Chloe Rides Again Pt. 09

This series is a sequel to the earlier work "Riding With Dirty Girls." You can probably get something out of the sex scenes in isolation, but to fully enjoy the story you really need to read Dirty Girls 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.

***

Part 09: Not Half a Race

I don't think I could ever tire of Molly's pussy. I love it in a completely irrational, primal way. When she opens her legs for me, I think I lose my mind.

We were alone in her living room. Fanny and Marianne had gone home, and we had three days to ourselves before my next race. There was no way I was going to resist her, and no way she was going to refuse me.

It was Thursday afternoon, and we'd been watching her win the Liège-Bastogne-Liège race in 2018. It was just like when we watched the vid of her winning De Ronde: I was enraptured. She looked so fit, so powerful, so confident, and so fucking hot as she crossed the line with arms aloft, her skinsuit perfectly showing off every subtle curve of her body. She was my hero. I wanted to be exactly like her.

I confessed to her that watching her win these races made me strangely horny. 'Does it?' she said with an air of surprise, but with a nice little smirk on her face. I could tell she liked the fact.

'Have you a cycling kit fetish, Chloe?'

'No, I don't think so, just a Molly fetish,' I replied.

She grinned, 'Shall I put a skinsuit on?' She was clearly feeling mischievous... 'Would you like to fuck me in cycling kit?'

OMG... 'Bit difficult in a skinsuit,' I said.

'Well I could let you peel it off me... that might be nice.'

OMG... I swallowed hard and looked at her. 'Fucking hell Molly,' I croaked...

She gave me the lewdest look and said, 'Wait here,' then she got up and headed for her utility room, where she kept all her cycling kit.

I lay back on the sofa and undid my shorts so I could play with myself as I waited for her to come back. The anticipation was beautifully excruciating. I felt a little dizzy, and my heart was thumping like I was climbing the Koppenberg.

She returned, wearing the red, yellow and black Belgian champion's driekleur skinsuit that she'd had on in the video.

OMG... A dream made real.

'Do you like this one? I'm naked under it.'

OMG... My finger was squeezing the very life out of my clit.

She came and stood near me and I admired her fabulous form. I hadn't really thought of cycling kit as fetish-wear before, but now...

Normally, there'd be layers under the suit; sports bra, shorts with a pad, etc, but here she was, with just a single layer of lycra, and it didn't leave much to the imagination. Her nipples were clearly showing how aroused she was, and her camel toe left little to the imagination. Even the pattern of her curly pubes showed faintly through the thin fabric. She was a mouth-watering sight.

'You like it, Chloe? Does it turn you on?'

'Jeezus Molly, you're so fucking hot,' I murmured as I leant forward to kiss her stomach and her ribs, running a hand up and down the slinky material on her hip.

The suit had a zip that ran from the neck down to her abdomen, and she started to undo it. I wondered how many people had experienced a world-class cyclist giving them a strip tease like this. How lucky was I?

She took the zip down to just below her boobs, then took hold of the two sides and slowly peeled them apart until her erect nipples sprang free. The stretchy fabric still had an uplifting effect, and her tits looked absolutely stunning as they bulged proudly.

She stopped and let me gaze for a moment, then she said 'Want to take it further?' and I nodded, speechlessly. 'Are you sure?'

I took hold of the zip and slowly pulled it down, all the way to the bottom, just short of revealing her pubes, and I kissed the pale bare skin of her stomach. She put a hand on my head and moaned. 'Ohh '

I was sure she must be pretty wet by now and I brought one hand up between her legs (the other one was busy) to have a feel. Sure enough, the lycra crotch was slick with lovely sex juice.

She moaned again, and started to shrug her shoulders out of the suit, and I reached up and helped her pull her arms out of the short sleeves. Then I started peeling it down, until her whole upper body was bare. Her hands slid down over her hips and helped me to push the suit down until her pubes appeared in the V at the bottom of the zip. I caught my breath and nuzzled my nose into the V to inhale her aroma and feel that lush bush I love so much.

I couldn't wait any longer. I tugged the legs down over her thighs, and buried my face in her. Just rapturously immersing myself in her sex. It was time for some pussy adoration,

I turned her with my hands, saying 'Sit,' and plonked her arse on the sofa as I hurriedly shed my shorts and knickers. Then, I got on my knees between her legs as she freed her foot from the skinsuit, which had now served its purpose -- very nicely indeed.

I opened her pussy with my thumbs, revealing her thick, wrinkled inner labia - pink, engorged and glistening wet -- and I turned my head and sucked those succulent flaps into my mouth, savouring the salty, musky taste of her. She moaned 'Ohhh, yes Chloe. Eat me.'

She didn't need to tell me. I ate her hungrily, and she wrapped those gorgeous legs around my head, grabbed me by my hair and began a gorgeous slow humping of my face, gradually building up speed and urgency as her climax approached. We must have made a fine sight; me kneeling as if in some kind of reverence, while she fucked my face mercilessly.

