Sixth

The woman at the entrance wished him luck and asked whether he'd be back next time. Marten said he didn't know yet. She glanced at the list in front of her and moved a pen aside. To her it had been an ordinary question. He took his things and went on.

The hall smelt of warm air, coffee and clothes left too long in a bag. He found Bram at their spot. His coach was talking to Rik and made room when Marten joined them. They went through the afternoon. Ten kilometres, forty laps, twenty men. No intermediate sprints to make up for a bad position with points later. The finish was the finish.

'I know the event,' Marten said.

'That's one thing in your favour, then.'

He got changed. His ordinary shirt went over the chair back, his bag beneath it. He left his phone inside. Yesterday he'd seen Fenna laughing with Madelon after the semi-final. He'd waited in case she saw him again, then gone home. It hadn't felt like a major decision. Just something he apparently could still do.

Now he saw her further off. She was with Gita, tugging at her bag strap. She noticed him before he could choose whether to greet her. She came over.

'Sleep well?' she asked.

'Enough.'

'Me too. As far as I know.'

He laughed. He wanted to tell her how long he'd been awake, what he'd eaten, that he'd fallen asleep during a film the night before and missed precisely the wrong part. Instead he asked when her final started. It was scheduled after his race.

'I'd better get a move on, then,' he said.

'I'd try that anyway.'

She looked at his mouth, and for a moment he forgot they weren't alone. Her face told him she'd noticed. She stepped back.

'Good luck, Marten.'

'You too, later.'

He watched her until Bram asked whether he needed to sort anything out. Marten shook his head. He could hardly say he'd rather have stood in a corridor somewhere with Fenna, with nobody needing them. He put on his shoes and began his preparation.

Later, on the bike, his restlessness diminished. It didn't go away. There was simply more to occupy it in what came next. He looked at the men around him. Rik made a comment to a rider whose number was crooked. The man asked whether Rik would have so much time for that during the race.

The first lap felt more crowded than the number of men suggested. Everyone had legs, a plan and a reason to want this particular position. Marten found a wheel he could stay with. The others' noise came close and moved away again. He felt his own bike beneath him and wanted to be nowhere else.

Someone went early. Not far, but far enough to make the bunch decide. A few men pushed on. Marten moved with them without wanting to pay for the whole effort himself. The rider came back. For a moment they spread out, then bunched again.

He'd known it would go like this and still enjoyed seeing it happen. He was still there in time, recognising a gap before it closed. He wasn't only watching the strongest man ahead. He also saw who looked as though he'd like to stop his legs for a moment but had to keep turning them, who grew fidgety when the pace dropped, who turned his head towards a friend.

A few laps in, Rik drew beside him. No conversation, just a brief glance. Then he was further up again. Marten let him go. He didn't have to answer every move as though he'd never get back otherwise.

The bunch stretched out. Marten realised he was too far back for comfort and worked his way up to where he could see what was happening at the front. It cost him effort. Not much in itself, but something he'd have to find again later if he kept slipping back in the same way.

The pace stayed high enough to keep the questions brief. Go or not. Hold a wheel, leave a little space, get back on. There was no polished explanation between decisions. He could make it into a coherent story later. Now he simply had to ride it.

About halfway through, two men went in quick succession. First the rider in the light shirt, then a man with red sleeves who got across quickly enough to make it a two-man break. Marten saw it. Someone accelerated in front of him. He waited a moment because the wheel ahead was already moving, because he didn't want to close everything down himself again, because there was always more than one reason for a decision.

The two stayed ahead. The gap wasn't unbridgeable yet. Marten did a turn to try to get the chase going. Beside him someone came forward, did something resembling a turn and then let the pace drop again. It didn't flow. The bunch was still eighteen men, with eighteen different ideas about who ought to do something now.

He felt irritation rising. He knew this too. A shared interest just short of being strong enough to produce a shared effort. He wanted to shout up the line that they should ride. Asking rudely wouldn't make them go faster.

He went himself. Not for a solo act of heroism, but because the distance ahead was still a race to him, not a story for later. A few men came with him. He heard them, felt the pace pick up and hoped it would keep going now.

For a lap it looked that way. Then he had to let a wheel come past, and the bunch came back to him. The two ahead rode on. The leaders still hadn't gained a lap. He could see them, much too far away to find the sight reassuring.

