Bully

by Colin Kohlhaas

Michael arrived in Saint-Jean-de-Champagne at 17:23. He collected his luggage and stood at the door of the train. Sweltering August heat punched him as he took his first gimpy step down the steps. His host, Bernard M., was alone on the station’s platform, giving a wave and a smile. Michael returned the greeting, but the smile hung on his face as he limped across the dead space, lugging the heavy rolling bags. When he cleared the distance, he dropped the bags with a sharp exhale, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Bienvenue, Michael,” Bernard said, arm extended. He was a scrawny man with wisps of white hair poking around his ears. Round spectacles adorned his angular face. A black sweater swallowed his upper body despite the heat.

Michael shook and responded with a casual French greeting he’d practiced for a week; a slight twitch of Bernard’s lip said he should’ve practiced harder.

“Thank you for trying, Michael, but my English is good.” He pronounced it, “Mish-ale.” “We are not all so bad as people make us out.” 

Bernard’s face was warm, but Michael searched for disingenuousness. He remembered too well his mother slamming the door of their Nice apartment, her eyes narrow, lips drawn—that lethal mix of anger and shame—cursing the French. The way they sneered, refused to acknowledge her English and pretended not to understand her French, how they treated her like a dumb child. Outside of closed doors, Michael had sweet memories of France. The people offered him treats, speaking sweet words in their sweet language. Sweetness permeated the air itself—coffee, pastries, hot summer sweat. But he was a kid; nobody expected him to leave America on the runway at LaGuardia.

Finally, Michael smiled and said, “Thank you. I’ve tried to learn but my mind’s not good for this stuff.” 

            Bernard shifted his gaze to the heavy bags. “This is too much for me,” Bernard said to the bags. “But I will make the call to a friend.”

 Michael’s eyes went wide. “I appreciate that, but I can carry them.”

            Bernard lifted an eyebrow. “You have a limp, no?”

            Michael winced. “Yes…But it’s okay.”

            Bernard gave him a challenging look. “David works at the flower shop. He will come to help.” His tongue labored to enunciate the “th” and “h” sounds, perhaps aware that to do otherwise was to stereotype himself.

            Michael opened his mouth, but wilted under Bernard’s gaze. “Alright,” he sighed. “Thank you.”

            Bernard nodded and pulled a phone from his pocket, speaking too quickly for Michael to interpret. Soon, a bulky man around Michael’s age walked up and greeted Bernard.

            “David,” Bernard said. “Voici mon ami, Michael.”

            David turned to Michael, expecting something. “Uh,” Michael stammered. “Ravie de faire votre connaissance.”

            David’s laugh made Michael’s cheeks grow hot.

            David said, “Ravi.”He grabbed both bags and walked; Michael and Bernard followed.

            Bernard whispered, “You do not need to be so formal. And you called yourself a woman.”

            Michael covered his eyes and groaned.

They passed through the cobbled street of the town’s center. Shops, cafés and homes lined their path. Residents swept, chatted, milled about. The scent of a nearby pastry shop catapulted him back to childhood. An old woman waved to Bernard, said something to David, and shot Michael a brief, wary look. The huge mountains loomed large in the distance—ancient deities keeping watch of their flock.

Michael, the tourist, wanted to gawk and absorb the “culture,” but Michael, the man, watched David roll his bags click-clacking over the cobbles with downcast eyes. The help was a blessing on his foot, but humiliation outdueled pain.

When Michael was in fourth grade, a little shitface named Scott Wineburg pulled down Tim Liu’s pants on the playground, so everyone got a look at his cock flapping in the winter air. Scott told the other kids he wanted to see if Asians really had “tiny schlongs.” Everyone called the poor kid “Timmy Tiny Schlong” the rest of the year. Michael sometimes imagined that his foot was the spirit of Scott Wineburg, clinging to him like a shadow, always there to expose him bare.

            The walk soon led them to a side street along the Arc River, populated by a row of attached townhouses. David stopped in front of a two-story dwelling. Its red stone facade demarcated it from the others, but Bernard had also painted the door and windows yellow and adorned the porch with flowers, ferns, and other greenery. Two stone lions, a head shorter than Michael, guarded the doorway.

            David moved to lug the bags up the steps, but Michael said, “Wait.” He pointed to the black bag. “That’s my bike. I’ll assemble it outside.”

            David stopped and looked to Bernard. The older man gave Michael another raised eyebrow. “It is expensive, no? Why leave it in the open?”

            Michael’s eyes wander to the cobbled street, exotic European houses, afternoon sunlight shimmering off the water. “You don’t really think somebody would steal it…”

            Bernard followed his gaze. He chuckled. “Thievery happens in France, you know.”

            Michael’s flushed. “Right…Of course.” Bernard nodded to David, who shrugged and rolled the bags into the house.   

            Great, Michael thought. Now they think I’m an idiot and a cripple.

            After unpacking and getting settled, Michael and Bernard sat at the kitchen table, sipping espresso with milk and eating pain a chocolat. Michael expected extravagance after seeing the home’s exterior, but inside it was quite austere. The kitchen was spotless, but the tiles were gray and cracked, appliances from another time. The glass table had space for two and no more. Other parts of the house mimicked the kitchen’s quaintness. It reminded him of his grandparent’s house in Podunk Iowa. A few landscape paintings decorated the walls, but the house was devoid of personal photos.

Bernard sat, nibbling his bread. He was different from his profile picture. Online, Michael had pegged him as fifty, but his skin was etched with deep wrinkles and pulled tight around his features. There were heavy purple circles under his brown eyes. “I am confused,” he said. “You come here to bicycle, but you are…how do I say? Handicapé?”

            Michael didn’t need Duolingo for that one. “Yes. I have clubfoot.”

            “Pied bot,” he clarified, prepared.

            “Ahh,” Bernard said. “That is from birth, no?”

