marty, but this was his life. This would be his last chance in France, and he was not going to go out as a domestique.  By the next week, Greg decided that if this routine wasn’t able to make him a winner in Milan, then fuck Marty.

He made a few calls and was able to reach out to his Belgian team to tell them that if his new team didn’t win in Milan, he’d be coming back. The Belgians were every bit as good as the team he was now training with. They had a doctor whose doping routine could give them all what they needed to win by being cautious but not paranoid. A doctor who wasn’t full of himself. And hey, maybe Greg was wrong and Dr. Philbin was going to deliver. Maybe this just took more time.

Either way, it felt like the right decision. In time Greg became impatient to get Milan behind him.  If he could win, then fantastic, he’d stick it out with Marty. If not, then just make a clean break and move on to the Belgian team where he could leave this experience, and this team, behind him in his glorious draft.

La Classicissima, the one-hundred-eighty-five-mile ride from Milan to San Remo, is the most prestigious one day race for professional bicyclists. For Greg, it was just an exhibition game. It was prep for the real competition of the Tour de France. But this year it was his test. Greg had to pull off a win for the team in order to earn the right to lead the team in France. This morning, Greg could feel alive with the blood flowing through his body. He was alert and strong and hungry for speed. Maybe Dr. Philbin was seeing a big picture that Greg had been too narrowly focused to see properly. One other thing that made Greg feel so alive was the knowledge that he was in a win-win situation. He could win La Classicissima and continue as the team leader for the Tour de France, or he could fall behind and rejoin his Belgian team. He was unstoppable. At the same time, he knew that Marty’s situation was less clear. If the team won today, Marty would not get to lead in France. If they lost, Marty would still take it hard. He hated to lose. But Greg knew that Marty wanted more than anything to lead in France.

“Dude – wake up!” Greg felt Marty slapping him on the shoulder. He started to feel himself sweat – even in the cold March morning air of Milan, Greg began to feel himself panic as he wondered if Marty would let him win. Was Greg at the top of a tower that Marty was going to kick out from under him? Suddenly, the promise of returning to the Belgian team no longer seemed to excite or comfort him. Greg needed to win. He needed to win today. Greg needed to watch the race with care. He’d watch to see if his teammates were really supporting him. He knew what they were capable of. He knew what Marty was capable of. If they didn’t give one hundred percent, Greg would know it. And then, fuck Marty. Really fuck him, that lying bastard. Greg couldn’t win without the support of his team, but if they even pretended to support him, to not look obviously bad, that might be all he needed.

The flag fell. And yes, Greg was right. He felt strong because he was strong. He was stronger than he’d been last year. It was only thirteen miles to Binasco, and Greg felt super-human. Less than one-tenth of the race in, he knew he could not lose so long as his teammates gave him even decent cover.  Greg bore down and focused on managing his energy for the next 80 miles when the peloton would reach the first climb at Passo del Turchino. That’s when he’d be relying on Marty to support him. Marty could lead the first attack to form a group of leaders that would break away from the mass of the peloton.

Ascending, Greg followed Marty carefully. An opening came to attack. Greg listened to the hill with his muscles and watched Marty with his eyes. His muscles were floating. On a hard climb, he knew that if it seemed like his legs were chafing against the air that he was dead. But the air seemed possessed by angels that stepped away and gently pressed him forward. He needed to draft behind his teammate, and it killed him that he could not lock his own eyes with Marty’s to see what his teammate’s attitude was. And yet, Marty was the professional. Two more teams had broken away as well, and they all formed a new lead group. Greg saw opponents closing in on both him and on Marty in a dangerous way that could send either of them out of control. Marty held fast, defending him. If the other riders continued their aggression, Marty might have to risk a crash to protect him. Marty was not backing off. They were approaching the peak of the climb and still Marty held his position defending Greg’s space. Finally, they were over and into the downhill. With the increased speed came increased danger, but the group fell into an orderly line and Greg could breathe. Yes, he was halfway through, and he was going to win. His teammate, even his most questionable teammate, gave him the draft and protection he needed.  The only other element was his own strength, and Greg felt he had the power of a firehose.