I continued to tongue her delicious cunt until she built up to jerky thrusts of her hips, bouncing her bum off the sofa rhythmically, reaching out for her release.

I loved it. Every lip-smacking second of it. I loved the desperation of her, the sheer lust, and the ravishing experience of having her oh-so hairy, oh-so fleshy, and oh so creamy pussy thrust so powerfully into my face over and over again.

She came with a long, hoarse, breathy sound and Her rhythmic thrusting was suddenly replaced by an intense quivering, spasm. My tongue was bathed in a ambrosial dribble of her warm, piquant pussy juice, and I swallowed it with relish, savouring its smooth deliciousness in my mouth.

Her legs relaxed, freeing me to sit back on my heels, and I looked at her, sprawled there, legs akimbo, arms limp, nipples still pointing rudely to the sky, and eyes closed in her aftermath. As always, she just looked fucking gorgeous.

She opened her eyes and I smiled happily. I loved this. I could do this all day, just wallowing in her pleasure, and getting myself off with my fingers occasionally. This was some kind of Shangri-la to me.

I know Molly, and I knew what she needed now was a slower, gentler, less desperate come. I got up and lay on top of her, between her legs, and I kissed her, saying 'Do you want s'more?'

She sighed and murmured an affirmative, so I resumed my reverential position, parted her lips again and gazed at her pussy. So flushed and pink in its post-orgasmic tenderness. Her clit was almost bluish, straining from its hood in an engorged display of torrid arousal, and I loved the hint of blue veins under her skin as I stretched her fleshy lips apart. Her oozy little river was still trickling, and making a slick sheen on the leather cushion under her bum cheeks.

I pursed my lips and kissed the head of her livid little button - so hot and tumid -- and I blew on the wet flesh of her lips, making her shiver and squirm.

Hers is such a rude, flagrantly SEXUAL pussy, and I gloried in being lucky enough to be able to indulge my prurient lust and eat her to my heart's content. Feeling her damp, curly bush against my face, the thick meatiness of her fubsy lips, the firmness of her erect clit, and the sapid succulence of her secretions as I as I lapped them up like a cat.

I gave her two shuddery, whimpery orgasms, with a break in between, when I just lay with my cheek on her inner thigh and toyed affectionately with her lush pubes until I sensed she was ready to go again.

This was all about Molly. I didn't seek anything for myself, apart from the pleasure I got from pleasing her, and I was so friggin turned on I had no trouble giving myself multiple orgasms, just with my fingers, as I made love to her.

Eventually, we lay side by side on the sofa, sumptuously sated, and Molly gave me a sidelong look and said 'Whew, a skinsuit eh? Who knew it was sex-wear.' We both chuckled, and I looked at the skinsuit, lying on the floor. Wow.

A sudden chill made us get up and begin tidying up the profligate mess we'd made. Skinsuit, knickers, denim shorts, all into the wash, along with the towel we'd used to clean the sofa. We showered, dressed in our baggiest, comfiest, least sexy clothes, then went into the kitchen to cook.

I always enjoy my food, you'll know that by now, but after sex something happens to my appetite. My hunger becomes something akin to lust, and the pleasure of eating is suddenly a sensuous, primal experience.

I helped Molly to make frikadelles -- a bit like flattened meatballs or miniature burgers -- with her special seasoning, which we served with mashed potato and creamed cabbage with garlic. Plain fare but, My God. To me, that night, it was better than anything ever served in a 3-star Michelin restaurant.

Molly even allowed me a couple of glasses of wine -- she must have been feeling mellow for some reason -- but she said 'Teetotal from tomorrow until Sunday though.'

By 9pm, I was fading fast, and I said, 'I think I'll go to bed, Mol. You've tired me out with your abundance of good things.'

She smiled and squeezed my hand. We shared a little peck of a kiss and I headed to the spare room.

I was overdue to call Licia. She'd already sent me a 'hard luck' message with a sad face, and I'd replied with a 'd'oh' kind of emoticon, but we hadn't actually spoken.

'Hi babe, how're you doing? How's the shoulder?'

'Oh, not bad. I can pick up a cup of tea with it now.'

'Ha! A milestone.'

'Yep. A pint of Guinness will be next.'

'Are you still gym training?'

'Oh God, don't ask me.'

'Why?'

'Well yes, I am still training, but I didn't know what I was starting with Lisa... She hardly leaves me alone. She gives me the eye, then goes straight into the store room, and if I don't follow her, she comes back out, looking for me.'

'Wow. You've obviously started a fire.'

'Yeh. Yesterday I had to tell her to wait til I'd finished my session and had a shower, and do you know what she said?'

'What?'