            The day’s waning sunlight filtered through the thin curtain and invaded Michael’s eyes. He shifted his posture, so it instead shone on his chest like a tiny spotlight. “Yes,” he said. “My right foot came out twisted. As cases go, mine was severe. Nowadays they have better treatment, but in the early 90s there wasn’t much they could do except surgery. I had a bunch as a kid but it was never cured. I’ve walked with a limp all my life.” He gave his mechanical spiel slower than usual to respect the language barrier.    

Bernard took a languid sip of coffee, then asked, “How can you bicycle with this?”

            “Cycling is easier than walking,” Michael answered immediately. “There’s less pressure on my foot. I can go for long stretches before it hurts. I have to use flat pedals, though. I wear shoes with custom orthotics; clipless shoes cause too much pain. I assume you know how big of a disadvantage that is.”

            Bernard nodded. “Why not straps, then? You could wear whatever shoe you want.”

            Michael shook his head. “Clubfoot makes you compensate by stressing other parts of the leg, so everything is out-of-whack. Being strapped in is uncomfortable and exacerbates pain in other areas—especially the knees. I need the flexibility of flat pedals, even if climbing’s more difficult.”

            Bernard scrunched his face. “And ju plan to climb ze Relavier? Fat is madness!”

            Michael hid a chuckle behind a cough. Everyone in New York had said the same, but Bernard reverting to comic French hammered the point home.

“It won’t be easy, but I have to do it.”

            Bernard frowned; he began tapping his pointer finger on the table. Michael fidgeted, feeling like a kid in the principal’s office. Bernard said finally, “Porquois, Michael? Why you, ‘have to do it?’”

            Michael sighed. He had told Bernard, over email, that he was staying in Saint-Jean-de-Champagne to climb the infamous mountain pass, but had left it at that.

            “You know who Curt Kleinhoffer is, right?” He asked.

            Bernard stopped tapping, finger suspended in air. He brought it down slowly, leaving it in place on the table. “Of course. He was American, even if he came from German stock.”

Michael sensed veiled disdain, and imagined the man’s youth filled with tales of stormtroopers marching through Paris.

Bernard’s gaze grew detached, distant. “Tragedy, that was.”

            Michael briefly thought he was speaking of the war, then came back to the conversation. “Yes. It was horrible…”

He began tracing the flowery engravings on his snack plate with his left finger, outlining the petal of a rose. “This is embarrassing, but Kleinhoffer was a personal hero of mine. Do you know much about him?”

Bernard seesawed his hand: more or less.

Michael sucked air and launched into the story before could reconsider. Even as he lied by omission, the familiar warmth radiated from his heart and coursed through his veins, only to be snuffed out by the ball of ice that dropped heavy in his stomach. He forgot to speak slow or use simple language.

          

Kleinhoffer was born an underdog. He was never the biggest or the strongest kid—he got cut from his high school football team. His parents were so poor they couldn’t afford a bike. He got where he got because he worked harder than everyone else. One day, out of nowhere, he watched Greg LeMonde on TV and decided he would become the next great American cyclist, so he washed dishes six days a week to buy a rusty Schwinn and rode it up and down the biggest hill in town until it damn near exploded.

He worked his way through the American amateur ranks slowly—everything he did was slow and methodical—and then turned professional, but he barely made enough from prize and sponsorship money to live. He didn’t give up, though. He never gave up. Eventually he got the call from a European team. He busted his ass as a domestique for way too long. Finally an upstart French team signed him as lead rider in ‘97. The American media went wild, proclaimed him the next LeMonde, just like he dreamed.

            But you know everyone was blood doping back then. The pressure to take drugs was huge, but he refused. He said he’d do it the right way or no way at all. The clueless media soured on him, because of course, he lived in the shadow of that other American rider who blew up at the same time, like magic. I call him “the cheater”; he doesn’t deserve to be named.

While the cheater sold his green bracelets and went on every talk show in the country, Kleinhoffer was forgotten. He kept his head down for a long time, but it boiled over when some shithead reporter—pardon my language—asked him why he couldn’t hang with the cheater. He retorted, on live TV, that he could if the playing field was level. The reaction was immediate and savage. He was a sore loser; he was spiteful of a better man’s success; he was a liar. There were lawsuit threats, pressure on his team to cut him, the possibility of being blacklisted. He was vindicated in the end—now he’s the white knight, a single voice in the darkness—but he didn’t live to see it. All he could do was ignore the noise and keep racing. He even managed some high finishes and a few wins. You could’ve heard a pin drop in the U.S.

            I was seven in 1997—a miserable kid who couldn’t play tag or throw a football or use the jungle gym. Every day I wanted to give up, but Kleinhoffer gave me strength. The whole world was against him and he just raised his middle finger. If he could keep racing, why couldn’t I keep fighting?

            Once the accusations flew, the other kids mocked me. They shoved their bracelets in my face, sneering, “Why do you stick up for a liar?” I tried to bear it like he did, but I wasn’t so strong. I also never got to see the looks on their faces when the truth came out. I was too old.

            You know how it ended. People who never watched a bike race know it. A historic win, the culmination of his life’s work, would’ve been a blip on our collective consciousness. But his violent death? That’sgot lasting power. Pardon my language, but that’s fucked.

            He never did well in the Tour de France. At least, not as well as the dopers. But 2002 was different. His team was strong, and he pushed his body to the limit in training. He managed to get the yellow jersey on stage 9 and kept it through the individual time trial, where the cheater always crushed his competitors..

The race would be decided at the end of stage 14—on the Col du Relavier. The climb’s almost thirteen miles from base to summit, 1,600 meters of elevation gain. The media calmed the cheater’s fans: Kleinhoffer would melt, like always.

            It was the cheater who melted. Kleinhoffer’s domestiques set a brutal pace and one by one the competitors fell, until the cheater was isolated. Kleinhoffer’s teammates pulled him to the base ofthe Relavier, then launched him. He dropped the cheater and never looked back. He pulled like a madman, getting faster as he hit the steepest sections. Nobody knows where he found the strength. Some say he made a deal with the devil, and the contract ran out on the back half.

