Chloe's Torrid Tour

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

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

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

***

Chloe's Torrid Tour Pt. 03

I woke before Trude, which was a good sign, and it gave me an opportunity to look at her sleeping before she stirred. Her hair was strewn across her cheek, and I couldn't resist brushing it back. Beautiful hair, but I wanted to see her beautiful face.

She stirred and opened her eyes. 'Chloe, hi... Morning. She lifted her head off the pillow to kiss me, giving me a little taste of the salty sex residue that was still on her lips.

Waking up with Trude was different to waking up with Lucy, or Helen, or Pam, or Carmen. Each had their own, different, waking aura. A morning persona. Quite fascinating really.

I hear some people always wake up crabby -- I sometimes do - but I've been lucky enough to not have experienced that in my girlfriends. They have all been a dawn delight.

And what about Licia? Well, Licia is mischievous. Not always -- I mean, sometimes she slips downstairs and makes me tea -- but on occasions. I never quite know when I might wake up with a boob or her hairy pussy in my face. I like it. It's spicy, and makes life interesting and unpredictable, and of course, I reciprocate, sometimes...

But this morning, I had the delectable Trude to wake up to, and that was a treat. 'Do you want to shower with me again, Trude?' I said with a cheeky grin.

Her eyes sparkled and her dimples appeared. 'That would be lovely, Chloe.'

I love having sex in the shower, and it's even easy to experiment a little with watersports without it being too icky, as Licia and I have, but we were racing today, so we just settled for a lot of sensuous soaping and smooching.

We had a lovely long kiss under the shower spray, one of my favourite sensual experiences; eyes closed, twirling our tongues together under a deluge of warm, sluicing water. My pre-hydration started early that morning.

***

Stage 4: La Rochelle -- Íle de Ré.

ITT. 30km / negligible climbing.

On the bus to La Rochelle, I procured my third bottle of Debbie's magic elixir. It seemed to have had a positive effect, so I decided I needed more of it. Despite its slightly odd flavour, which was somewhere between green vegetables and red fruits, it had grown on me. The effect may have been at least partly psychosomatic, but I'd take any effect I could get.

Our transfer from Cholet was almost two hours, so there was plenty of time to relax, chill out and top up our liquid levels (even more) ready for the stage, which was in the afternoon.

There was nothing much to see in the road book. The stage was a time-trial -- the so-called "race of truth" - 30km long, and as near flat as makes no difference. It was basically a circuit of the Île de Ré, a small island just off the coast and linked to the town by a 2km long bridge.

All the course was on exposed coastal roads, so the biggest concern was the wind, but it was a benign sort of day; dry and calm, with sunny spells. It was warm though -- 29 degrees C in the mid-afternoon -- so hydration was going to be crucial. I moderated my consumption of Debbie's iron brew, and switched to sipping an electrolyte drink as we arrived at the venue.

My good level of hydration was evident by the number of toilet trips I had to make as we got ready for the start, and I wasn't the only one. Queuing for a pee became a major interruption in my preparation, and more than once, I had to climb off the warm-up rollers and click-clack my way to the loo in cleated shoes.

As usual with time-trials in grand tours, we were to start in reverse GC order and, because I was lying so lowly (in the 20s) I wouldn't be starting near the end. I would leave the start house 1 minute behind my compatriot Abby Stockton, and 1 minute ahead of the Australian Heather Banks, neither of whom were expected to be anywhere near my time.

I knew I could time-trial, and I thought I could perhaps even match the favourite, the Canadian time-trial specialist, Jenny Lenet, who would be starting 10 places behind me.

I was under no illusions about how much time I could gain on my GC rivals though. Even if I could beat them, time gains would likely only be a handful of seconds. Still, any time gained could be useful. I had to try.

As my start time approached, I put on my crazy ugly aero time-trial helmet, picked up my crazy ugly aero time-trial bike, and headed to the start house.

Abby was just in front of me and I decided to have a bit of cheeky fun with her. She's from the north, like I am, so she shares the same piss-taking sense of humour. 'Hey, Abby,' I called to her, 'try not to get under me feet when I catch you, eh?'

'Cheeky cow. You won't see me for dust, Lyons.'

'In yer dreams, girl...'

We both chuckled. It was a feisty come-back, but in truth with only a minute head-start, I probably would catch her before the finish.