'She said "Skip the shower, I like a bit of fresh, salty sweat on you." She's gone from being a doubtful lesbian to a complete pussy-hound.

'Blimey.'

'When I finished my session and went to find her, she was behind the shelving, lying on an exercise mat, frigging herself. She hadn't even locked the door! She just said "Finally... come here and fuck my face. Keep your shorts on." She's a fucking sex maniac.'

I chuckled slightly. 'Could be interesting next week. I'm coming over to see you.'

'Are you? Yay! We can fuck the life out of her.' She laughed.

'Sounds like she might doing that to us, rather than the other way round.'

'Mm. That's actually something to look forward to... Anyway, what about Flèche? That kid with the bag's an idiot. He cost you the race.'

'Maybe. Suzy's group were coming strongly though. I might have got caught anyway.'

'Nah, you looked mega-strong. My money was on you, until bag boy ruined it.'

'Well, we'll never know. Gotta think about L-B-L now.'

'Yeh. D'you think you'll get freedom to attack again?'

'Hope so, but everyone's getting wise to me now. I'll be watched much more carefully, I think.'

I yawned. 'Gonna get my head down now babe. I'm knackered.'

'Expect that Molly has been working you too hard, eh? In more ways than one, I bet.'

'Could say that,' I chuckled. 'Night, babe.'

'Ciao.'

At breakfast the next morning, Molly's phone gave a little "ching" and she looked at it and said, 'Oh,' and looked a little surprised.

'News?' I said.

'Sort of. It's an email from the Sportwereld newspaper -- you know, they sponsor the Flèche. I nodded. 'They want to arrange a meet up with the boy who brought you down on the Mur, and his parents, so they can apologise.'

'When, and where?'

'Sunday, before the start of L-B-L.'

'OK.'

I had no issues with meeting up with them. As I said, I don't harbour any bitterness over the crash. It was just a silly unfortunate incident. One of the risks in a sport where you are, sometimes literally, rubbing shoulders with the spectators.

Obviously, the newspaper thought it would make a nice story, and if it served to educate the public not to wave things in front of the riders then I was all for it.

'I've mailed them back with a go-ahead... Are you ready for a nice ride out today? I'm going to take you over part of De Ronde and part of the Omloop. We'll do the Oude Kwaremont, the Kapelmuur and Bosberg Coffee in Ninove, then back to Oudenaarde to finish with the Koppenberg. About 130km.'

'Seems a bit long with only 2 days to go to the L-B-L.'

'We'll take it easy - like cycle tourists.' She grinned. 'And no racing up the climbs. Save that for Sunday.'

'Yes Mol.'

It was a glorious spring day, with bright sunshine and about 16-17 degrees. I wore shorts and short sleeves, and fingerless gloves, and Molly dressed similarly. I felt a little fizz go through me when I looked at her in her kit and thought about the previous afternoon's skinsuit delight.

We rolled out of Waregem and headed for Ronse, via the Oude Kwaremont, where I'd had that epic final battle with Elisa and Pam in De Ronde, but I hardly recognised it without the spectators etc. In Ronse, we picked up Marianne and headed for Gerardsbergen, joining the route of the Omloop en route. Wow, it seemed so long ago now.

Like the Kwaremont, the Kapelmuur and the Bosberg seemed like totally different places, though I did remember the road into Ninove, where Tera and I had towed Marieke to victory. I gave a little hmph to myself when I thought about it.

We enjoyed a coffee at the Cafe Den Bellman by the river, then set off back westwards towards Oudenaarde, on easy quiet lanes. One of Molly's traffic-avoiding routes.

We detoured to take in the Koppenberg, because Molly can never resist "her hill" and I enjoyed following her up the climb, watching her dance on the pedals, slim but shapely hips swaying rhythmically, exactly like they did when she made her winning attack here, a few years before. Poetry in motion.

From the top, we looped round, close to Ronse, waved bye bye to Mari, and headed back to Waregem, where Molly got a little surprise.

We put the bikes in the garage, took off our cycling shoes, and I followed her up the three steps into the house. God, she makes me so hot! Just the way she climbed the steps in her stocking feet... so fucking irresistibly slinky. As soon as we got into the kitchen, I pounced on her like a horny wildcat.

I turned her to face me, and kissed her rabidly, making her gasp with surprise. She didn't resist me though, and we hurtled headlong into a scorching sexual kiss. A kiss I'd been yearning for all afternoon. She didn't even get the chance to ask me if I was sure. Of course I was bloody sure.

I tugged her shorts and sports knickers down to her ankles and ate her wildly on the kitchen table. After almost 7 hours of cycling, she wasn't exactly like a fresh, dew-filled flower. She was clammy, steamy, salty, and that was exactly how I wanted her. It drove me mad with a prurient lust, and I gorged on her, salaciously.