            Fans went ballistic when he reached the top, waving flags in his face and screaming, running beside him, touching him. There were more French than American flags—you guys embraced him as one of your own. As much as you’re capable. No offense.

Nobody cheered harder than me, watching back in New York. I probably rustled half the neighborhood from their beds.

            But the race wasn’t over. The cheater would gain ground on the descent if he let up. The road was slick from a rainstorm. Maybe he didn’t realize it, doped on adrenaline. I remember the way he hunched over the bars, hands off the brakes, cutting each corner too sharp. Impending doom was in the air, but I never considered that he wouldn’t pull through. The hero is s-supposed to win.

            I’m s-sorry. I never make it through this part. It’s a gut punch every time I think about it.

            He was so close, but one wet patch took it all away. I only saw it once, but it’s branded in my memory. There was little hope he’d walk away unscathed at the speed he was going, but there was a rock pile at the bottom of the embankment. Of course there was. Real life isn’t The Karate Kid; underdogs don’t win, no matter how much they deserve it. The cheater took the yellow jersey into Paris. He sold more bracelets and went on more talk shows, cried and dedicated the win to Kleinhoffer. Everyone applauded. Of course they did.

            His death killed a part of me, too. I barely spoke for months. I quit believing in God; I quit believing there was anything good in the world. I guess that’s the day I became a man.

Then, a few years ago, a voice spoke up in my head. It grew so loud I couldn’t shut it out. It told me I had to conquer the Relavier. It’s a siren blaring nonstop, screaming that to climb the mountain and make it down the back is the only thing that’ll make things right again.

So I studied the climb and the descent; I know every inch by heart. I trained as hard as my foot allowed, because I need to do it all in one go, like Kleinhoffer. I saved money and vacation time to book a flight and a month’s stay in this town. I weathered pleas and well-meaning condescension from the Doubting Thomases—my wife, my mom, my friends, my boss, my coworkers, the kid who feeds our dog a couple times a month. My son’s the only one who believes in me, and he’s too young to understand.

I can’t answer your question of “why,” Bernard, because the voice never gave an explanation. I just know I can’t move on until I do it. I don’t know if I can pull it off, but I’m going to give it everything I have. I’d rather go home in a bodybag than with the voice echoing in my head.

            Bernard did not interrupt and sat quiet when he finished. The silence thickened the air between them.

Finally, Bernard asked, “What can I do, to make it easier?”

Michael blinked. “You…I…I don’t expect anything from you. You’ve done more than enough, giving me a place to live.”

Bernard made a scoffing noise and muttered something French under his breath. “I have done nothing,” he said aloud. “We are now confidants. If you must climb the Relavier, I must help you. If you fail, I will fail, too.”

There was no meanness in his eyes, but neither did his expression brook debate.

Michael sighed, wishing he had kept quiet. “Did you have something planned for breakfast?” He asked reluctantly.

The tightness around Bernard’s mouth smoothed. “I do not eat the breakfast, anymore. I drink café and read the news. What would you like me to do?”

“Well,” Michael said, “I want to get an early start each day. 7:30 or so. I could use a lot of calories in the morning.”

Bernard clapped his hands. “I will make ham and eggs, with lard salé on the side. Michael would learn the next morning that lard salé was bacon.

Bernard rose and grinned like they were kids conspiring to pull a prank. The smile showed Michael a glimpse of the youth he once was—six decades or so in the past. He walked spryly to the door. “We should go now to the grocery, or they will close.”

            Bernard’s mischievous energy infected Michael, and he felt a little better.

He stood next to the guardian lions, straddling his navy blue Trek and facing the Relavier to the East. His belly was full; Bernard had wished him good luck but stayed inside. He took the dark glasses from his helmet and placed them over his eyes, tinting the world orange.

Before the ascent, he must cover a small, five-mile hill that stretched from Saint-Jean-de-Champagne to the base of the mountain. No, that’s not right, he thought. I need to think like a European. He toggled his Strava app settings to the metric system and watched the distance tracker switch to kilometers. He set off.

Dread collected in the pit of his stomach before he set one wheel on the climb. The features of Le Grand Relavier—the mountain for which the pass was named—crystallized in his vision as he moved closer. With the tires spinning beneath his feet, he had a sudden sensation of being pulled, as if the road was a giant claw, drawing him near. The feeling intensified as he descended the short hill, the humid air rushing past his face like breath thick with salivation. Coming to a stop at the base of the climb, craning his neck skyward, did little to alleviate the fear percolating inside.

In New York he had thought of the mountain like the back of his hand, but he now saw that was foolishness. At eye level, sun glistened off the dark grass and gray rocks, suspending everything in a pool of morning warmth. Soft birdsong filled his ears. He followed the road with his gaze. It wasn’t wide, but a dotted white line indicated two small cars could pass. The pavement was visible for several kilometers until it twisted out of sight. The seas of tall grass which stretched along the low slopes thinned and turned to barren dirt as the path steepened. Snow-capped peaks reached into the clouds. It was picturesque, serene, terrifying.

“What am I doing here?” He said aloud.

A large bird emerged from a jagged rock and circled high above him. It gave a shrill caw. It was mocking him. Come see what the mountain does to cripples, it called.

He smacked the side of his helmet hard enough to see stars. If I don’t end up in a hospital, he thought, it’ll be a psych ward.

He checked his phone, secured in its plastic holder, and saw he’d already covered 8.24 kilometers. “What’s another thirteen miles?” He said to himself, ignorant, for the time being, of the metric conversion. He took a swig of water, and put foot to pedal.

“Nine kilometers is nothing to shake a stick at,” Bernard said.

“It’s not even halfway,” Michael whined. “Not promising for my first day.”

He and Bernard sat at an outside table of the town’s only seafood restaurant. The salty smell of fish wafted every time the door swung open. He tried to muster enthusiasm for his merlu filet and asparagus. It was alright, but he wished for some cajun or Old Bay season.

            Bernard said, “Rome ne s’est pas faite en un jour, Michael.”