I watched her disappear down the ramp, and moved forward, ready to take her place. Despite the banter, I was psyched up and ready to roar. There was fire in my belly. I banged my helmet between my hands with a final 'COME ON!' then moved up to the line. The official gave me a visual countdown with his fingers, while the timing machine did its beeping sequence:

Beep, beep, beep, BEEEP...

GO Chloe!

I surged down the ramp, and forced that big gear to turn, winding it mercilessly up to speed, and settled into my time-trial tuck.

The team car slotted in behind me and within a few hundred metres, I was up to my max cruising speed of around 50km/h. There wasn't much wind, and I just concentrated on smoothness and efficiency, trying to eke every bit of speed out of each watt of power.

I was amazed how big the crowds were. I imagine that this island is pretty quiet most of the time, but not today. Every little town, every roundabout, every yacht marina - anywhere there was space -- was thronged with spectators, and I felt like they were all -- regardless of nationality -- willing me on.

I looked at the numbers on my computer display and I was amazed to see that, on the flat, at a heart rate of 180bpm, I was occasionally seeing more than 50 on the speedo. This was at least 1 km an hour faster than I'd achieved at Granada or Bergamo. There could have been a very slight tailwind, but, even so, I was clearly flying.

'Fastest at the first time-check,' said Gabi on the radio, '45 seconds up.' I wasn't too surprised at that, because I wasn't up against the fastest riders yet. They'd all be starting more than 20 minutes behind me, but it would be nice if I could set a time they couldn't get near.

At the far end of the island, I crossed a neck of land and swapped the south coast for the north. I didn't notice much change in the wind, and my speed remained the same -- between 49.5 and 50.5.

I started getting excited, because these were very high speeds and, strictly speaking, I had another 5 beats per minute to play with before I went anaerobic and it became unsustainable.

'Second time check,' said Gabi. There was a pause. 'Over two minutes, Chloe. Meter your effort.'

Did she think I was stupid? I'd been doing that all the way. I had speed in reserve, and plenty left in the tank, and my legs were GOOOD. 'Thank you legs,' I murmured.

At the 20km mark, I saw Abby up ahead, and I slowly reeled her in over the next 2km. The commissaires are eagle-eyed to spot any drafting, which is forbidden, so as I came up to her, I kept well to one side, to avoid her slipstream.

As I passed her, she shouted a breathless 'BITCH!' and I chuckled to myself. I knew she didn't mean it. Really.

As soon as I was past, I spotted another rider ahead. It was the climber Weike Brant of Verso-Lab, who had started 3 minutes ahead of me. I pushed my heart rate up towards 185 and caught her by km 24.

6 kilometres to go. I was flirting with the anaerobic, but I felt good, so I pressed on. My speed was now solidly and consistently above 50km/h -- virtually unheard of in women's time-trialling - and I could almost feel the anxiety from the team car. 'Steady, Chloe. You're a long way in the lead now.'

But I had no intention of going steady. A long way in the lead maybe, but the big guns were yet to come. I needed to strive for every second if I was to say ahead.

5km to go. Legs still good. HR: 183-185. Speed: 50.1 -- 50.6

I was calculating when I could afford to go anaerobic. The human body can't function anaerobically for more than about a minute, so only a kilometre, maximum, but I reckoned I could start to use SOME anaerobic metabolism from km 26, and gradually increase it, switching the balance slowly from aerobic to anaerobic and aiming to reach the line just as the oxygen debt became intolerable.

It was a difficult tightrope to walk, and easy to get horribly wrong, but Molly had painstakingly explained it to me many times, and demonstrated it on training rides. Now, I would see whether I could do it as expertly as she could.

With 4km to go, I started increasing my effort, straying beyond the threshold. Careful, Chloe. Not too much yet. I knew lactic acid could build up rapidly if I went too crazy, and that would bring me (literally) to my knees.

My speed increased, yet again, but just slightly. Just a little more, just a little more.

To be honest, it was excruciating now, trying to maintain this effort with no respite, but when I watched the coverage later I was surprised how impassive I looked. There was no hint of the inner turmoil that was going on.