Much of the remainder of the route would be a sprint along the Ligurian Sea where he could concentrate his strength on speed and tactics rather than withstanding the pain of a climb. Then a final test on the climb inland at Poggio, and a final sprint to victory. If Marty was going to shaft him, he’d have done it at Turchino where it would be harder to make up energy and time. But he also knew that races are unpredictable. Maybe Marty didn’t want to make it too obvious when things got tight. No, that would be the perfect time. It would have looked as though Marty was just avoiding his own crash. The Poggio climb would surely be safe.

Then as the group left the coastal areas, came inland, and approached the final climb, Greg realized that this was where the danger was. The blind winding streets of chaos. The goal now was just survival. He had the energy still in reserve. He dared Marty to double cross him. The group pulled up the hills, pressed against each other on steep angles. Marty gave him cover, but Greg didn’t know who he should be more wary of, his opponents or his teammates. He watched Marty and could find no fault. They were reaching the peak and time was running out for a crisis. If he got past this, it was time to attack into the final sprint where he could leave the threatening world behind.

They approached the peak as Marty fell back to let Greg take over on his own. Greg took in the beauty of the final open challenge. He could break away for the final four miles and then there was nothing. No competitor could keep up. There were no tactics now. Just force and will. The firehose let loose. In time, he could finally see it, the finishing line and the huge frame inviting him to cross over and break through. No one was close. As Greg passed across the finish line he realized that it was only his lack of trust that had held him back. His team was truly his team. The crowds that had been cheering along the final mile and the finishing strip seemed to be shouting “Tour de France”. Milan to San Remo never happened. The past was irrelevant. Everything now was the future. It was a future that would secure his reputation as the Greatest of All Time, for a final vision of glory.

As he dismounted and then walked up to the podium to acknowledge his victory, he looked out over the crowd and imagined what it might be like if the mass of Italian admirers were all French. Did the French look different? He felt impatient. For everyone, this was a magnificent victory but for Greg this was just a ticket to try one last time for the true victory in a little over three months. Indeed, he would have been happy to pass this moment to Marty. Marty could have this win. It was a bauble. The true victory would be in Paris.

Descending, shaking out the cheers, Greg could see one of the Italian officials coming to congratulate him. He didn’t want to be bothered but knew that being gracious here was part of the job.

“Signore, forgive me. Please come with me.”

“Please, give me a few minutes. I want to congratulate my teammates.”

“No, signore, this does not concern your teammates. This is just you. They will explain. There have been irregolarità. Irregularities. Problems. Per favore, come with me into the tent.”

Inside, there were three rather dour looking people sitting behind a desk. One man in his forties wore a formal white shirt and thick black framed glasses perched at the tip of his nose. Two others, a man and a woman in their fifties, wore uniforms of the race officials.

“Signore, please sit,” the woman directed, and gestured to a folding metal chair that faced the trio. She had a welcoming way of speaking, as though she were inviting Greg into her home, only it was clear that this was an order, not an invitation. “Is there anything you would like to tell us about things you have been taking into your body in the past week?”

“What I’ve eaten?”

“What you’ve eaten. But also medicines and drugs.”

“Is this about doping? Is there a problem?”

The man in the shirt and glasses spoke up.

“We had tests run from this morning and found significant quantities of, well, a cocktail of quite a few things. EPO…”

“EPO???” Greg shouted back. I don’t know what you’re finding or what your tests are, but anyone would have to be an absolute idiot to dope up with EPO today. It is so well known. It is so easy to test for. Even if I were doping, which I absolutely am not, I would not use something like EPO.”

“And yet,” the man went on, “the tests were conclusive. And it is more than EPO. I said a cocktail…”

“Of known things, or some crazy shit I’ve never heard of?”

“Nothing that isn’t a well-known source of abuse, if that’s what you mean.”

Greg looked and saw that the other official was becoming agitated. The large caterpillars he had for eyebrows began to twitch. “Signore Porter, we are as confused as you seem to be. But I was the person take-care-of the blood sample from the moment we take it from you until we bring to the lab and I am present for all the tests. This is my job. No mistake is possible.”

“What about my teammates?”

The woman spoke up, “There is no problem with teammates. Clean.”

