Chloes Return Pt 04

This is the last part of a story which continues Chloe's timeline from "Riding With Dirty Girls," and "Chloe Rides Again." You can probably get something out of the sex scenes in isolation, but for background, you probably need to have read the other series' first.

This is a work of fiction. A figment of the author's imagination. It is not meant to be big on realism. It's a fantasy. The culture around world-class women's cycling probably isn't a hotbed of lesbian lust, but wouldn't it be fun if it were?

All characters are fictitious, and any that are involved in sexual activities are over 18.

***

Chloe's Return Pt. 04

For once, I didn't need the alarm. I was awake and staring at the ceiling when it went off, and I silenced it almost instantly. Pam began to stir and I looked across to the other bed, smiling to myself at her messed up hair, sticking up like a brush.

I thought about our sex, and her extraordinary clit, and I had a sudden urge to burrow under her bed covers, part her legs, and suck it again, but I resisted.

It was funny. I was captivated by her pussy because it was so rude, extreme, almost freakish, and she was captivated by mine because it was her idea of perfection. We made a good pair in that respect.

I lay thinking about all my other sexual partners, and how lucky I was to have them all in my life. Just thinking about them gave me a little thrill. I think I love them all in some way. Yes, I am a greedy girl, but Licia once told me I just have so much love in me that no one person could ever consume it all. It was kind of her to say that and, I guess, it's kind of true.

'Morning Chloe.' Pam was awake.

'Morning.' I turned to face her with a sunny smile, which she returned.

'Ready for the race?'

Oh yeh, the race. Today was the big one. The final stage. The toughest stage yet seen in women's cycling, culminating in the toughest of all climbs. The Alto de l'Angliru.

I got up and peered out of the window. Perfect. Asturias was serving up the sullen weather it is infamous for. Our sunny smiles were the only sunshine to be seen for several miles.

'Looks like a typical Angliru day,' I said.

The men's Vuelta had been up the Angliru 7 or 8 times, and almost all of them had been in low cloud and rain. Its brutal steepness, and the bad conditions had made it infamous, with many riders hating it with a passion.

The men's Vuelta is in September, but it didn't look like ascending it in May instead was going to make any difference. It was still a dismal day.

'Crap weather,' I grumped.

'It'll weed out the weaklings,' said Pam with an evil grin.

We had a little more time today (phew) because, although the stage was long and had a midday start, we only had to travel 30km, to a big sports centre on the western edge of Oviedo, a simple 40-minute bus ride.

It was not yet 8am, and breakfast was at 8:30, so we had a little spare time. I was very tempted to jump her bones again (as Licia might have said) but I fought it off because, well, it seemed inappropriate on the morning of a race.

She had no such qualms though: 'You know, you didn't ought to walk around naked in front of me, Chloe...' I smiled at her coquettishly. It does things to my clit.' She pushed her bed covers down to reveal that I had indeed done things to it. There it was, protruding rudely between her lips, and looking as mouth-watering as ever.

'Fancy a quick 69?' she said.

That was it. Sensible, prudent resolve out of the window. She pointed to my bed and I crawled onto it and lay down obediently, as she got up from her bed and came across.

She knelt astride my head (and OMG her clit looked even more stunning from this angle) and started spreading her legs, bringing her dangly lips closer to my face. I tilted my head back to meet her and she pushed her clit down with a finger and slipped it between my lips, then dropped her body forward to eat me.

She wrapped her arms around my thighs and spread me wide, then we ate each other wildly to fantastic morning orgasms. I love morning orgasms. They can be so much more intense somehow.

It was astonishing how horny for each other we still were after the previous night's debauchery, but our ardour seemed undiminished. Her clit was just as tumid and delicious, and my pussy was just as wet and fervid. It was sublime.

A bad idea on race day? I don't think so.

We didn't leave ourselves much time for a shower, and we arrived at our breakfast tables a minute or two late, looking flushed, with hair still wet.

Of course, I was starving, and I indulged myself mightily, with about 5 courses. Every time I went back to the buffet for more, I just said 'Angliru fuel,' which seemed to amuse everyone no-end.

Robbie and Gabi couldn't really talk tactics with other teams nearby (thank God) but I already knew what the plan was: Make the third climb hard, to reduce the size of the group, cover any dangerous attacks, wait until the steepest part of the Angliru, then attack, hoping to put at least 13 seconds into Lucy and snatch the red jersey from her at the last gasp.

