thought this through?’
I’ve thought of little else. Upsetting women is what I seem to do effortlessly if wholly unintentionally. This isn’t about the Ben you all want me to be, but about the one I know I am. I’m not a Guy’s man, and I can’t be Amelia’s man because, lovely as indeed she is, she isn’t Ben’s woman.
‘But sweetie,’ Amelia sobbed, ‘what about our life in London? Notting Hill, for heaven’s sake. Marriage and babies? And a brilliant career at Guy’s? How could you do this to me?’
I’m not doing this ‘to’ you, I’m doing this for us – because of me. I don’t want a place with you in Notting Hill – I don’t even like Notting Hill. Marriage and babies? Maybe one day. With you? No. We’re young. You’re staggeringly beautiful. You’ll be OK.
That was five years ago. Amelia married Charlie three years ago and has just given birth to baby James. The nursery at their place in Notting Hill is exquisite. She’s idyllically happy. Ben spent three years in Chicago, another in Denver and was then head-hunted by Team US Megapac who made it worth his while to embark on a new and unusual career based in Boulder, Colorado.
And I bloody love it. Not so much the US specifically, but the job itself. This is medicine, the fact that I am needed to oversee the health of these riders, that I must observe how their bodies work, how they need to heal and what I can do to help them win and what I must do to keep them healthy too. Many of my riders have wives, girlfriends – and it is for them that I keep their men safe.
And you, Ben?
I love watching a body function – and pro cycling often means that the body is at its absolute peak but also its ultimate limit. I have to keep those bodies continually at the summit of the climb – I cannot let them hurtle downhill. It’s my job.
Interesting, but I was referring to the ‘wives and girlfriends’ bit. Do you only live for your job? Who is Ben when he isn’t assessing tendons or administering balancing doses of B12 and electrolytes?
I don’t understand the question. This is my life.
It’s your job.
Exactly.
Exactly. Who are you when you’re off duty?
What the fuck does that mean?
I said ‘off duty’, not off your guard. Ben York, you’re a doctor, but you’re also thirty, brawny, caring (and don’t just say that’s your job) and something of a catch yourself. It is an undisputed fact that doctors are fantasy men for many women. Especially one with an English accent out in America. That you should also be aesthetically charming on the eye – by that I mean six foot, fit and handsome – well, you’re the cake, the icing and the cherry on top that most women would want to consume in its entirety.
Most women are too calorie conscious.
Oh, very droll. Come on, Ben, post-Amelia details?
In the States they call it dating. If dating goes well, one proceeds to going steady.
How’s the dating going?
Fine.
That sounds final.
I date. But then I steady up.
Why?
As I say to my riders when they ask, sex is very good for mind and body.
And love nourishes the soul.
And can be utterly exhausting. These chaps need to be focused to race.
I wasn’t referring to your riders.
Ben York isn’t the only one in Team Megapac whose accent gains him much attention. Luca Jones was born to an Italian mother and English father and his resultant Anglo-Italianisms are inimitable and do strange things to women. He lives partly in Italy, partly in America. Currently, he is in Colorado, at the team headquarters. They leave for France tomorrow. As is Luca’s wont, he met a pretty girl in a bar last night, stayed up far too late, went way too far and is now not only tired but also late for a physical with Ben.
‘I’m later than late, bugger damn.’
Luca hurries himself into a tracksuit, winces at the bags under his eyes, slaps his cheeks to shift the pallid evidence of the previous night’s over-exertion, and darts out of the apartment to cycle the short distance to Ben’s surgery.
‘Have you seen it?’ Ben laughed, holding aloft the beautifully bound press information booklet the Megapac PR department had produced for the Tour. ‘It’s a fucking novel! A cheesy, toe-curling, piss-takable collectors’ item.’ He took Luca’s blood pressure, unwrapped the band from the rider’s arm and then took a sample of blood from the crook of his elbow with no more ado.
Luca flipped through the booklet. ‘The media are going to love this,’ he said. ‘Have you seen the pamphlet Zucca MV produce? I thought the team looked ridiculous posing amongst the brick and cement of the sponsor’s factory. But at least their riders are wearing their kit and have their bikes. This bloody photographer took hours. They put make-up on me, goddamn!’
Ben took the booklet from him and found Luca’s page. The photograph flattered a face that needed no flattering. Underneath it was Luca’s ‘mission statement’. Under that, his biographical and career details. Ben skimmed through it and laughed.
I love riding a bike – the thrill of racing, the dream and possibility of winning. Being part of a team is like being part of a family. Racing for Megapac has been, well, MEGA! For our sponsors and our supporters, thank you – I’ll race hard for you.
Luca Jones
‘Did you write that all by yourself?’ Ben asked jovially, fond of Luca, six years his junior, looking on him as a kid brother.
Luca punched him lightly. ‘Some woman phoned me and we talked about bikes for an hour. Somehow, she got it all into four sentences. I was so impressed – and she had a very nice voice – that I asked her out for a drink.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Ben shook his head.
‘As old as my Mama!’ Luca rued. He took the pamphlet from Ben. ‘Ben York, a brilliant young British doctor,’ Luca read very theatrically, ‘whose wisdom we admire, whose care we are so grateful for, whose advice we trust, whose friendship we cherish.’ Luca regarded Ben, clicked his heels and saluted the doctor. ‘Hail, Mighty Medicine Man, my Lord, my Keeper, Great and Godly Giver of Vitamin B12 and Creatine.’
‘You know they’ve printed over 3,000,’ Ben informed him, taking the pamphlet from Luca to fan himself.
Luca nodded. ‘And have you seen the baseball caps and T-shirts? The journalists are getting them too.’
‘Not to mention the cereal bars,’ Ben elaborated. ‘You know they’re emblazoned with the logo and the words “as depended on by our brave team”?’
Luca’s jaw dropped. ‘I never bloody ate one in my life!’
Ben manipulated Luca’s ankles. ‘If you riders don’t impress the media, this treatise and accompanying branded freebies certainly will.’
‘We’re a friggin’ wildcard team,’ Luca exclaimed. ‘It was only confirmed we’d be racing the Tour a month ago.’
‘Megapac are a wildcard team only because they’re not ranked in the UCI top sixteen,’ Ben said, almost sternly. ‘It has nothing to do with the quality of the riders – merely that you’re a relatively new team and therefore have amassed no track record.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Luca said, leaning forward so Ben could listen to his chest.
‘Don’t rush your career,’ Ben mused. ‘If