TWICE VICTORIOUS

By

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon
2008

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein
are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed
as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-055-7
ISBN 10: 1-60174-055-7

Copyright © 2002, 2008 by Judith B Glad

Cover art and design by Judith B. Glad

Previously published in a slightly shorter version by Treble Heart
Books

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this
work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now
known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or
publisher.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

For my son, Chris, who introduced me to the world of bicycle racing.
He
showed me what incredible dedication it takes to be a winner.

And for Neil, because he was the best in the world.

~*~

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks go to Sima Trapp, who competed in the 2001 HP Laserjet Women's
Challenge. She very articulately shared her knowledge of how it feels to ride in world class
women's races, as well as her thoughts on why she does something that requires so much
discipline and courage. Good luck in your racing career, Sima.

Thanks also to Dr. Mike Murray, Director of the Alpenrose Velodrome, for advice
and assistance, and to Chris Glad, who read the final manuscript and made sure I had the
bicycle stuff right.

WARMUP: Getting one's body moving
gently to circulate blood and warm muscles before strenuous
exercise.

"There's Stell. She's so damn fast." Rick pointed toward the grassy area where
several women, all clad in bright colored jerseys and black cycling shorts, were bending
and twisting.

Adam would have thought their contortions impossible, if he hadn't once done the
same stretches. "Which one is she?" He didn't really care, but Rick was so enthusiastic
about this particular woman that he felt he ought to show some curiosity.

"Green jersey." Rick had his glasses to his eyes again. "Something's happening on
the back stretch. I wish I could..." He stood up, but Adam paid little attention.

There were four women in green jerseys on the grass behind the grandstand. One
wore dark green trimmed with pink, three lighter green highlighted with yellow. He
supposed one of them was the famous Estelle McCray, cyclist extraordinaire.

Big deal.
Adam said, "I can hardly wait." Fortunately Rick didn't hear the
sarcasm in his voice.

He wouldn't even be here if he hadn't been outvoted. He still couldn't get over how
Juliana and Mom had ganged up on him. KIWANDA OuterWear, the family firm, was
doing just fine. There was still a vast, untapped market for outerwear just waiting for them.
Why this sudden insistence on branching out, anyway?

He watched the women. One was tall, dark, handsome. He couldn't call her
beautiful, not even pretty in the usual sense, but she was still one of the most attractive
women he'd ever seen. Her movements were incredibly graceful, yet spoke of the
controlled power inherent to most top athletes. Her dark hair was cut close to her head; her
body was lean, with long muscles rippling under ivory skin; her smile was radiant.

In spite of his disagreement with the Marketing Department's idea of using
amateur athletes in the introductory campaign, he had to admit she would look perfect in
KIWANDA CycleWear.

Rick called his attention back to the race. "Only one more lap."

Adam supposed he might be more interested if he could see the cyclists all the
way around the track, but for three minutes of each four-minute lap, they were out of sight.
He turned again to watch the women at their stretching. At least they were doing
something. But they were no longer on the grass.

He looked around. Fifteen or twenty women were standing at the gate to the track,
just back of the grandstand. The tall brunette was among them, astride a bright, neon
yellow bicycle. He decided to root for her in the next race. That bike would be hard to
miss.

The first few laps of the women's race were equally unexciting. On the third lap
the women were just coming into sight around the turn at the head of the straightaway
when a bell rang three times.

Rick sat up, raised his binoculars again. "This is a Prime lap, so we'll see some
action...ah, there they go."

Adam saw the mass of riders shift, change its configuration. "What's that?"

"First across the finish line will get a premium, usually something one of the
sponsors has donated. Sometimes money. There! Stell's going for it!"

One of the women in a pink and green helmet accelerated. Adam couldn't see how
she could find a path between the other riders, so closely were they packed together. Nor
could he decide whether she was the one who'd caught his eye. "The one moving up?"

His breath caught in his chest as he saw a woman slip between two other riders, so
close that he wondered why her handlebars hadn't caught theirs. He noticed that her bike
was bright neon yellow, and suddenly the race became exciting. "Damn reckless," he said.
"They can't be more than inches apart. She's going to break her fool neck."

The riders were almost in front of him now. The small crowd went silent. Tires
hissed against wet asphalt. Only four riders were ahead of his favorite now, and they might
as well have been standing still.

A woman on a red bicycle seemed to wobble as she looked back over her
shoulder. Two wheels barely kissed and suddenly both bikes were a snarl of flashing
spokes, a candy cane twist of yellow and red. Estelle McCray flew over the tangle, hit the
ground, and slid, arms and legs flopping bonelessly as the track surface turned them from
ivory to blood red.

The rest of the riders managed to avoid the disaster and continued their almost
silent way past the finish line. Adam heard a bell sound as he leapt down the grandstand in
Rick's wake.

He stood back, aware that more knowledgeable hands than his were efficiently
pulling the bicycles apart, giving aid to the two women. He couldn't take his eyes off the
still figure in green jersey and black shorts. Her face was relatively unmarked. Thank God!
Not her arms and legs. He wondered if there was a square inch of skin left on her exposed
calves and arms.

"Is she all right?"