It sounded simple, but on a stage like this, things never are.

***

Stage 7: Oviedo - l'Angliru

158km / 4125m of climbing (gulp)

The stage looked like a proper bastard. It formed a kind of distorted letter G, starting in Oviedo, and heading north and west to Grado, then turning south to cross the Puerto de Marabio (climb number 1). It then meandered back eastwards to cross the Alto de La Cobertoria and descend to Pola de Lena. Then commenced a classic Vuelta stage finish, heading north over the Alto de El Cordal to meet that final vicious spike -- the Angliru.

The first three climbs were all category 1 and 2 -- hard enough to give your legs a bit of a pummelling - and were put in as "softeners," making sure we'd all be nice and tired when we arrived at the Angliru, which was, of course, in the "Especial" category, containing long sections above a 20% gradient, and a max of 24%. Even that 24% section - named the Cueña de Cabra (goat path) - is no short little ramp. It actually sustains 23/24% for a few hundred metres. A real brute.

I had little experience of such a climb. I had ridden Hardknott Pass in the English Lake District, which has similarly steep sections, but the Angliru is an altogether bigger and more sustained ascent.

However, I did have a secret weapon. I had got Karl (one of the team mechanics) to install a larger rear cassette, which would give me a lower bottom gear. I had read so many tales of people suffering on the Angliru because their gearing wasn't low enough, and I didn't want that to happen to me.

I had to get a bit shirty with him though: When I asked for the bigger sprocket, he laughed. 'What? Chloe Lyons, best climber in the peloton, wants a granny gear?'

'Yeh, remember when Wilco, best rider in the world at the time, lost the Angliru cos his gearing was too high?' I said, pointedly, 'Well that's not going to happen to me. Choosing gears that are too high is just macho crap. Get the bloody 34 on.'

'Yes miss,' he said, giving me a sardonic salute, and I marched off, grousing to myself.

I learned later that I wasn't the only rider to request a 34 tooth sprocket for the Angliru.

I say secret weapon, but I also had another one. Molly. She was flying out this morning, and would be collected at the airport and whisked up the mountain in one of Protime Femmes' team cars, so she could give me a shout near the top, and a shout from Molly always gives me a lift.

On the bus ride to Oviedo, I observed that the rain was easing off, and the forecast was for an improvement later in the day, so I kept my fingers crossed. I didn't fancy a repeat of what happened a few years back, when it was so wet and slippery that team cars got stuck on the climb, tyres slipping on the painted slogans of fans, and the stage ended in chaos.

That was also the year that was marred by multiple crashes on the descent of El Cordal (immediately before the Angliru), where subsidence of the mountainside has made the road treacherous.

I didn't dwell on those things though. I kept my positive head on. Today, I had the chance to do something great.

The leader board of the GC before the stage looked like this:

1. Lucy van Barle (AR) - 16:58.50

2. Chloe Lyons (TCZ) - +00:00.12

3. Olga Avonova (AR) - +00:01.21

4. Elisa Abruzzi (TVV) - +00:01.46

5. Tera Griffin (TCZ) - +00:02.06

6. Zara Visto (TCZ) - +00:02.51

It was tantalisingly close. The gap to Lucy was tiny, but I knew that a bad day on the Angliru could cost minutes. My pre-race target of being on the final podium was still not completely safe.

I got a 'good luck' and a thumbs up message from Molly, and one from Licia which, as usual, made me giggle: 'Good luck, babe. Go for red, or get back in bed.' She's just ace.

The rain was only light and the sky was brightening as we rolled out of the city and headed westwards towards Grado. Riders started to attack straight after km 0 but it wasn't until we'd crossed the Rio Nora at about 10km that a stiff little climb enabled a group to go clear. The group was 10 strong, and included some decent climbers, so they were dangerous.

You might think, on a stage as tough as this, that the break had no chance, but stages finishing on the Angliru had been won from breakaways at least twice in the men's Vuelta. We would need to keep them on a short leash.

At Grado, we swung south and began the ascent of the Puerto de Marabio, which would take us up to over 1000 metres. It was a mostly modest ascent, but did have a couple of short sections at 17% so it wasn't all easy.

