The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

Campy looked around, a bit dazed from waking to find his bike gone. He stretched before he walked back inside the cafe. Pierre had just served dinner to a couple in a booth. When he finished with his customers, Pierre walked back towward the kitchen.  Campy stopped him.

"Pierre? Where did you put my bike?"

"Campy, I never moved your bike,"  he said a bit startled. "Since you've been here, the cafe has been busy. I saw your bike next to you when I cleaned the last table outside."

"When was that?"

Pierre thought for a moment, "It was maybe a half hour ago. Maybe less. Campy, do you want me to call the gendarme?"

Campy looked out the window, as if he wanted to make sure his bike still wasn't there, "No, not yet. Maybe someone is playing a prank or went for a ride." Many times, Girlymann was asked by a fan if they could ride his bike, just so they could boast, 'I rode Campy Girlymann's, De La Rosa.' Some wanted to touch it,  or offered money to buy the bike. That's what  now worried Campy, for a very generous amount.

"Pierre, if someone returns my bike, would you put it in back. I"m going to look around."

"Of course Campy, and I will ask around too. Some people here today were friends and people I have known for a long time. I'll see what they have to say."

Campy walked to the front door, took a look at the crowd, things looked normal enough, no shifty eyes, or smirks to give a practical joke away. And then he walked out to the street and did the same, looked to see if anybody looked suspicious for some reason. It was late afternoon, not much light left for a rider, unless they knew there was a bike torch in the kit tied to his saddle. Campy was always prepared.

Girlymann took the street that would lead to the main square, where the Tour de France stage race finished. He didn't know where else to start the search and that seemed as good as any. It seemed strange to him to be on foot. The Lycra hugged tight and brought a few stares. Not having his bike was new for Campy. And to walk somewhere, how novel.

To be continued....

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

Someone tapped Campy on the shoulder, "I'd like a kiss."

Campy turned and smiled, "Bernard, you always want a kiss."

"Ricky and I saw you when you went past our place on the slope. You were fantastic."

"Well, I was running late. "

Bernard had a mischievous grin, "And the Belgian rider that was on your tail?"

"I picked him up along the way," Campy tussled Bernard's hair.  "He needed to get to the finish in a hurry."

Campy looked around and it seemed the crowd had settled down. A few people came up and said hello, wanting to buy Campy a drink or talk about the race as Campy finished his late lunch.  Then he asked Pierre if he could finish his wine at a table outside. The owner smiled, knowing that with Campy there would always be a crowd around and sat up a few more tables in front. Campy took the one closest to his bike, stretched out with his feet resting on an opposite chair and enjoyed the bottle of wine while people watching. The sun warmed him on the outside and the wine warmed him on the inside. Campy's eyes fluttered, and then  closed as he fell asleep.

When he woke, the sun had just left the little courtyard with the tables, and Girlymann realized he would have to find a place to sleep for the night or ride back in the dark. He stretched and turned to grab his bike when he noticed it wasn't there.

To be continued.....

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continues

Campy pulled out a stool at the bar and sat down. He took his helmet off and let his golden locks of hair fall over his shoulders. Pierre poured a glass of red wine and sat it in front of Campy. The Little Sparrow was playing softly in the background and a couple were having coffee at a table near the window.

 While Girlymann raised the glass of wine, Pierre went to a case, opened it and pulled out a roast chicken. He cut the chicken in half and put it on a plate. Then took a loaf of French bread and put that on another plate with cheese. He placed both plates in front of Campy.

The hungry cyclist ate, drink and when he finished the cold chicken, Pierre gave him the other half, filled the wine glass again and placed olives in a bowl in front of Campy with more bread and cheese.

"Ah, it is good to see such a strong man eat," Pierre said with a big smile on his face.

"It's been a long ride, had some trouble in Italy with a sports car. Guess the guy didn't like being passed on a down hill curve. I had to rescue his ass when he went over the side trying to pass me. That's why I'm a little late."

"Campy, you bad boy, challenging sports cars." Pierre pinched Campy's cheek then replaced the carcass of chicken bones for a plate of  roast duck with pommes and Spring peas.

"Oh, I have a special wine for you to try," Pierre went quickly to the wine rack and pulled out a bottle, opened it and poured Campy another glass, setting the bottle on the counter as well.

"I have a soup in the back, I'll bring you a bowl with some fresh bread," Pierre said before he disappeared behind a curtain that led to the kitchen.

The cafe was beginning to fill, now that the stage was over and people noticed Campy's bike and heard of how he took the stage from the French team and gave it to a Belgian domestic. When they saw Campy sitting on the stool, his hard butt clamp to the stool like a vice in his Lycra shorts, the mammoth trunks of legs corded with muscle, the chest that stretched his jersey's seams to the breaking point, they gathered around and watched him devour plate after plate of food and then three bowls of soup with bread.