No one heard his question, or if they did, they were too busy to answer. He stood,
useless and helpless, as someone brought a shiny Mylar blanket to cover her. The woman
whose inattention had caused the collision was led away, limping. Two men remained
kneeling beside the unmoving figure, checking her pulse, her breathing, but not moving
her.

A young man whose jersey matched Estelle McCray's trotted up. "Ambulance
coming."

Adam marveled at the lack of emotion in his voice. Apparently he was a member
of the same team, yet he didn't seem to care that she was unconscious and bleeding.

"Will she be all right?" This time Adam's question was more insistent. Again no
one answered.

The pack of women riders whispered past, only feet away. Absently he listened to
an announcement that only one lap remained in the race.

Adam raged inside. These people were acting as if nothing had happened. He
grabbed Rick's arm. "What the hell's the deal here? Don't they care? She could be severely
injured, could be dy--"

"Shut up." Rick pulled him several feet away from the circle around the fallen
cyclist. "Cool it, Adam. There's nothing more we can do until the ambulance gets here." He
raised one eyebrow at his boss. "You know that."

Sheepishly, Adam nodded. With all his Red Cross training, he did know that
everything was being done correctly. He couldn't explain the anxiety that was threatening
to overwhelm him, didn't understand his need to do something--anything--to help the
woman sprawled limp upon the track.

An ambulance wheeled onto the track. The EMTs went about their work with an
efficiency and dispatch that always impressed him. Soon they were carefully moving
Estelle McCray onto a stretcher, loading her into the ambulance.

"Will she be all right?" Adam demanded.

"Too early to tell," the EMT replied as she walked around to the driver's door.
"Are you a relative?"

"No. No, I..."

"I'll follow you to the hospital." It was the young man who'd called the ambulance.
"I'm her cousin."

"Right." Within seconds the ambulance was slowly moving away. Adam watched
it, unaccountably concerned for her.

For brief seconds while the EMTs were checking her for broken bones, her eyes
had opened, wandered sightlessly, and focused on Adam's face. A fleeting smile had
touched her mouth before her lids drifted closed.

He knew he was overreacting. Estelle McCray meant nothing to him, except as
one of several candidates for a job he didn't even believe was necessary. There was no
reason for him to feel this unaccountable responsibility for her well-being. As a serious
amateur athlete, she knew the risks she took for nothing more lasting than a fancy trophy
and a week's notoriety.

She had to be all right.

* * * *

Stell woke, pulled out of grotesque dreams by the pain. It was unfocused, filling
her, containing her, melding with her until it became her. It rose and receded like ocean
waves, drowning out sight and sound, confusing perception. She knew she should fight it,
but she couldn't. She had to stay quiet, still, so it would forget about her and go away.

Even when they spoke to her, she didn't move, except to smile. That was safe, for
a smile would show the pain she was still detached from it. So she listened and murmured
sounds of understanding in response to meaningless syllables. And she smiled, to fool the
pain. Pretty soon the people in white went away, and the pain followed them.

When she woke again, she waited for the pain to rediscover her. It did, but it had
shrunk curiously and lacked the power to dominate her. Its waves were mere ripples, gentle
reminders that it was only waiting, not tamed.

She opened her eyes, no longer afraid to move. Her arms were covered with
bandages and she could feel the tightness of tape across her forehead, see scabs on her
hands.

An accident of some sort. Almost certainly on her bike. But where? When? She
wasn't even sure what day it was, let alone how she'd gotten here.

If someone would just tell her where
here
was, she'd be a lot happier.

Disjointed memories drifted in and out of her mind through the next hour.
Yesterday--yesterday?--had been the season's first race at PIR. She could remember
checking her bike, mending the popped seam in her shorts. The team jerseys had arrived
last week, but there had been a problem with the logo on the shorts and they'd been
delayed, so she'd worn a plain black pair, old ones that she usually kept for training.

She tried to relax, but her mind wouldn't quit. It kept trying to fit all the fragments
of memory back together. Together, and into wild visions, bizarre juxtapositions of
memory and fantasy...bright colors blurring into people all around her...sparkling, spinning
wires, circling before her. A warm, voice, full of worry...white clad figures trying to tell
her something she didn't want to hear...the pain, holding her captive so nothing else
mattered.

When Warren stuck his head through the curtain around her bed, she felt she'd
never been more happy to see anyone in her life.

"You gonna live?" Her cousin's homely face was split in a wide grin. He
shouldered through the curtain and set a Mason jar filled with forsythia on the bedside
table. "God, you look awful!"

She found it hurt when she laughed, too. "I feel like a refugee from a sanding
machine," she admitted. For a second, there were two Warrens beside her bed. Her eyes
were playing the same strange tricks as her mind.

"What happened?" she asked Warren, when he finally coalesced into a single
person. "Is my bike badly damaged?"

"Totaled. What do you remember?"

"Nothing. I keep getting flashes, but they don't seem to fit anywhere...like pieces
of dreams." There was one in which a tall stranger stared at her until her toes wanted to
curl.

"It was a Prime lap. You'd been drafting Janet, and she moved aside so you could
sprint. You were doin' fine, moving up through the pack, when Leslie Franck cut in front
of you." He paused, frowning.

Stell knew what he thought of Leslie.

"It was the damnedest thing I've ever seen. Just like she wanted you to hit her."
Shaking his head, he reached out and took Stell's hand. "I'm really sorry about your
leg."