Eighty. I wrote the number on the whiteboard in the garage, between the winter bike and the pump. Tim Merlier won the last stage of the Eneco Tour in Arnhem, in a sprint, and it is his eightieth victory. His second of the week, after Ede.
I sprint too. Every Sunday the ride leaves the square in Lasne at twenty past nine, and on the way back there is the village sign. We race for it. I have kept count since I joined the club: I have won four. Four signs. One in February, it was freezing and the others had numb hands on the hoods.
Merlier launched from far out, came past Lukas Kubis and beat Groenewegen and the rest by several lengths. I launch from far out too. Mostly because I do not know how to launch from close.
Now, the column. Take off the backpack, which weighs on you in a sprint. Take off the coffee at the top of the climb, drunk just before. Take off the tractor I had to let through, sir, on the last straight of October. Take off the guy who zigzags. I am left with four signs. He is left with eighty victories. Seventy-six apart, even with the whole column, and I have not yet counted Ede twice.
Four signs, Xavier. At what pressure?
I do not remember. At the café we argued till noon, and nobody has left me next Sunday’s sign.
It’s true, we checked: Sporza.