The bunch rode pretty conservatively, and we crossed the plateau all together in a thick mountain mist, then descended, cautiously, into a tremendous canyon, where the road was hemmed in by immense walls of wet grey rock. The fact that the low cloud shrouded the tops of these walls made it seem even more oppressive and forbidding. Apparently, this area is a mecca for rock-climbers... I shuddered and concentrated on the slick black road ahead.

The second climb, Alto de La Cobertoria, was the first real test. It went up for 8km with many gradients in double digits, and took us up to almost 1200m altitude. It felt relentless, and Lucy put Olga, Pam, and Suzy, the only three really strong climbers she had, on the front to make the pace hard.

I knew riders would start to drop off the back now, but I was still fine, sitting behind Zara, Tera, and Marlen. My legs were good, and my heart rate within limits. I just had to decide how long to wait before trying to take those 12 seconds back from Lucy.

It was now, with the increase in pace, that the growth of the breakaway's gap was arrested at 2.25 and they started to come back to us. The chase was on.

As we crested the pass, we were more than two-thirds of the way through the stage, and the peloton, originally more than 100 strong, had been reduced by about half, as many of the sprinters and the weaker riders had struggled with the relentless pace Amstel-Rabo had set up this climb..

The bunch still contained all the main GC contenders though, and all of us seemed strong. No cracks were appearing just yet.

The descent from Cobertoria was one of the fastest in the race. It had no hairpins, and just meandered downhill with gradients of up to 14%. The road is wide and smooth, too, having been rebuilt relatively recently, so there's nothing to slow you down (apart from your own lack of courage) and it didn't surprise me that it had been the scene of some very nasty accidents involving amateur cyclists.

Zara led on the descent, and the speeds were crazy. I saw over 90kph displayed on my head unit at one point, which is a screaming white knuckles speed on a wet road. My heart rate was crazy high as I just tried to hang on and not lose touch. Zara is an absolute demon descender.

Somehow, we all arrived in Pola de Lena in one piece, and we rode through the town together, thinking 'phew.' Well, that's what I was thinking, anyway.

Pola de Lena (or La Pola) is a fantastic centre for cycling. It's not an attractive town, being full of dreary blocks of flats, but it's in the middle of superb cycling country. At a roundabout in the middle of town, there's a tall signpost which points to no less than 10 famous climbs, all of which have featured in the Vuelta over the years, and all of which are within rideable distance.

There was a feed zone at the entry to La Pola, a place where soigneurs line up by the roadside with musettes (small shoulder bags) containing energy foods, gels etc., and riders pick up the bags (without stopping of course) to eat.

Despite my well-known predilection for eating, I don't like eating on the move like this. It's just way too much of a faff. When I'm on the bike, I like to concentrate on riding the bike, and this is undoubtedly why I sometimes don't give on-the-go fuelling enough attention.

Anyway, I grabbed my musette from Debbie, and rode through town munching carbohydrate bars and sucking on gels. By the time we exited the northern end of town I was fully fuelled and ready to tackle the penultimate climb - El Cordal.

At 5.5km, it's only a relatively short climb, but it has multiple ramps of between 14 and 16 percent, many of them concentrated in the last couple of kilometres, which made it tempting to me. Some of my most successful attacks had been on steep gradients, and I thought the final 16% slopes could be an ideal launch pad.

Being 12 seconds down on GC meant it was essential that I attack at some point to try to gain that time, if I wanted to win, and I'd been pondering on where best to make my move. It wasn't much time to gain, so the safest option would be to try on the upper part of the last climb, but that would give me just one chance, and I knew how gritty and determined Lucy could be when the chips were down.

Alternatively, a surprise attack from a long way out would give me the chance to take more time, if I could survive the whole ascent of the Angliru on my own. It had been done before in the men's race, so it was possible, and it would be a great adventure, anyway.

I was still pondering as we turned under a railway bridge and started the climb, which immediately kicks up at 11%, and then 13%. Everyone was out of the saddle, and the group started to split as some riders quickly reached their limit and started to lose touch.

The rain had stopped now, and the sun was showing itself in glimpses as we climbed, which made everything feel better and more optimistic. The group was reducing all the time as the grinding pace took its toll, but it still contained Zara, Tera, Elisa, Pam, Lucy, Suzy and Olga, and I was still here and feeling quite frisky.