            He inferred the meaning from a couple words. “Rome’s architects weren’t working with shoddy machinery…”

            Another friend of Bernard’s—a young Black woman in a white blouse and slacks—approached their table from the street and greeted his popular host. They exchanged what he assumed were pleasantries, then Bernard introduced him.

            Michael met her eyes and said, “Enchanté.”

The woman, Chandelle, gave him a friendly smile. “Enchanteé, Michael. Aimez-vous notre village?” 

Michael released a held breath. It was wearying work to guess each new person’s reaction to him. He said, “Oui, c’est bien,” hoping it followed her question logically.

Chandelle turned from him and laid a hand on Bernard’s shoulder, whispering something close to his ear. He patted her hand and said, “Merci,” but gave her a narrow-eyed look. She flashed her eyes at Michael, and said to Bernard, “Désolée.” She left them.

            Michael looked a question at Bernard, but the older man was watching her go with an upturned lip. “Too bad you are married, no?”

            Michael covered his blush with a bite of fish.

            Bernard picked at his salad, which he’d barely touched. “How is your pied bot?”

            Michael flexed it for Bernard’s benefit, lips white. “Pretty good. I took my anti-inflammatory meds and popped a couple Tylenol. As long as I soak it and stretch my other leg muscles every night, I should be alright.”

            He was, again, lying by omission. He had twisted the ankle on his final attempt of the day. It wasn’t serious, but he was growing pessimistic that his leg would hold out a month. He had underestimated the strain of repeatedly jamming his bad foot into the pedal at such steep gradients. If it wasn’t the foot itself, he might pull a hamstring or calf, maybe mess up his knee again. Clubfoot was a cancer, discontent unless it sickened everything around it.

            “That is good,” Bernard said. “If the simple pills do not work, I can give stronger ones. For the pain.”

            Michael shook his head. “I won’t take stuff that makes me loopy—been on enough post-surgical drugs to kill a horse.”

            “Besides,” he added. That’d be cheating.”

            Bernard raised an eyebrow, the lens of his tight spectacles lifting from his nose.

            “You know that stuff’s banned in pro cycling,” Michael said hastily. “I want to do it right, like Kleinhoffer.”

            Bernard’s mouth turned down. When his finger began to tap, Michael’s eyes skittered away.

Bernard sipped the last of his wine and stared at Michael’s voluminous glass of Merlot. “You should enjoy yourself. You will never climb the Relavier, feeling down.”

Michael took the hint, draining it in three big gulps. His head was fuzzy when Bernard poured them a second glass.

“Tomorrow,” Bernard said, “I will drive and meet you for lunch. Say, eleven?”

            “Oh…Sure. That’d be nice.” At the base of the Relavier sat a ski lodge which doubled as a restaurant and bike repair shop in the summer. He had sat inside and ordered quiche florentine. The tired waitress, Maggie, bore his infantile French with a neutral temperament.

            “It is a date, then,” Bernard said.

    

            The following morning, he found himself again at the monster’s foot, eyes drinking in the climb. He bent to make sure the tape on his foot held the ankle in place. It was secure, but dull pain needled him through three Tylenol.

            He pushed it aside and set off.

            Compared to what came after, the opening section was child’s play—4 kilometers at 4% gradient. He rode in the saddle, breath steady, legs churning evenly. He locked his mind into focus, pushing away fear, anger, doubt, anything that would hold him back. Keeping the body in the rhythm was critical, but so was checking his emotions. His power meter showed he was pushing close to 250 watts—a reasonable tempo.

            He came around the first bend and tried to keep his eyes on the road, but couldn’t resist peering into the future. The road was visible for several kilometers, snaking twice before another long straight section. The gradient fluctuated modestly, maxing out at 7%, then a huge spike loomed. This brutal section rose to 10.5% before easing up after two kilometers. The best of his four attempts the previous day died on this speed bump.

            He kept his rhythm through the first and second turns, but the burn in his legs caught up as approached the sudden steep section. He lowered the gear and rose from the saddle, pistoning his legs and throwing the handlebars side to side. His left foot slipped from the pedal and he expended energy to recover. He lost his resolve and negative emotions crept in. He put a sizable dent into the hard section—if had reached the plateau he’d be “rewarded” with a three-kilometer false flat—but when his digital odometer hit 10. 3 kilometers, his momentum evaporated. He planted his left leg to keep from falling.

He let the bike crash to the pavement and sat hard on his padded ass, drawing breaths in ragged gasps. Sweat beading at his forehead and chest began to pour. He reached with a trembling hand for his water bottle.

Breeze rustled his sweaty arm hairs as he drank. He pulled his glasses free and squinted. The road in front seemed to rush toward him like a quick-zoom camera shot, reigniting the dizzying sensation of being dragged into the mountain’s clutches. Air curled past his ears, whispering something sickly sweet. Goosebumps broke on his arms. His muscles tensed, ready to flee.

“You need help, buddy?”

Michael bolted to his feet, whipping around and crouching into a fighting stance, only to come face-to-face with a startled middle-aged couple resting on hulking green bikes. Their double chins jiggled in concert as they recoiled.

The man put up his hands. “Woah, buddy! Settle down, we’re friendly.”

Michael let out a whoosh of breath. He turned his head, and everything was as it should be. The mountain had quieted.

He faced the couple again. They were dressed for a casual Sunday ride—cargo shorts, dopey sneakers, matching eggshell helmets. They showed no fatigue.

The man seemed to wait for an apology, but Michael didn’t give one. “Guess you didn’t hear us coming,” he said hesitantly. “We thought maybe you were hurt.”

Michael studied them, uncomprehending. He had encountered fellow cyclists (and a few cars) on the climb, but none like this. “How the hell did you get up here?” He blurted.

The man let a pause linger, then tried a winning smile, patting his huge tire with affection. “E-bike does most of the work. These things are great!”

Michael’s eyebrows crawled down, resting heavily over his lids.

The man’s smile fell. The couple exchanged a disquieted look. “Well…Guess we’ll let you go,” the man said.

They waved, gave two ceremonial pedals, and let the motors carry them away.