It took her quite a while to come, but that was fine by me; more time in pussy paradise. When little jerks and gasps told me she was near, I introduced my fingers and drove her mercilessly over the edge, into table-banging orgasm.

My fingers had also been busy in my steamy little hot box, but I wanted her to give me the final rush. I got rid of my shorts and knickers, climbed up on the table, and got myself off on her face, while she was still reeling from her own climax.

It was intense. An outpouring of lust and libido, and I think we were both a little shocked by it. As I hopped back down onto the floor, Molly shook her head and laughed, 'Oh my, THAT was unexpected...' then she hastily added, '... but in a good way. I'm very flattered that I have this effect on you Chloe... Not very hygienic though, on the kitchen table.' She pouted, ruefully.

Saturday was a very quiet day. We were pretty much shagged out, literally, and Molly had counselled abstinence anyway; 'You don't want to be on that start line, yawning.'

I did a 45-minute ride on Molly's rollers, just keeping my legs awake, and spent the rest of the day relaxing, eating a lot of carbohydrates, and getting my head ready to race again.

***

Liège-Bastogne-Liège

L-B-L, as it's colloquially known, is a very old race. Well, the men's race is, anyway. Its origins can be traced back to 1892, making it the oldest of the 5 Monuments of cycling, hence its nickname, "La Doyenne" ("The Old Lady"). There have been some route variations over the years, but it always starts in the north, runs down to Bastogne in the south then returns north by a different route, either to Spa or Liège.

The current course between the two cities is well established at around 260km which makes it one of the longest of the classic races, and it is also one of the hilliest, with up to a dozen steep climbs to be tackled. It is considered one of the toughest one-day races in the world.

I'd love to take it on, but unfortunately, the women's race is much shorter. It actually starts in Bastogne and only does the northward leg, so it's only half a race really. B-L, rather than L-B-L. It measures only 153km, but it does have a lot of climbs, including the most famous and difficult, the Côte de La Redoute. It's also way younger than "La Doyenne," -- the first edition was in 2017.

The addition of these women's versions of the Monuments shows the growth of women's cycling, but we have a way to go before we reach parity, both in race distances and in prize money. Ain't that always the way?

Still, if we don't compare it to the men's race, it is a tough course in its own right. It actually includes most of the same climbs as the men's race -- 10 of them. The first comes after only 16km then they are one after another all the way to Liège. A race is a race, whatever the distance, and I was looking forward to the challenge.

Liège, where the men start, and where my team hotel was located, was way over at the eastern end of Belgium, and about a 2-hour drive from Molly's place, so we set off at about 4pm to drive there, with one of Molly's bikes on the roof.

Molly hadn't originally intended to come. Her plan had been to drop me at the team bus in Brussels then return home, but the newspaper wanted her to be with me when I met the errant spectator, probably because they thought her fame would add a certain extra interest to the story. So, she booked a hotel and we drove over together.

She was bringing a bike so that she could ride out to La Redoute to spectate. It's always easier to spectate by bike. Many of the roads on the race routes are closed early to motor vehicles, whereas bikes can usually access them almost up until the race arrives. Parking a car at a popular place like La Redoute would be a nightmare, anyway.

L-B-L was the last of the spring classics, so during the drive to Liège the subject of my plans beyond it came up. 'Have you thought about any more races after this weekend, Chloe? Or are you just going to put your feet up for the summer?'

I chuckled. 'Well, I've been thinking about it. After the Omloop, I was thinking I was just a 'cross rider. I didn't think I was cut out for the road. I even thought about mountain bike. Now though, I'm not so sure. I mean, I've won two of the biggest races on the calendar, so I must have some talent.'

She glanced at me, with a smirk. 'Chloe, you're a huge talent. Maybe bigger than I ever was. You're the complete package. No significant weaknesses. Sprinting, climbing, even time-trials, probably. Look at your last 12km into Oudenaarde at De Ronde, or how you pulled Inga back at the end of La Fléche. Even at Roubaix, when you got caught. Those riders who chased you down were on their knees at the end.

'I think you can win anything you want if you put your mind to it; European champs, Worlds, even Grand Tours. You could be the female Merckx...'

I blushed and scoffed. 'Molly stop it... I know you like to build me up, but at this rate my head won't fit in my helmet, and we haven't even seen another male Merckx yet, never mind a female one.'

'No, I mean it. I know I'm your coach, so I'm biased, but I really believe in your ability. '

'Do you really think I could win Grand Tours?'

'Of course, in the future. Why not?'

'Funny that, because Robbie asked if I wanted to be considered for the Vuelta Feminina.'

'Really? Why didn't you tell me?'

'Well, I told him I needed to think about it. I'm still thinking.'

'OK.'

This was Molly. She sows the seed in my head, then lets it germinate. She doesn't push me into anything, she just let's the idea take hold. It was exactly how she did it with the classics, though it was Licia that gave me the final nudge, and how glad I was that I'd decided to give them a go.