 "He eats like a pig, not a Frenchman," said someone standing nearby, but Campy ignored him.

"What is he, some kind of girly man?" said another lifting one of Campy's golden locks and giving it a tug.

Campy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and downed the rest of the glass of wine before he turned to the guy that pulled his hair.

"I'm more man than you'll ever be and more girl than you'll ever have," Then Campy grabbed the man by his head and forced his tongue down the guys throat as the hair puller squirmed to get away.

When Campy was through with him, he tossed him like a sack to the floor. "Anyone else want to kiss Campy Girlymann?"

To be continued.....

The Adventures Of Campy Girlymann Continues

Campy and the Belgian could see the town ahead where in the town square, in the midst of a crowd, was the finish line.  Campy let the Belgian ride beside him, but with his wheel just ahead of the Belgian.

"Well, Domestic, it's yours for the taking."

"Oh no Campy, I couldn't, you were the one who pulled me here, it is yours."

"But I'm not in the race and you are. Go on, take the glory, you deserve it with all the water bottles and food you supplied to the main riders, it is your turn for some glory."

"Campy, I will be your domestic. I will ride with you and bring you anything."

Campy looked at the slight man. Strong and sinewy and thought about it for a moment. His own domestic but then Campy Girlymann  was a free wheeling man who prided himself on being his own man.

"No son, you go on and take the glory. Campy is goin' to find himself a nice little bistro where the wine is cheap and the men even cheaper."

The domestic didn't want to leave Campy's side but when they entered the town and the roar of the crowd came at them with a rush, Girlymann backed off and took a side street to blend in. He kept an eye on the Belgian until the domestic was swallowed by the crowd and the sound of the winner coming to the finish line could be heard.

Campy was thirsty and hungry, he needed substance and perhaps a good bed after a good meal. He rode down the side street into a seedier side of the village.  There, off to one side, near an alley on a narrow cobblestone street was the Noir Chat Cafe. A rather curious and queerly odd hangout for a crowd of artists and writers that needed a place of their own, for their own. 

Girlymann placed his bike in front where he could see it from inside. The small leaded panes of glass that made up the window looked out to a planter of geraniums. Their bright red explosion of flowers waved in the slight breeze just above Campy's bike. Campy opened the door and walked in with the tinkle of a silver bell attached to the door announcing his arrival.  The bartender, wiping a wine glass looked up to see who it was.

"Bon Jour, Monsieur Campy!"

"Long time no see, Pierre."

"Ah, but it so good to see you again. Come sit, have a glass of wine and tell me where you have been."

to be continued. ....

The Adventures Of Campy Girlymann Continues

Campy picked up speed fast. Tucked into something resembling a cannon ball mounted on a bike, he shot down the mountain side with the Belgian tucked right behind him. The vortex was so strong that the Belgian had to brake slightly to keep from hitting Campy's rear wheel. The sound of the wind was a roar in their ears with Girlymann's golden locks of hair streaming in their mad decent.

They quickly passed the riders in back but now they were needling through the main pack. Riders could hear the rush of wind, feel the rumble of Campy's bike as he approached, and when the pack riders were passed it sounded as if a runaway train just roared by.

Girlymann leaned into a sharp curve, the wheels of his bike clung to the thin line he set to make the curve, with just an ass hair left before his bike would have plunged over the side, Campy pulled them out and on to the next curve. Right and left,  riders were being passed, and when Campy didn't have room he created it by grabbing the back of the rider's jersey, lifting them and the bike and placing the astonished rider a safe distance away so the Girlymann Express could speed on.

The Belgain sweated bullets, shit in his shorts but he stayed tucked in the draft of Campy Girlymann's mad descent down the mountain side. Their speed was over eighty miles an hour, at times reaching near a hundred yet Campy would not touch the brakes. They were a whirl of bike and men in their quest to get to the front rider.

And soon it happened, Campy had passed them all except one. That one had the yellow jersey and Girlymann and the Belgian were gaining fast. Campy raised up to catch wind on his massive chest, like a parachute on a space shuttle, Campy began to slow as he approached the smug Frenchman.

As Campy and the Belgian pulled  up,  Jean Claude's jaw dropped.

"Bonjour, dick-wad!"  said Campy and gave Jean Claude the finger.

Once the Frenchman got over the shock of seeing Campy with the Belgian on his  wheel, he gave a weak smile and tried to get behind the two of them to draft as well but Campy was having none of that. With the motion of a snake whipping its tail, Campy swerved right and left to prevent Jean Claude from catching his draft. The Frenchman was fierce and kept tagging them like a mosquito after dinner.