The coverage made me chuckle actually. For most of my ride, the commentators were talking about whether my pace was suicidal, then speculating on when I'd run out of steam. When I passed 27km and still hadn't slowed, their incredulity became comical:

'Well, Jo, we've both been talking about when she'll slow down, but here she is with 3k to go and, blow me, she's going even faster!'

'Yes Dan, I really didn't think she could keep this up. And what a turnaround after Stage 1. Phenomenal.'

I homed in on the finish, gradually going deeper into the red. Dancing with the devil, walking the tightrope, or whatever this flirting with an anaerobic blow-up might be called (it should have a name, surely?) and I squeezed a little more speed out of my legs.

Amazingly, I timed it almost perfectly. As I raced the clock down the finishing straight, I could feel the braking effect as lactate build-up began to flood my muscles, but my legs were still strong. They didn't give out until after the finish.

I swept across the line and braked as I hurtled into a mêlée of photographers, journalists, and soigneurs. The crowd noise was surprisingly subdued -- almost a stunned silence. I hadn't yet seen the time.

A red curtain momentarily came down over my eyes and multiple arms caught me as I fell to the ground, still attached to the bike.

When I saw again, the bike was gone, and Debbie was peering at me, holding my face in her hands, with multiple journalists behind her trying to snap intrusive pictures. 'Chloe? Chloe?'

'Yes, Deb, I'm OK.' My heart rate was already falling, and my senses rapidly returned. I struggled to my feet, and NOW the crowd erupted.

Lucy's team mate Toya Rennser was sitting in the hot seat with the fastest time so far, but I had gone 2 minutes and 45 seconds faster. A ridiculous margin. As we swapped places, she shook my hand and just said 'Wow,' with a rueful smile.

Now came the long, fidgety wait, as other riders came in. The next few weren't within a country mile of me, but then Jenny Lenet, the Canadian TT champion and favourite arrived. She hurtled down the finish straight looking smooth and powerful, and across the line... 57 seconds slower. What? Nearly a minute? Over a national TT champion? Crazy.

I remained seated, as rider after rider came in with times, 2, 3, even 4 minutes slower, and I began to realise I had done something extraordinary.

Then came my big GC rivals...

Elisa. No, she was 1.40 slower. Leona. No. 1.26 slower. And then Lucy..

I was on tenterhooks as we waited for her to appear, but as time ticked by it became obvious she wouldn't do it. She fought the bike all the way down the finish straight, but she was 1.14 slower. Astonishing.

Only Ronni was still to come, but she's not really a time trial specialist. She was 3.11 down, and lost the yellow jersey to Lucy.

Almost as soon as Ronni finished and I stood up from the hot seat as stage winner, a motley crew of journalists were sticking phones and mics in my face. I'm not sure how much sense I made in interviews. I was still stunned by what could have been the performance of my career so far.

I'm really a novice time-trial rider. I regard myself as more of a climber, and climbers aren't supposed to be able to time-trial, but I had outclassed EVERYONE, even those who pride themselves on their prowess against the clock. This wasn't just a miraculous recovery from Stage 1, this was a jump onto a whole new level.

The press besieged me after the podium too. Many people asked me if I would now go for the time-trial at the World Championships, or even the next Olympics, but I couldn't answer because I hadn't even considered it. It was even suggested I might abandon Le Tour to concentrate on the Worlds, 'since you are still so far behind on GC.'

I gave the latter very short shrift: 'There's no way I'm abandoning the Tour. I still think the gap is closable. We have big mountains to come, and despite what I've done today, I still think that's my greatest strength.'

Soigneur is such a small word to describe Debbie's role in my Tour. She was masseuse, confidante, supplier of magic elixirs, and of course, occasional lover, and now here she was, acting as chaperone, rescuing me from a pack of salivating journos and photographers and spiriting me away to the haven of calm that was the team bus.

However, the calm was interrupted when I was summoned to doping control.

Inevitably after a performance like I'd just produced, fingers were going to be pointed. Surely, it was impossible to do that without doping?

I resented the dope test, because it implied a question over my honesty -- something that is very important to me - but I had no fear of it, and I just subjected myself to it with a sullen resignation and got it over with.

When I returned to the bus it was full of girls, all of whom wanted to congratulate me. The bus was abuzz with excitement, and I found myself trying to calm things down and keep everyone anchored. This was only Stage 4 of 8. A lot could still happen. I must have seemed rather subdued for someone who had just ridden one of the best time-trials in the history of women's cycling, but I was determined to keep my feet on the ground.