She dropped me at the hotel just in time for dinner, and arranged to collect me at 10 in the morning to go to the city centre hotel, where the newspaper had set up the meeting.

I walked into the hotel, and checked the room roster to find I was with Tera. Now that we were joint leaders they obviously thought we needed to get closer and develop an understanding. Well, OK then. I decided not to seek any room swaps. I felt ready for a rest from wild sexual encounters. For a day, at least.

We were jolly over dinner. Everyone was feeling confident. Recent successes had really buoyed the team and we were definitely thinking we could win this race, either with Tera, or with me. 'Just keep your distance from the spectators, Chloe,' said Gabi with a grin.

'Will you be throwing in a surprise attack at some point, Chloe?' asked Tera, a little pointedly.

'Maybe. What about you?' I replied. She shrugged. The whole table was watching us. We were like two vixens, circling each other, wondering whether we were going to fight. I sensed a little resentment from her. The prickly hostility of the established queen bee, whose territory was being threatened. Always was it thus in sport. The old stars begin to fade, and new ones twinkle into view.

I didn't revel in it. I quite liked Tera, and I had a lot of respect for what she'd achieved as a rider. I didn't really want to be the one to come up and usurp her, but it's a competitive sport, a vixen-eat-vixen world, and if you can, you do.

***

Race Day

Molly arrived at 10am and parked the Lyonmobile on the hotel car park. We took a taxi into the centre to avoid parking problems, and walked into the Hotel Ourthe at 10:15. We had a little time in hand so we sat in the lounge to wait.

10 minutes later, five people walked in; Floortje Kles, the journalist who was writing the article, a photographer, and the boy with his parents. We stood to greet them, and to my surprise, the boy ran and threw his arms round me. 'I'm sorry!'

'Hey, hey, Luuk,' said his father, 'you can't do that to a stranger.' He took the boy away from me. 'Sorry, Chloe, but he's been beside himself since Wednesday. We don't know how we can make amends.'

'You can't,' I shrugged, 'but it's just one of those things. The important thing is to learn from it.'

We sat. 'I think he has learned,' said his mother. We are big cycling fans, and we should know better. We were so shocked when he did that.'

'Cycling is an intense sport, I said. 'Riders often have tunnel vision. You have to give us space.'

'We know, we know. Fans just get too excited sometimes.'

'And too drunk,' Molly interjected.

'Yes, but that wasn't his problem. He's only 12,' said his dad.

Molly grinned. 'Yes, I wasn't suggesting HE was drunk. It can be a big problem though.'

We chatted on easily for a while, then the conversation came to a natural close and they got up to leave. 'Are you watching today?' I asked.

'Yes, on La Redoute.'

'Now listen, young Luuk,' I said, 'no plastic bags today, OK?' He shook his head solemnly, and I gave him a small Canyon-Zipp flag I'd kept concealed. 'You can wave this, but keep it out of the way of the riders.'

His face lit up and he said, 'Would you sign it?' His mum produced a marker pen from her handbag and I autographed the flag, then we posed for photographs. They left happy.

After they'd gone, Floortje interviewed us and the photographer floated around, taking candid, un-posed photos. It was a little distracting, but the article would appear both in the paper, and online, so stylish photos were essential.

We were asked about my recent wins, was I enjoying the classics, our relationship as coach and rider (no, we didn't mention THAT) and my immediate plans after classics season.

I was cagey about the latter, saying I didn't want to say anything, because plans weren't finalised yet.

Finally, I was asked about my internal team rivalry with Tera, and whether I thought I could win today. 'Yes, I do think I can win, but so could Tera, Suzy, Elisa, Lucy, or even someone else entirely. This race has thrown up unexpected winners before.'

We returned to the team hotel, and I got onto the bus for the one hour trip down to Bastogne for the start, leaving Molly in the bar having a coffee and talking to a few admirers.

It was a rather dull, and very chilly day as we drove south, and the soigneurs were buzzing about, checking if we wanted arm or leg warmers or if we wanted balm or embrocation rubbing into our legs. When Adam asked me, I demurred. If anyone was going to rub balm into my legs, it would be me. Or maybe Debbie.

Our team had three soigneurs on the bus, Adam, James, and the new girl, Debbie. Soigneurs are general all-round helpers, dealing with food, clothing, and a whole host of other things, including massages. I'm not particularly enthused by massages, especially not by men, but now we had Debbie...

She was interesting, too; Canadian, about 35-ish, an ex-swimmer, similar height to me but much more curvy, busty and quite pretty, even with her overly-short hairstyle and a mass of piercings in one of her ears. It was nice to have a female soigneur (or should I say, soigneuse?) on board.

Personally, I'd prefer it if all the soigneurs were female. In fact, I'd prefer it if the whole team were female, but that's not likely any time soon.