Marten clenched his teeth. He'd spent effort and got too little back. Nor did he have the legs to ride away now and pretend he needed none of that cooperation. He had to know that while the race was still happening, not over a drink afterwards.

A few laps followed in which he thought about nothing to do with another season. His mouth was dry, his thighs burned, and he stared at the back ahead as though he might find something there to save him another metre. He didn't know the man well. For these minutes he mattered more than almost everyone he did know.

The two leaders held their advantage. The bunch could see it now too. The pace rose again, as though everyone wanted to hurry and make up for what they'd let go. Marten moved up. He wasn't ready to settle for the position he happened to be in.

At the board he saw the remaining laps come down. He didn't need to keep working it out again. The distance seemed to be shrinking while the two ahead held their own rhythm. He couldn't see their faces. Suddenly that annoyed him, as though they were working less hard because he couldn't see their effort.

Rik was ahead, another man between them. A space opened to the side. Marten recognised the temptation to use it at once. He had little left. But not nothing. He rode on, keeping the men ahead in sight.

The last laps changed the sound. Someone stood in the spectator seats; he saw it without knowing who. There were shouts. The two ahead still had enough of a gap to hold their places.

He heard the bell. Not a fine, rounded note, but something cutting through everything else, for which his legs had nothing extra to give. He felt the bunch accelerate. He had to ride on what was left now.

Rik moved up with them. Marten no longer had the wheel exactly where he wanted it. Another rider came between them, pushed on and made him choose again. He could wait behind this man until it was too late, or ride the metres nobody would give him.

He went. His face tightened and he could do nothing about it. The space beside him became a bike and then another. He heard someone breathing very close. Ahead of them the leaders had already gone for the line. Here it wasn't over.

Coming out of the last bend he could still see three men from his group ahead. He gained on one, got closer and couldn't quite reach him. The line shot beneath him. His body still wanted to push when it no longer counted for anything.

He kept riding. The men around him loosened, grew larger, became people whose shoulders could drop again. Rik looked his way and raised a hand. Marten nodded. He couldn't yet have said what for.

Sixth, it turned out when he came back. The two ahead had stayed away. He was fourth of the eighteen behind. No lap lost, no different arithmetic to improve the afternoon.

Back at the kit he sank into the chair. Bram gave him a drink. Marten took it and couldn't get the cap open straight away. His fingers seemed to have started a conversation of their own. He rested the bottle on his knee and tried again.

'Sixth,' he said.

'Yes.'

'I should have gone with those two.'

Bram stood beside him. 'You saw it.'

'That doesn't make it better.'

'No.'

Marten looked at the track. Other riders came into view. The afternoon went on without anyone needing to ask whether he was ready. He wanted the race again, from that one lap when he'd waited. It was an unreasonable desire, and very precise.

Bram asked what had happened afterwards. Marten described trying to get the bunch to come with him, the legs he'd already needed by then, and the wheel that hadn't helped him at the end. His coach let him talk and corrected one detail. People had taken turns, he said, just not for long enough.

Marten nodded. It mattered. He didn't want to improve his own race by declaring everyone else useless. He'd ridden to sixth. Better than last time, not good enough to get what he'd wanted this afternoon.

By the time Rik came over, Marten had his breath back. His friend looked at the bottle in his hand.

'Anything left in there? You looked as though you were trying to open it with your eyes.'

'It's a new system.'

'Handy. I was seventh. You can demonstrate.'

They stood together for a while. Rik wanted to know where he'd got past. Marten pointed and described it so that, in the story, he'd probably moved a little more easily than in real life. Rik raised his eyebrows. Marten laughed and toned it down. He didn't have to turn it into a farewell speech to admit he cared.

After changing, he spread his wet kit over an open bag and looked for his ordinary shirt. He put it on. Through the fabric he still felt how warm his back was. He was disappointed and hungry. He couldn't remember those two ever politely waiting their turn.

At the passage he found Fenna. She held her helmet against her side and looked at him before speaking.

'I saw you.'

'I thought you might.'

'Good ride.'

He shrugged. She let the words stand without asking whether he agreed. He was grateful. She glanced towards the track. Her own final was still to come.

'Will you watch?' she asked.

'Yes.'

She nodded, and he saw what the answer did to her before she turned away. He still had to put his own bike away and couldn't simply follow. He took it back to their spot, picked up his food, then went to find somewhere he could see the final.