I had moved unto the top 20 on GC, but I was still 4.34 down on Lucy, who was now in yellow. Leona was 2nd at +12 seconds, and Elisa 3rd at +26. Those three were well clear now though, with Suzy Goethe, who was in 4th, more than a minute off the lead.

The day wasn't over. We had a one and a half hour bus transfer to Poitiers, close to the start of Stage 5, and I spent most of the journey dozing, and occasionally sipping Debbie's elixir. I was tired and hungry, and wanted nothing more than dinner and bed.

By the time I sat down at the dinner table, my tummy was rumbling. There was an air of expectation. Robbie was clearly building up to a speech, but I pre-empted any over-enthusiastic celebrations by saying, 'No applause today, please. We are only halfway through the job. Let's save the plaudits until the end.'

'OK,' said Robbie, 'but that was a ride for the ages, Chloe. Just let me give you one statistic: Your average speed today was 49.6k per hour, which is 0.6k faster than last year's Worlds TT, won by our very own Tera, as you know.'

There were incredulous murmurs around the table, but I just sat blinking. It still hadn't really sunk in.

Fed and replete, I crawled up to the room and flopped on the bed. I picked up my phone, and all the online cycling pages were full of the day's sensation, with photos of me on the time-trial bike splashed across the 'net, but I tried not to look at them. I was desperate to keep a grip on reality. I'd won the stage, but not the race. There were still four days of effort left.

It was a shame really. It was one of the performances of my career so far, and I'd have loved to have gone out for a boozy celebration, but that was out of the question. It's the nature of stage racing. You can't celebrate each stage as a separate race -- not if you have GC aspirations. You have to keep a tin lid on it. It's not over 'til it's over, as old Don might have said.

I did get excited when I called Licia though, because she told me she had spoken with Molly, and arranged for them to come out at the weekend to see the last two stages. Fanny and Mari couldn't make it, so it would be just the two of them, a prospect Licia was looking forward to immensely.

'Yeh, I'm flying to Belgium tomorrow and staying the night at Molly's, then Friday we drive to Chambéry. Molly has booked an apartment for three nights...'

There was a pregnant pause. An elephant entered the room and the elephant's name was sex.

Finally, she spoke again. 'You don't need to worry, babe. I won't make any moves on your coach...'

I chuckled. 'Ah, it's OK, Liss. I don't mind. Molly is very tempting... and horny, at times. You know that. I wouldn't be surprised if she EXPECTED you to make a move on her. Anyway, it's fine. The thought of it makes me quite horny actually. Maybe I'll join you on Sunday night...'

'Oo, that would be great. Can't wait for that.'

Meanwhile, you enjoy yourselves, while I'm out there, busting a gut on the bike...'

I really didn't mind. I loved both of them and I liked the Idea of them "bonding."

I called Molly. My mega ride was relegated to second on the agenda behind the news about the weekend. I was devilish. 'So, Molly, I hear you have booked a dirty weekend with some English floozy, is that right?'

She cackled... 'Floozy... hah hah '

'Is it true?'

'That "floozy" is your girlfriend, Chloe, and you should give her more respect. No, it's not a dirty weekend. Just two friends travelling out together to see someone who is very dear to us.'

'Aw, nice, but I know neither of you are exactly as pure as the driven snow, and frankly, you'd be a lot less interesting if you were.' She chuckled slightly. 'No, honestly Mol, don't deny yourself on my behalf. I've just told Licia the same thing. My only grievance is that I can't be there with you.'

'Well, you can on Sunday.'

'YES, and I will be coming... Just try stopping me.'

We ended the call with more laudation of my ride, which Molly called 'a milestone,' and 'a piece of future Tour folklore,' and then I put my phone down with a sigh.

I lay back and tried to relax and calm myself. It had been a tumultuous day, and I needed to avoid being consumed by my own fires.

I closed my eyes and thought about the next day's stage, which was the longest of the whole race by distance, though it might not be by elapsed time. It was 165km, and almost pan flat, and I couldn't see any chance of gaining back any time. I therefore saw it as a chance to sit in the bunch all day and gain some recovery from today's massive effort instead.