Bitterness followed him on the slow descent. He nearly killed himself to cross the halfway point of the climb, just to get passed by midwestern heifers—Americans who spoke English and expected accomodation—on little less than electric scooters. His foot ached when he reached the bottom. Of course it did.

Bernard met him for lunch at Bouchées du Montagne. Michael talked of many things: The worry tinging Anna’s soft encouragement, how her eyes misted when she kissed goodbye at LaGuardia and begged him to come home in one piece; Nathan, who started preschool in the fall and could count to a hundred; His job at Hazell and Burton Financial, how Mr. Eckler promised him a promotion but hasn’t delivered; his mother, struggling with arthritis and always complaining that her upstairs neighbors “stomp like elephants” at every hour of the morning. Michael did the lion’s share of sharing. Bernard wasn’t married, had no children, and had once lived in Paris. That was all he got from the reserved man, and he would not press. Bernard ate little of his cheese sandwich and asked for le doggy bag. Although his mother had coached him never to ask for a to-go box in France, Maggie obliged with a faint smile, eyes lingering long on Bernard as she boxed it.

When they finished, Bernard bid him adieu and Michael made two more unsuccessful attempts. His legs cried on the way back to town, foot and ankle giving shriller protests.

His life fell into a routine. 7:00 breakfast with Bernard; two attempts at the Relavier; 11:00 lunch with Bernard; one or two more attempts; return “home,” take his meds and video call Anna and Nathan; 18:00 dinner with Bernard; soak his foot in epsom salt and stretch his leg; watch incomprehensible television with a dozing Bernard; lay in bed and read one of his two books—ghost stories from the Gettysburg battlefield and a Dean Koontz novel.  Bernard often complained of tiredness in the early evenings, but when he was up for it they walked around town. Michael got to experience local culture in the form of the town bookstore, its pastry shop, the church which predated the Declaration of Independence, etcetera, etcetera.

They sometimes dined with one of Bernard’s many friends. The day he passed his ten-day mark as an honorary resident of Saint-Jean-de-Champagne, Bernard drove them to a cottage outside of town, where he met a white-haired woman named Élise, whom Bernard referred to as “a dear friend,” and her young granddaughter Abilene, a bouncy girl with freckles on her sun-tanned cheeks and gaps between her teeth. They kept chickens in a coop outside and Élise served one for dinner—a hen euthanized in old age, Bernard explained. Still, the clucking and ammonia smell drifting through the screen door made Michael feel guilty as he knifed through white meat.

Élise was pleasant, but spoke no English and was unconcerned whether Michael followed her conversation with Bernard. He was reduced to fumbling out pre-rehearsed lines—“the food is excellent”; “pardon me, may I use your bathroom?”—and Élise only gestured in response. He sensed something lurking beneath her half-smiles and short laughs: tightness at the mouth, a slight tremble in the hand when she sipped tea, the way her gaze lingered on Bernard, studying the lines in his face, just as Maggie had. More French subtext he couldn’t decipher.

Abilene peppered Michael with excited questions about New York throughout the meal in passable English: “Do you work in the skyscrapers?” “Are the big-boards really so big?” “Do you know the Yankees?” He hadn’t finished answering one before she was on to the next.

Élise finally hushed the girl and sent her to feed the chickens. She said something to Bernard, who translated to Michael, “You will have to excuse Abilene. She is a good girl, but she can lose her manners around guests.”

Michael said, “Tell her it’s more than alright. She makes me feel less like a kid eating at the adult’s table.”

Bernard frowned, and Michael assumed he changed the words when Élise only nodded politely in response.

On the bike, too, he settled into a rhythm. With fresh muscles, he pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion on his first attempt of the day. Subsequent climbs rarely made it past the first steep section, but they were good conditioning runs. He rested for long periods between each attempt at the lodge. He had taken to drinking bottles of Orangina, a drink like mixing orange juice and seltzer water. He relieved his body with two days off—on his seventh and thirteenth days in town. Various segments of his bad leg ached each day, but the pain seemed to plateau, and he grew increasingly confident in its ability to get him to the finish line. It may take months of rest to recover, but that wasn’t important.

He had, however, failed to make significant progress on the final six-kilometer stretch. This was among the toughest in professional cycling—beginning at a 10% gradient and rising all the way to 13.5% before ending at 12%. Many a Tour de France was decided on this winding road.

On the seventeenth day of his French excursion, he took a chunk out of the hardest section before his legs quit. His odometer hit 17.43 kilometers—three from the finish line. He let his bike drop and squeezed hands against thighs, panting. He glared defiantly at the road ahead. “You’re…not so…tough,” he announced between breaths.

He made the descent, believing he would ride to victory within a week.

Later, he and Bernard enjoyed an upbeat lunch on Bouchées du Montagne’s sprawling deck. Michael ordered a tuna salad sandwich and asked to substitute fries as the side. Maggie scribbled on her pad. “Tu t’améliores dejour en jour, ma cocotte,” she said, eyes crinkling at the corners, smile playing at her lips. Michael tried to form a response, but she walked away. Her coolness had turned to affection as the days wore on. He’d overheard her speaking English to a table of drawling Americans, but he was determined to be better than that.

Bernard said, “The women may not allow you to leave when it is time to go.”

Michael grinned sheepishly.

On the opening miles of his afternoon climb, his traitorous mind wandered back to Maggie—how her tired face might look with the hair down and a little makeup—when his attention drifted to something off the road. Five huge goats lounged in the tall grass. Three lay flicking their ears and scratching their brown flanks like cats; the others grazed and shook their heads and grunted. The largest was bigger than his uncle Otto’s English Mastiff. The massive animal lifted its head and watched him pass. Its ridged horns were longer than Michael’s calf, sharpening into points high above its back. Its eyes followed him, like a portrait in a haunted hous—

A primal warning light flashed. He snapped his neck straight just before flying off the edge of the second turn. “Shit!” He yelled. He pulled the brakes, but it wouldn’t be enough, so he jerked the wheel to the right. With no other option, he jammed his bad foot into the pavement to stop. The misshapen bones and tendons contorted. He cried out and fell hard on his hip. He and the bike slid but stopped short of the embankment.