“MY FUCKING TEAMMATES ARE CLEAN, THEN WE’RE ALL…” and Greg had to hold back from saying that they were all on the same program, that it was impossible for him to show as being doped and they not, because they were all using the exact same drugs.

Until he realized they weren’t.

“Then we’re all clean. We eat the same. I am as dope free as they are.”

“And yet…” the man in the white shirt said, for the second time.

“Signore Porter,” the woman continued, “there is no other way to put this. The results are conclusive, and the tests were repeated. Your team is clean, and you are not. You realize that you are in very great trouble. Unfortunately for your team, we will be announcing that your victory is disqualified, and we will present the award to the team from Czechia. But more important, there will be further hearings and trials of legality, court trials, and if what we see today is correct, there is a great chance that you will be banned for life from racing and will having jail time to serve.”

Greg envisioned a giant map of France. He could see the entire path of the Tour de France painted in a bright yellow. The map was beginning to dissolve, like crystals of sugar in a gentle rain. The features were bleeding into each other. The coastline was crumbling. It was turning into a mass of blue and yellow syrup.

Marty. Where was Marty.

“If you need to take this victory away from me, I will accept it, but I also maintain that I was in no way involved in any illegal doping. I have been on the same nutritional regimen as every single member of my team. Are you going to arrest me now, or am I free to go?”

“Signore Porter,” that woman had such steely eyes, Greg wanted to stab her right between them, “we do not have the ability to hold you, but you may not leave the country. Your teammates have already been informed of your problems and they are outside if you wish to speak with them.”

Marty. Where is Marty.

Greg left the tent and shielded his eyes from the sun. Greg felt pushed on his heels. If his team was out there, he was feeling so blinded that he knew they’d see him before he saw them. He stumbled out into the crowd when he felt Marty’s ape like arms encircle him.

“My man! We heard! I don’t know what the fuck happened. This gotta be a mistake. This is not on you, man!”

And then the great ape put his lips right up to Greg’s ear and spoke in a gentle voice from deep in his throat.

“There was no fuckin’ way you were gonna take the lead in the Tour. Not with us. Not against us. Your dick got too big to fit in your pants, so I found a scalpel.”  

Marty pushed Greg away and gave him an affectionate smack on the shoulders with both hands. He spoke in a big avuncular voice and looked Greg straight into the eyes. “We’re gonna fight for you, and if you don’t prevail, we’re gonna win the Tour de France in your honor.” He turned to his teammates. “Greg has been shafted by the Italians and by the Gestapo at WADA, and he is the true winner of this race no matter what anyone says.  I say we go into the osteria and get shit faced before we start training again. Greg, if you don’t want to join us, I totally understand.”

“I think you should get shit faced.”

“Greg, my advice after something like this is, just lose yourself. Go into the countryside, enjoy the scenery, leave the world behind.  Then in a couple of weeks we’ll deal with these ridiculous charges against you.”

“I can’t leave the country you know.”

“Italy has a lotta mountains. Go somewhere they can’t find you. Come back when you’re ready. Or just say fuck it all and become a hermit. There are worse places to become a hermit than Italy.”

Greg’s former teammates left their bikes with the support group and began walking into town. They seemed undisturbed by their disqualification. They didn’t look back. They all knew. They knew from the beginning that this entire race had one purpose, to sacrifice Greg.

Reporters spotted him. He could no longer stay where he was. He wanted nothing to do with anything nor anyone. He found one of the drivers of a support truck and asked to be driven to the hotel in San Remo. He’d get there early before the others. He could lock himself in his room for the night. As they drove back, he borrowed a cell phone and began to examine a map of Italy. He couldn’t continue back along the coast where his former fans and the racing vultures would be straggling away for the next few days. He couldn’t go south, it would take him to Nice, in France, which was forbidden. It would only multiply his hell. There was one route of escape. It was north, through the mountains, toward Liguria, through tiny towns he’d never heard of.  The largest along the way, still tiny, was Garessio.  Perhaps a seven-hour bike ride. Perhaps there was somewhere he could stay. Perhaps indefinitely. The world of bicycle racing, the only world he knew, would perhaps fade away, along with the sins that had been laid upon him.

Another story about bicycle racing

More on the biblical portion Achrei Mot