Anyway, on this occasion I eschewed both legwarmers and balm and put my faith in cold-resistant northern legs. It may not have been the best idea.

As we went through the sign on and team presentation rigmarole, I observed that it was decidedly nippy, even to a Lancashire lass, and the thick cloud cover held out no hope of any sunshine. I probably should have gone for arm and leg warmers at this point - I could always have stripped them off later - but I have an almost neurotic phobia of overheating, so I stuck to just my short skinsuit. I did have thermal undies on underneath it though, and I thought that would do.

As we lined up for the start, I was on the verge of shivering, but I have a maxim which is, "if you are comfortable on the start line, you probably have too much on." I'll warm up when we get going, I thought.

To my surprise, before we rolled out, Pam came up to me and murmured in my ear, 'I'm gonna attack on the Côte de Desnié. Wanna join me?'

It was an interesting proposition. At that point, there would be 4 climbs and about 45km to go. It was immediately before the Côte de Redoute, which was a favourite place for people to bid for a solo victory, so attacking one climb earlier would pre-empt anyone who was planning a move on La Redoute.

Pam was obviously thinking that 45km was a long way to go solo, but teaming up with me would give her a big engine to work with, even though it would mean she would be unlikely to win if it came down to a 2-up sprint with me. Maybe a podium was her aim, rather than outright victory.

'Hmm, maybe. Thanks for telling me,' I said as we rolled out on the neutralised start.

A lot could happen before the Desnié though and, sure enough, attacks began almost as soon as the flag dropped at km 0.

The first flurry were all unsuccessful, but on the first climb of the day, the Côte de Saint-Roch, Franka Stellner of Team Vista Maxx, managed to break away for a solo adventure. She's well known for her solo exploits, so she was a slightly dangerous escapee, but the peloton was tardy in getting organised to chase.

Other teams looked at us to take it on, but Gabi came on the radio and told us not to do the work. 'Let Protime or Amstel chase.'

I would actually have preferred to chase because it would have maybe warmed me up a bit, but we sat tight, as instructed.

By the Côte de Stockeu, the 4th climb of the day, Franka had built a lead of 1.35, and other teams, realising we weren't going to take the lead, started to increase the pace.

By the time we'd passed by the Spa Francorchamps motor racing circuit and climbed the Col du Rosier Franka's gap was down to a minute, and we reduced it further as we descended and passed through the little town of Spa itself.

The Côte de Desnié was looming and I gave Pam the nod as we approached the climb, and positioned myself nearer to the front. Pam had planned this well and she waited until the steepest bit, in the middle of the climb, before launching her stinging attack. I latched straight onto her wheel, but my legs felt curiously flat, and it was all I could do to hang on as she sustained her effort all the way to the top of the ascent.

I think we were lucky that no one else responded, and the long descent that followed also played into our hands. My legs seemed OK on the downhill, and by working together we built a lead of 45 seconds, and caught Franka by the bottom of La Redoute.

Franka tagged onto us as we climbed, and the three of us stayed together. The climb was comparable to the Mur de Huy -- 1.6km at 9.4% - and the pace was more than adequate. I certainly didn't feel like going solo.

At the top, we had, perhaps surprisingly, increased our gap over the peloton. I heard Molly's voice shouting for me, and I spotted young Luuk's little flag, safely back behind the barriers this time.

I should have been euphoric at this point. I had supporters out on the hill, a good gap over the pursuers, and two breakaway companions who were both ostensibly weaker than me. Victory was beckoning, but I didn't feel good. I hadn't warmed up since my cold start, and slightly numb fingertips, even with my racing gloves on, told the story of my chilled core. It was undoubtedly the reason for the lack of life in my legs.

From the top of La Redoute there were 33 kilometres and two climbs remaining, and the last climb was one of the steepest on the whole route; the Côte de la Roche-aux-Faucons -- 1.3 km at 11%.

On the penultimate climb, the Côte des Forges, I found myself struggling to hold Pam's wheel - even on a mere 7% gradient -- and I couldn't believe it. I'd always been so strong before, always had the measure of riders I was with, whoever they were, but not this time. My legs were stiff with the cold, and my body was using precious energy just trying to maintain its core temperature. I was hanging by a thread.

I think we were actually quite lucky that the chase behind was not very determined or organised. Obviously, the Canyon-Zipp, Amstel-Rabo, and Vista Maxx teams wouldn't chase, with riders in the break, and the other teams didn't work well together. Otherwise, I think we'd have been caught by now.

As we started the last climb, almost at the outskirts of Liège, the three of us were still together, with 1.14 over the chasers. At this point Franka had been away for 122km, over 100 of them completely alone, so it was no surprise that she lost touch as soon as the gradient ramped up, leaving just two of us.