Motionless, he saw that falling into the gentle, grassy slope would have ended harmlessly. As he cursed, the goats trotted past from a comfortable distance. The devil-horned beast stopped and turned to face him fully. It stood ramrod straight on the hill, eyes boring into him. Pain then drove all thought from his mind.

He managed to pull his phone free and dial Bernard. Twenty minutes later he crawled into the passenger seat of the black SUV and assured his friend that he didn’t need a doctor.

            He wasted three days resting. They got the swelling under control with medicine and ice but it did little for the pain. Michael used a metal crutch Bernard pulled from his closet to shamble around like Tiny Tim.

            As they ate Bernard’s dinner of pommes de terre à la Lyonnaise—a potato and onion mixture that hardly filled him—Michael announced he was going back out the next morning. He didn’t expect a protest and didn’t get one.

“You are feeling better, yes?” Bernard asked.

He looked at Bernard, avoiding his eyes. “Foot’s as good as it’s gonna be. If I tape it tight it should be okay.”

He prepared to stack additional lies, but Bernard only nodded and said, “I will meet you for lunch, then. I imagine Maggie, in our absence, is quite distressed.”

They shared a laugh.

Two days later, they sat again at Bernard’s table eating cheeseburgers and fries. Michael asked to cook, ostensibly to give Bernard a break. In reality he needed a break from French food. He ate ravenously, his unrefined palette grateful for the familiarity, and washed it down with a sixteen-ounce can of Bud—the French equivalent of Budweiser. They spoke little. When Michael finished, Bernard brewed espresso.

“I’m giving up,” Michael said.

Bernard sipped his coffee and said nothing.

“My foot’s worse than I let on,” Michael explained. “I can barely climb. I gave it a few tries but ended up sitting in the restaurant most of today and yesterday.”

Bernard stood and walked to the fridge. He returned with another Bud and slid it to Michael, then sat. “You are so tense,” he said. “You will not heal if you do not relax.”

“Aren’t you listening?” Michael asked sharply. “I’m done. I spent the last hour talking to Anna. She wants me to get an early return flight, but I said no. I promised you a month of AirBnB fees and you’re going to get it.”

Bernard wrinkled his nose. “Roi des cons. Your money means nothing. I would give it back, if you give up this foolishness and return to the mountain.”

Michael pursed his lips. “It’s not foolishness. It’s my body. I’m telling you I can’t do it.” 

Bernard’s finger began to tap, but Michael didn’t look away.

“I do not accept that,” Bernard said, eyes hard behind his spectacles. “You will fight. If you do not, you will not forgive yourself. And I will not forgive you, either.”

Michael rose from his seat. “That’s not fair!” He snapped. “I’m fucking crippled. I gave it everything, but it wasn’t enough!”

They held each other’s gaze. Bernard’s tapping pounded in Michael’s temples.

Finally, Michael relented, returning to his seat. “I’m sorry. I know you want to help, but this is reality setting in. I have a broken body. No matter what I do, my foot always gets the last laugh.”

You can’t understand,” he added sullenly.

Bernard stopped tapping. After another pause, he said, “I understand better than you might think, Michael.”

Michael tensed and opened his mouth to argue, but he looked into Bernard’s eyes, sunken into gaunt, pallid skin. He saw the untouched burger, and many things he had glossed over flashed through his mind. A croak escaped before he snapped his mouth shut. He sat stunned, feeling like the world’s smallest man. The only sound came from the analog clock behind Bernard’s head.

Bernard said, “We are confidants. I will not see you stop the fight, because I will never stop the fight. My Relavier is eating me on the inside, but I will keep climbing, until I have no more breath left in me.”

Michael let that linger.

Finally, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am your host,” Bernard said. “The host’s job is to make the guest comfortable, not to make him stress. The trip is about you.”

Michael kept his head down.

“Besides,” Bernard added. “You are keeping the big secret, too. Maybe it is time you stop hiding from me, no?”

            Michael stiffened. “Wha-what are you talking about?”

Bernard chuckled. “You are a bad liar, Michael Kleinhoffer.”

Circuits fired in Michael’s brain, but he saw it was pointless. He sighed. “How’d you figure it out?”

            Bernard lifted his IPhone from the table. “We have the internet in France, you know. Curt Kleinhoffer had a son, Michael, born with pied bot, raised in the United States, because his mother hated France, and refused to do more than visit her husband. There are many photographs of Curt holding a very happy little boy with a white leg brace.”

            He gave Michael a half-cocked smile. “This is coincidence, I presume?”

 Michael cracked the beer’s tab. He gulped a mouthful and burped into his sleeve. “You knew from the beginning, didn’t you?”

Bernard’s smile turned warm. “The look in your eyes told me. He was no figure on the television screen. You loved him.”

Michael grabbed the tiny spoon and began swirling coffee in the espresso cup with his left hand. “Did you lie about not having a wife or kids?”

“I did not lie about anything. You simply did not ask the proper questions. I have a sister, but she lives in Spain, and we have not spoken in years. I once had a father, of course. He was half the man as yours, but I loved him, all the same.”

Michael stared into his coffee whirlpool. “When I was little I thought my dad was a superhero. I couldn’t pedal a bike until I was nine; I figured only Superman could do a hundred miles across the Alps and Pyrenees. When I got down on myself, I thought how I was hisson, and I forgot about my foot for a while. When we were together I followed him around like a dog, and that first time I rode down the block, and he rode next to me and said how proud he was, how I had more strength than all the riders on tour, that was the best moment of my life. When he turned villain there was no question I’d stick by him, no matter how much the other kids taunted me. I would’ve died for him.   

“Nathan, he’s five now. When he looks at me with those blue eyes I see the same admiration. He says when he grows up he wants to help people with their money, just like I said I wanted to be a bike racer. He used to imitate my limp, thinking that’s how all men walk.”

