by Peter Robertson

Created on: December 25, 2007

At last, a reprieve, what an intense effort. I took a moment to close my eyes and savor my heart rate dropping.

Suddenly, an attack from a Spanish rider! I clung to his wheel, I had to this wasn't just a bicycle ride, it was the Tour de France.

How could I, a mere domestique in his first Tour, mix it with the sprinters? My job was to pamper our GC rider, drag him up tortuous climbs and collect drink bottles. "What do you think you're doing?" the team Director shouted through my earpiece. "If you're gonna go for it, make it good." I had the green light, it wasn't going to be a cruising bicycle ride for me, I was looking at my dream, a stage win.

The peleton was a snaking line of fury and I was at its head. We were hurtling toward the center of Nantes and my appointment with stardom. Everything was a blur at this speed and the noise of the crowd had transformed from an occasional cheer to a continuous roar.

Two kilometers to go, Boonen appeared menacingly confident as his Quick Step team lead the way. Bettini and Hushovd pushed forward, awaiting their moment to pounce. There was another line forming to the left, it was the Milram squad carving new ground for the veteran Zabel. I had to join one of these locomotives or risk being spat out the back. I steered toward Boonen, and was about to seize his wheel when a hand on my shoulder blocked me, it was McEwen. The cunning Aussie wasn't about to let an unknown grab the Belgian's prized pulling power. Obediently I swung in behind. There's a pecking order in any bicycle ride, and I was on the lowest rung. However, this will be MY day. I stood and sprinted to regain speed.

Barricades kept the crowd at bay as we flew under the "flamme rouge". Around a tight bend, and those crafty enough silently worked toward their finishing gear. The lead out men were done, allowing their sprint kings a shot at glory. Zabel joined Hushovd and I was still behind Boonen and McEwen. Quick Step had timed it perfectly and Boonen was catapulted toward the line. McEwen sprinted, surely it was too soon. I matched Boonen with energy to spare, 50 meters to fame. I stood and pushed every muscle fiber to the limit. There was only daylight now between me and the finish, then crash!

My head whacked the ground and I was staring at my garage wall. My right foot was still clipped into the pedal and my bike lay at an awkward angle but remained locked into my new trainer. All I could recall was the salesman telling me "This thing will turn you into a champion." I wasn't a champion, but as the rain that interrupted my bicycle ride pounded on the roof, I smiled at the thought of coming so close.

Learn more about this author, Peter Robertson.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.