Pam was very strong and very determined. That new coach of hers had really moved her onto a new level. On top form, I still think I'd have had her covered, but I wasn't on top form. Nowhere near it. I was feeling cold and wretched, and was really struggling just to stay with her.

About halfway up the climb, we hit a ramp of 16%, and I started to lose touch. A gap of a wheel became a bike length, then two. I got out of the saddle to up the tempo, but so did Pam. It was a slow-motion battle for the last 500m of the climb, but I was pulling her back, inch by inch. A final grim effort almost brought me back to her wheel at the top, and that's when the cramp hit me.

My left calf went into spasm, and it was like someone had thrown a spoke in my wheel. I sat down abruptly, and almost came to a standstill, weaving from side to side and clutching at the pain. I rocked my foot back and forth on the pedal, gently, and the spasm slowly subsided.

Franka rejoined me and she said 'What's wrong?' as she went past.

'Cramp,' I winced.

I NEVER got cramp. Couldn't recall the last time I'd had it. It was the cold again.

Pam was away now, but I found I could pedal again, so I latched onto Franka's wheel, and tailed her as we descended into Liège. I felt like a golf ball had lodged itself in my calf muscle, but I found I could keep up. Just. Our gap was still, amazingly, 58 seconds.

We could see Pam ahead, time-trialling solo towards the finish. If Franka had been fresh, and I'd been fully-functional, the two of us, working together, could probably have caught her, but that was in dreamland.

As it was, Franka was doing an amazing job to be able to tow me to the finish. She knew I had a problem, so she never asked me to do a turn on the front, she just drilled it all the way in, with me in her draft. Surely, hers was the ride of the day.

There was no way I was in a fit state to sprint at the end, but she stood up and accelerated, just in case. C'mon, Franka... Would I do that to you?

Pam won by 20 seconds from Franka, with me at 23, and the next chasing group very close behind; they were only 11 seconds away from catching me.

I was freezing cold when I crossed the line, my whole body seemed to be coated in a film of cold, clammy sweat, and shivering set in almost immediately. Luckily, Debbie was alert to my needs, and she was on hand with a pile of warm wear.

The best way to warm up in this situation is always a hot shower, but there was no time for that before the podium, so I ended up standing on the third step, swaddled in overtrousers, two fleeces, and my Team Lyon beanie hat, like it was a midwinter cyclocross race.

I did the champagne spraying with some enthusiasm, despite my debilitation, mainly as a celebration of my two breakaway companions, who had both been absolutely brilliant.

Franka's ride was truly awesome, and I had to applaud Pam, who absolutely deserved to win. It had been a tough old day, but unlike after the Omloop, I was not unhappy. I just needed to learn the lesson about keeping warm on a cold day.

So, that was my first attempt at the classics season over. No DNFs (though there was a DNS at Amstel Gold) two finishes in the bunch, a top 10 at Gent-Wevelgem, two wins (in the two biggest races) and three other podiums. A roaring success by any standards. Now, I had to face the big question: What next?

But before I thought about that, I needed to attend to my immediate needs. I went for a quick shower in the facilities provided near the finish, then sought out Debbie for a massage on my calf.

The massage bench is at the back of the team bus, behind a curtain, and the fact that the curtain was drawn across told me there was someone in there, so I sat and waited.

I could hear the sound of her talking to someone, and after a couple of minutes, Marlen emerged. 'Oo, Chloe, hello.'

'Hi Marlen.' We shared a little hug, and she gave me a raised eyebrows look that I couldn't read.

'Come in Chloe,' said Debbie, beckoning me with a smile. She already knew about my attack of cramp. I think the whole world of cycling knew by this point. Franka had mentioned it in a post-race interview on Eurosport, and of course my sudden weakening had been seen on live TV coverage.

She spread paper on the bench and said, 'strip down to your undies and lie face down on here so I can have a feel.'

Ooer. Strange choice of phrase, and I'm pretty sure she did it deliberately.

I did as I was told and she rubbed some balm on her hands and began exploring my calf muscle with her fingers. 'Hmm, I think you have a little muscle tear there. You'll need to take it easy for a few days.'

She started an exquisite, soothing massage, which flirted with that strange border between pleasure and pain, but after working on the calf for a while, she started to move onto the rest of my leg, and then to the other leg. I didn't question it. I was enjoying it, and had a feeling of almost soporific relaxation.

As her hands worked their magic, we chatted. 'It seems a very close-knit team, this,' she said. 'You are all very at ease with each other. I sense a lot of affection between you.'

'Mm, that's true. Some of us are gay, you know. We are... close.'

'Yeah, Marlen just told me that. There are a few gay girls on the tour, I believe.'

'Yeh, there are. You'll soon get to know us all...' her hands were massaging my hamstrings, working their way up to the creases below my bum cheeks.