He took a deep, unsteady breath. “But he’s noticed other peoples’ dads don’t hobble around. His neighborhood friend Brayden asked him why I walk like a mummy and it made him cry. Soon it’ll be other kids—bullies—and he’ll have to decide whether to fight for me, or secret me away in the closet.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m worth defending. Maybe Nathan would be better off if I kept out of sight.”

He finally held Bernard’s eyes. The man he had known for less than a month looked back with an unflinching expression.

Bernard asked finally, “Is this why you must ride the Relavier? To be somebody worth defending?”

Michael returned to his coffee, lifting spoonfuls of liquid and pouring them back into the cup. “Maybe that’s part of it, but I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. I wasn’t lying about that.”

Without a word, Bernard rose and walked out of the kitchen. There was a clinking of pills, and he returned holding two orange tubes, enclosed fists blocking the labels. “You will take these, and tomorrow you will try again.”

Michael’s palms went sweaty. “What are they?” He asked, reaching for the bottles.

Bernard pulled them back. “Perhaps it is better that you do not know.”

 Michael considered, but shook his head. “No. I still won’t take drugs. It’s cheati—”

Bernard slammed a bony fist on the table, shaking the glassware. Michael flinched back. “Why ju insist on making difficult?” He snarled. “Ju talk about jour foot like a man, always beating ju down. If ju have ze weapon in reach, WHY will ju not take eet?” 

“But my dad…He wouldn’t…” Michael trailed off. He saw the ghost of Scott Wineburg hovering behind Bernard, mouth curved in a sneer.

Bernard’s face softened. “You are not your father. You are just Michael.” He pronounced it the English way, for the first time. He allowed silence to give the statement weight.

            Michael sat unspeaking for a long moment, then wiped an eye before tears could threaten. “Alright,” he sighed. “I’ll give it a shot. For you.”

            “No,” Bernard said. “For you.”

            “How about for us?” Michael tried.

            Bernard nodded. “I can accept that.”

            They stood in the lush gardens next to the stone lions. Bernard fished in his pocket and held out two circular pills—one white, one blue. “One will kill the pain,” Bernard said. “The other will give energy.”

            Michael chuckled. “So I’m like Neo, but I get both pills?” Bernard’s blank face said he didn’t get the reference.

            Michael raked a sweaty hand through his hair. He was no druggie—the one time he smoked pot, at a college party, he spent two hours glued to a bearskin rug, wondering if the creature would spring to life and take its revenge. The blue pill was some kind of opiate, and that was familiar, but the other was a mystery. He snatched the pills and swallowed them with water before he chickened out.

            “Now what?” He asked.

            “Sit with me,” Bernard said. “Let them work.”

            “What if they don’t work?”

            Bernard gave a sly smile. “They will work.”

            Michael released a nervous breath. He dropped the crutch, sitting on the stoop. They chatted of nothing for twenty minutes.

            Bernard asked abruptly, “Are you like your mother, Michael? Do you hate France?”

            Michael considered the question. “No,” he said honestly. “My mom thinks this country repels anything different, the way your body fights an infection. But I don’t believe that anymore. There’s this old movie, The Blob, where a Jello monster goes around eating people. Each time the person becomes part of its uniform blobness, and it grows bigger. France is like that: When you get close it doesn’t push you out, it tries to absorb you into its Frenchness. I just haven’t been here long enough to complete the Francification transformation.”

Bernard’s lip twitched, but he looked thoughtful.

Michael shook the stupid grin from his face. “I think the pills are kicking in.” He mounted his bike and pedaled away.   

            The ride to the Relavier passed in a blur, and he stood facing his foe. Stationary, the full weight of the drugs collapsed on him. Pleasant heat enveloped him like a blanket and there was fuzziness in his head, more intoxicating than wine. Another, unfamiliar force had gathered behind his eyes. The world tightened into focus, like adjusting binocular lenses. The overcast morning sharpened, the gray rocks and asphalt road growing vibrant. He stretched his arm and strength surged from his fingertips, running down to his legs. The usual roar in his foot was a distant whimper.

            He turned his eyes to heaven. “Thank you,” he said, unsure to whom he spoke.

He took a pedal stroke. Then another. His heart pounded, his legs churned, mechanical. His mind contracted to a singular point, pushing everything else aside, narrowing on the road ahead. His foot shouted as if encased in a feather pillow. He passed the curve where the goats wrecked him, then he was at the first steep section. With gritted teeth he willed strength into his legs. He flooded his dry mouth with water and didn’t break stride. He crested the plateau. He crossed the false flat, sure he could ride forever.

Morning fog had followed him up the climb, but a heavier layer greeted him when he rounded the turn, as if the mountain had exhaled a smoke cloud. He rose from the saddle and ascended the 10% gradient in near blindness, moist air thick in his nostrils. The mountain inhaled, and hit him with a gust of wind. His front wheel wavered, but he righted the ship and pushed on. Enraged, the Relavier launched an all-out assault as he closed within five kilometers of the summit. The chilly wind hit so hard it rippled the skin. He lowered the gear and threw the handlebars back and forth, closing toward the most unforgiving stretch. Grunting, he forced everything he had into the pedal strokes: left, right, left, righ—

A shriek from above pulled his eyes from the road. A bird of prey emerged from the mist and swooped toward his head, talons and wings outstretched. He cried out, shielding his face with his strong left hand. The bird swooped away in a U-shape without touching him, but the bike faltered. His feet slipped from the pedals, bad ankle twisting as he forced it back into place. A guttural noise escaped his throat. Pain pierced the opium cloud, fire clawing up his calf. His emotional control began to crack. He squeezed his eyes shut, bellowing through the wind and fog and pain in a desperate last stand.

Then, it was as if a heavy weight lifted. His legs moved easier; he steadied himself. He resumed the climb in earnest. Something tangible had alleviated the wind’s pressure.