We reached an easier section, where the gradient was only about 6%, the final lull before the tough final 2km, and the sun suddenly broke out powerfully, turning everything bright and technicolour. That was it. I was decided. 'Fuck it,' I thought, 'I'm going.'

I waited until a short flight of hairpins, near an old mine, which was the steepest section, then I exploded into life, throwing down every bit of power I had.

Lucy and her team were alert, and they immediately responded, but my acceleration was too much. Olga, Suzy and Pam were immediately in difficulty and Lucy had to try to take up the chase herself. She held me to 30 metres initially, rocking and rolling all over the bike, but then, on the next hairpin, I threw in a second acceleration, and she cracked. I was away.

The hot sun was on my back as I climbed the last slope towards the summit, and I felt euphoric. There's something exhilarating about riding the whole peloton off your wheel, and I just love a solo adventure.

The descent was exhilarating too. The asphalt was steaming in the sun as I hurtled down this infamously treacherous road. In places, the surface was cracked and distorted by subsidence, and some bits were a little green and slimy. I could understand how it had seen lot of crashes, but I employed my old cyclocross bike-handling skills; shifting my weight to compensate for awkward cambers, spying out the best lines, and standing up to jump over tricky bumps and ripples. It was a total blast!

Behind me, the chase was on, and I knew that Lucy had those same cyclocross skills. Would she use them though? Or would she stay with her team and save herself, in the hope that they could hunt me down on the steep slopes of the final climb?

I guess it was the latter because, as I zoomed into La Vega, Gabi came on the radio: '28 seconds, Chloe, you're in virtual red. The break is just ahead of you.'

I turned onto the climb. It was time to face the fearsome Angliru. 13 kilometres to fight for victory.

In fact, the first part wasn't fearsome at all. It's a funny climb, the Angliru; the first half could make you wonder what all the fuss is about, because it only averages 8% but all the pain is reserved for the last 6km, where the average is double: 16%.

On the initial section, I was quite strong, getting out of the saddle regularly to keep the pace high, and I caught the break quite quickly. They were all still together, climbing in a long single-file line. I thought maybe one or two of them would come with me and we could perhaps work together for a while, but as I passed them, they offered no resistance, and none of them tried to take my wheel.

I continued on alone, and as I approached the Hostel Mirador de l'Angliru, at the 5km mark, I still had a 25 second lead on the red-jersey group.

At this point, there's a kilometre that trends slightly downhill, and there was a temptation to take a breather and just soak up the cheers of the spectators, who had gathered here in huge numbers, but I knew I couldn't afford to let up for a single second. I pressed on, parting the crowd like a ship cleaving the waves, and hit the start of the brutally steep final section.

The road suddenly reared up, with ramps of 16, 20, and 21%, and I was immediately grinding; weaving from side to side as the gradient bit hard. From here, it would be yelling crowds and grovelling all the way to the finish, as the road zig-zagged towards the sky.

I was determinedly keeping my lowest gear in reserve at this point, but I was glad I had it to fall back on, because I hadn't yet reached the steepest part, and it had all suddenly become much more difficult. The sun was now uncomfortably hot, and my leg strength seemed to be deserting me, just when I needed it most.

I was thirsty... That was it! I hadn't drunk enough! My bottles were both empty, so I called for the team car, but it took a while to get alongside me on the narrow road. I could hear its horn blaring as Robbie tried to clear the Shimano neutral service car, which was blocking him, and I grovelled on.

The Shimano car passed me, and finally the Canyon-Zipp car arrived with much-needed water.

Gabi tried to give me a "sticky bottle," a naughty trick where the rider gets hold of the bottle, but the person in the car doesn't immediately release it, giving a momentary tow to the rider. It's illegal, and if seen by the commissaires, can result in disqualification, even though it's not actually the rider's fault.

I didn't want any help like that, and I certainly didn't want to get disqualified. I was deep into a gruelling effort here, and my patience was paper-thin. I yanked the bottle from her hand, yelling 'Give me the fucking bottle Gabi!' then I struggled to guzzle the drink while riding sat down up a 15% incline. I took a second bottle and put it in the cage, then stood up again to round the next hairpin.

A rather chastened Gabi told me my gap was down to 18 seconds. Dammit. The water thing had cost me. Bad planning. I should have replaced the bottles earlier. I dug in again, fighting the gradient, fighting my growing weakness, fighting myself.