Up ahead, Girlymann could see a small climb approaching, he yelled to the Belgian that when he got out of saddle, to give it everything he had to stay on. The Belgian's eyes popped when he saw Girlymann's ass raise from the saddle and his Titian legs mash the cranks. Like a launching Cruise missile,  Campy took off up the hill and left the Frenchman in his wake, broken and shattered by the side of the road. Jean Claude had given his all and with nothing left in his legs, wobbled on the bike running himself into a ditch along the road.

to be continued.,,

The Adventures Of Campy Girlymann Continues

Jean Claude thought for a while as he watched the lone rider disappear around a curve. He didn't remember seeing a rider that large at any time in the race and, it seemed to him, that he would have remembered someone that big.

"Pierre? I don't remember seeing him among the teams."

"He doesn't race on a team, Campy Girlymann rides for himself."

"He is not in the race?"

 "No. Not this race or any race. There is no point, he would win all of them."

"But what if he joined a team, he would be unstoppable."

"He is his own team, Jean Claude."

The Tour settled down to finish the stage, though the lead rider in the yellow jersey was upset knowing that a better rider than him was up ahead. The thought bothered him for he began to put the picture together of Campy Girlymann when he passed like the wind, those thunder thighs, the bodacious butt, a chest that sucked in air like a steam engine. Could a man like that roar pass an entire assembly of professional riders? No, it must have been a trick. A ploy to make Jean Claude feel inferior and he would not let that happen.

"I do not believe in this living legend." Jean Claude remarked to no one in particular.

The other riders said nothing, wondering why Jean Claude had not heard of Campy and his legendary feats. 'Where has Jean Claude been?' they thought and what would their lead rider do if confronted with Campy? Would he finish the race in the lead or tuck his tail between his legs?

The riders picked up speed, the top of the climb was near, there would be a long descent on the other side and a finish at a border town where Jean Claude would be victorious--again. Clenching his hold of the yellow jersey.

At the top waited a crowd to cheer them on, flashing cameras, huddled fans waiting for a glimpse of their team before the decent. Bursts of light hit the lead riders near the top. Jean Claude smiled for his fans and the cameras just before he tucked in for the decent. But just as he leaned over the bars, something caught his eye. On the side, next to a bike was the phantom rider. The yellow locks of blond hair that fell around his shoulders from the sides of his helmet, caught Jean  but it was the legs, tree trunks of corded muscle that Jean remembered most when Girlymann left him in the dust.

In a fit, Jean Claude flipped Campy the bird. Girlymann snapped a photo of Jean Claude just as he gave him the one finger salute. Campy's lips curled in a surly smile. He put his camera back in his pocket and watched the riders as they came to the peak and the relief of the decent to the finish in the distance.

When the last rider crested the top, Campy Girlymann mounted his bike and followed the riders at break-neck speed, catching up to the last rider. He tapped the rider's shoulder, a small young guy from a Belgium team.

"How would you like to win the stage?" asked Campy.

"I'm a domestic Campy, I could never win this stage or any other."

"Get on my wheel boy, and hang on like your ass depended on it. I'm going to make you famous."

With that Campy Girlyman shifted gears and felt the wind streak pass him and the Belgium rider tucked in back of his rear wheel.

To be continued....

The Adventures Of Campy Girlymann

The climb was a category five. Miles long that wound its way up the French Alps. The Tour de France riders were pacing themselves, knowing that the steepest section of the climb was yet to come and keeping a watchful eye for a break away.  The top rider from a French team was in the lead. France was ecstatic to finally have a French team in the lead. Jean Claude, had his teammates surround him, making sure that he would keep the lead without being attack and rode with the help of domestics to give him water and prevent the wind from draining his energy.

Jean Claude talked with the team's captain, there didn't appear to be anyone willing to challenge him yet. For the most part, the rest of the pack was holding on, waiting for a mistake, or lucky break to take advantage of the lead rider.  He felt confident that the stage would be in his pocket and smiled.

Up ahead, dark clouds covered the mountain peak and a roll of thunder shook the ground beneath the riders, or was it? Jean Claude listened for the rumble again, only this time it seemed it was coming from behind and gaining fast.

"Pierre?"

"Yes Jean,"

"Is there a thunder storm behind us?"

"I only see clouds in the distance, up ahead."

"Then what could be that great noise?"

"I don't know, but something big is headed this way."

Jean Claude looked behind him, he could see riders at the back of the pack splitting as if the road itself had cracked wide down the middle.  There was the sound of a train, of metal being tested to its utmost, there was sweat flying and a low groan that went like a wave over the riders.

As Jean Claude looked, his mouth dropped opened while a large rider peddled up to him, winked and rode on. Jean Claude began to follow but soon realized he would never catch this phantom rider.

"Who was that?" He asked around at the riders near him.

"The legend lives on," one rider said with a smile.

"It's Campy Girlymann, a legend in his own time." Pierre said and crossed himself, kissing his fingers when he finished.

to be continued...