He popped his eyes open. A yellow-clad man rode in front. He wore a riding cap and sunglasses in the fog. His bike’s heavy steel frame and narrow tires were of a bygone era. Michael wiped condensation from his eyes, sure the ghost would vanish as his vision cleared. But the wind forked around his body as he rode. The man was pulling him up the mountain, negating wind resistance, like a good domestique. He climbed steady and Michael held the wheel. His strength and concentration returned, sharpening his vision to that singular point of focus, eyes locked on the familiar numbers on the back of the yellow jersey.

The man did not let up when they reached the brutal 13.5% stretch. Michael hit the steep, twisting road with gusto. His foot screeched, hurling insults, threats. I’m done with you, he said silently. You’re just a bully. He clenched his jaw as his foot retorted with a stab of pain.

A new thought struck him. Bernard was wrong: Cowering was no way to confront his foot, but fighting back would only stoop to its level. It was a bully, sure. But isn’t bullying a defense mechanism?

He tried a different tactic. Speaking softly, he said, I’m sorry. My whole life, all I’ve done is push you away. But you’re not a cancer—you’re part of me.

The pain evened out, as if listening.

We’ll never beat the Relavier at each other’s throats, he said. So what do you say we work together?

Pain flared again, but this time, it did not make him feel frustrated or angry or hopeless. It was a signal, telling him that it was hurt, but not bad enough to stop. His foot was speaking to him honestly, for the first time. He used the knowledge to force additional pressure on the pedal, knowing he could make it. His brain and body worked in tandem, the way his father had described many years ago.

They carried on, winding their way up. The mountain’s petulant screams filled Michael’s ears, but the man shielded him. When the gradient waned and the final stretch began, the Relavier sobbed. Drizzle dampened Michael’s shoulders and bare arms; it dripped from his helmet visor and soaked his kit. The wind softened, until it was only a whisper, pleading. “Fuck…Off…” Michael said between breaths.

Another sound emerged through the dying wind. He could not see the summit but recognized the unmistakable din of a crowd. Faces appeared in the fog, flanking either side of the road. They shouted and clapped and blasted airhorns. He recognized each of them—David, Chandelle, Maggie, Élise holding the hand of Abilene, a hundred others who had passed him on the cobbled streets. Saint-Jean-de-Champagne was serenading him, waving the blue, white and red of France, pride in their face and their straight-backed posture.

A man burst from the crowd and ran beside him, finger holding his spectacles in place, white hair bobbing in the light wind. His face was tan and round, sweater pressed tight against the muscles of his chest. Bernard smiled huge and kept pace for hundreds of meters. Finally, he let up, waving as Michael carried on.

With one kilometer to go, the man in yellow peeled off. As he let Michael pass and take the glory, they met each other’s eyes. His father’s smile nearly reached his ears as he gave him the thumbs up. Once he fell behind, Curt’s form disappeared in the fog.

The noise of the crowd snapped off like a light switch, and it was just him and the thick white stripe of the permanent finish line. His tire crossed and he let his momentum carry him. Soon the bike was picking up steam. Droplets spritzed his face. He could not see but a short distance ahead. There was a threatening rumble in the distance.

He spoke to the mountain as the wind whipped by his ears: It’s my turn now. I’ll beat you on my own. 

Tour de France commentators called this a “technical descent,” with its narrow, winding roads. The fog remained thick. Rain might slicken the road, as it had in his nightmares. He was not trained to descend a mountain of this caliber at high speeds. But he hunched over, moving faster, faster. The decline steepened, his speedometer hitting 74 kilometers an hour. He saw the first curve only when it was upon him. He gave the brakes a light touch and turned, twisting out his left knee to maintain stability. When the road straightened, he pedaled hard, resuming max speed. He topped 85 kilometers an hour before repeating the braking process at the next bend. His hands shook and the bike itself trembled. He struggled to keep his feet locked on the flat pedals. Pellets of moisture bypassed his visor and he shook his head to clear them. Every turn brought him to the brink of destruction and he struggled to keep dread from his mind.

Still he descended faster. Each time he cheated death his confidence grew. He had tapped a deeper reservoir that he thought had long thought dry. He believed that he’d make it, as he’d believed in his dad the moment before disaster. The years melted away, like the shredded kilometers, and he was a boy again. That boy had faith in a just world, where good men who did things the right way didn’t get killed in high-speed crashes. He gambled his life on that hope, because to let up was to let the boy die for good. 

The kilometers rolled by, and as the fog relented, he felt vindication within reach. But the Relavier wouldn’t bow down. He braked at a right turn, but his tires slipped on wet pavement. In a moment of Deja Vu, he had but a single option to avoid crashing. He jammed his bad foot on the pavement. Agony ripped through his leg. He willed his foot not to snap. Everything held, and he slowed enough to make the turn. The pills couldn’t obscure a sinister weakness when he settled his foot back on the pedal, but it did not slip. 

Its last-ditch effort a failure, the mountain troubled him no further. He rolled the bike to a stop on flat road. Unthinking, he swung his leg over the frame and tried to stand. His leg crumpled like tissue paper, and he fell. Whether from drug haze, adrenaline, or exhaustion, the pain did not send him writhing on the ground.

He swiveled his head, seeing what he knew to be nearby. He crawled, dragging his useless leg behind. Gravel dug into his exposed skin until he reached the grass and the small stone sitting atop three steps. He craned his neck; sunlight peaked through the clouds and gleamed off the stone, making him squint. Curt Kleinhoffer’s memorial contained only an etched carving of his smiling face, his birth and death dates, and a short French inscription. It translated to, “No mountain could conquer Curt’s spirit.”

Grunting with effort, he pulled himself up the steps with his arms so he could sit at eye level with the carving.

“I did it, Dad,” he said.

He knelt there for a long time, listening to small birds chittering in the mountain’s crevices.

About the author
Colin graduated with a doctorate in history from Binghamton University in 2024. He has published academic pieces in a variety of journals, and his first works of short fiction are forthcoming in After Dinner Conversation and Blood Tree Literature. He currently works at a Civil War museum in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and lives with his three cats. In his spare time he enjoys video games, reading, and watching his favorite sports teams be bad at sports (usually).