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to him, urgently.
    “It’s Jens,” said the man, apparently called Jens.
    “Sorry! Okay. Let me take your wheel, though!”
    Jens understood. He nodded and reached down to his broken bike then unclipped the front wheel as Buck released his smashed one from his frame. Jens handed the good wheel to Buck, who slammed it into his frame and wrenched down on the quick release lever to secure it before leaping aboard his bike. “Thanks!” he yelled. He tried sitting on the seat, but it jabbed painfully into his leg. He’d forgotten about the cushion being ripped off. All that remained were the two metal rails where the cushion should be bolted. He’d have to stand up for the rest of the race. On his sore legs. Shit.
    He pushed all questioning thoughts from his mind. Blood trickled down his raw elbow and oozed under his torn kit. He felt rage at the unfairness of it. Rage at his soreness. Rage that he’d crashed yet again when he had barely any chance of winning anyway. Rage that he could lose it all right here. He’d have plenty of time to heal from his road rash when he was shoveling manure at a cheese farm. Hell no.
    Buck, his face in a grimace, accelerated away from the crash and headed up the front straight. He could just see Polini and the other riders rounding the first turn and heading down the hill into the sweeping turn. I’m coming for you, he thought.
    Descending into the sweeping back side of the course, he flattened himself as much as he could without a seat, presenting as little resistance to the wind as possible. The crashed riders had dragged themselves out of the way for the most part. One of the riders with Polini had to bunny hop over a broken piece of handlebar, but they were only slightly impeded. Buck charged through the broken bikes just seconds behind Polini’s group and caught them on the front straight. The rest of the pack, the ones who could still ride, were getting back on their bikes and riding too, but they’d be one lap down from Polini, Buck, and the two other men.
    The race was more than half over. Buck didn’t have a watch on, but he knew time was winding down. He was also vaguely aware of pain radiating like waves from his wounds, but he ignored it. He ignored his screaming sore leg muscles, too.
    Another lap down, he and the sprinters flashed over the finish line and Buck looked toward LeMond to see if he was holding up the lap counter yet. He was. Twenty laps to go.
    Next to LeMond—with the most gorgeous look of concern Buck had ever seen on a woman’s face—stood Faith. She was screaming something. Buck’s addled brain could only barely understand the words: Go Buck!
    The words forced something powerful and terrifying to happen to his insides. Sound and pain and sweat all mixed and faded away, and he rose from his body to see himself tucked down onto his bike. He was battered. He was bloody and tired.
    Buck looked deep within himself to find that extra kick of power. He reached for it, and it was there.
    Polini and the other two riders never saw his attack coming. Buck coasted briefly for a second or two on the back section of the course, giving him some space to gain speed before sailing past so the other riders wouldn’t have time to get on his wheel. It worked. He pounded up the hill, rounded the corner at the swimming pool, and drilled each leg onto the pedals at a furious tempo. He was using the highest gear he had, never bothering to look back. He was at peak speed. If they caught him now, he was done for.
    The laps ticked off. Fifteen to go. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. At ten, Buck risked a glance back to see how close Polini and the other riders were. He could see Polini shouting at the other two, goading them into working together to catch Buck, but they looked completely exhausted. He thought he even saw Polini reach out and whack one of the riders with a backhand to the arm.
    At five laps to go, Polini was alone, chasing Buck up the front straight. Buck kept up his