Her thumbs were in those creases, working on the upper ends of my gracilis muscles, and very close to my pussy, when she said, 'I'm bi myself.'

'Wha... really?' I was suddenly wide awake.

'Yep. Between partners at the moment... Turn over please.'

I turned over, and she started working on my quads. Her hands were fabulous as they worked their magic on my surprisingly stiff and tender quadriceps muscles making me almost gasp with pleasure-pain. I'd never had a massage quite like this before, and the suddenly very interesting conversation certainly wasn't detracting from the experience.

'So, do you generally have male or female partners?' I asked.

'I've had both... loved both.'

'You're greedy, basically, aren't you?' I jibed.

She looked straight into my eyes, with a wicked grin, and slid her hands right up my thighs, rippling the muscles until they framed my vulva, her thumbs against the gusset of my knickers. 'Very greedy,' she growled. Then she switched straight back into professional mode. 'Right, you're done.'

I dressed, and she pulled the curtain back, and ushered in Selina, who was waiting. 'Later, Chloe.'

Wow. I could see lots of fun times ahead with Debbie. If I continued on the tour, of course.

I wasn't staying over with the team that night, but I was joining them for dinner, so I walked up to the hotel and went up to the room to pack my bags.

Tera was there, and she said, 'You had a tough break there Chloe. Cramp near the end. Hard luck.'

'My own fault really. I let myself get too cold.'

'You did well to survive to the end. We were sure we were going to bring you back, but the closer we got to the finish, the less likely it looked, so chapeau to you three.'

'Pam was very strong. She's pretty much on our level now...'

Dinner was a celebration of a successful classics campaign, and Robbie raised a toast to the team. 'To the team, and what a great addition Chloe has been.'

'Yeah, you were brilliant Chloe,' said Helen. 'You can't stop here.'

'I've told her she can come to the Vuelta,' (the Tour of Spain) said Robbie, 'but she's being evasive.'

'I haven't decided,'

'Well, you need to tell me in the next two days if you want to be on the team.'

I nodded. 'OK, I'll let you know.'

After dinner, I went up to the room and called Licia. 'Hey babe, how you doing?'

'Hi darlin, I'm pretty good. Less armless than I was. I went into town with Sorcha and I managed to lift a pint. It's a major step forward.'

I chuckled. 'Yes it is.'

'We watched your race live in Brennan's Bar. It was a nail biter. They were coming fast for you at the end.'

'I know.'

'People in the bar were all rooting for you, once I told them you were my girlfriend. It was great craic.'

I laughed. 'Really?'

'Yeh, you should have heard the groans when you suddenly slowed down. Cramp eh? It was a cold race. You let yourself get too cold, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

'Won't make that mistake again, will you?'

'No.' Damn her for her condescending correctitude.

I changed the subject. 'Anyway, listen. You'd better gird up your loins, and warn that Lisa. I'm comin to get ya on Tuesday. I've booked a flight. One-way for now.

'Yay, fantastic. Can't wait! It's been so long...'

'Yeh, three weeks. It does feel like a long time.'

'I'll be able to give you your yellow polka dot knickers back.'

'Ha! Yeh, that's what I'm looking forward to most of all... Gotta go babe, Molly's coming to collect me to go back to Waregem.'

'OK. Don't let that Molly tire you out. I want you to be some use to me when you get here.'

'Don't worry babe, I'm saving myself for you. See you Tuesday.'

'Ciao bella'

I dragged my bags down the stairs, limping because of my calf, called in at the bar/lounge to say my goodbyes, then hobbled out to the car park, where Molly was already waiting for me.

She was a little quiet as she threaded the Lyonmobile out through the suburbs and joined the A3 northwest, but as we settled into a cruise, she spoke.

'I was surprised at you, making a basic error like that, Chloe. It cost you the race.'

'I know.' I said, contritely.

'You have to learn the lesson. The team car was nearby, you could have asked for more warm wear anytime. Why didn't you?'

'I don't know.'

'You should have thought about it. Sometimes, just riding fast isn't enough to keep warm -- or to win the race.'

I couldn't argue. She was right, Licia was right. A top pro, which I was now supposed to be, shouldn't be making mistakes like that. I accepted the dressing down. She was my coach. It was her job to tell me off when I messed up.

We rolled along in silence for a while, then I said, 'Molly?'

'Yes?

My flight to Edinburgh isn't until 5pm tomorrow.'

'Mm hm.'

'Can we make a stoofpot for lunch?'

She turned to me with a grin. 'Of course.'

***

Monday night, I returned home to Scotland, but just for one brief night. On Tuesday morning I was on the move again. This time to Ireland.

On the plane, I had a window seat on the port side. As we crossed the Irish Sea, I gazed out at the Isle of Man and thought about the future. Maybe I would do the Vuelta. After all, Molly said I could win anything, and Molly is always right.

***