The image had burned itself into his thoughts like a stamp. Every time he could only use his left hand for some fun at the hospital, the image came back again.

How could Olav Olsen describe it properly if he was asked about it?

"Dear talkshow audience. After all I think not everything was bad at the last Tour de France. I think I've fallen in love. Somehow..."

Exactly, Olav Olsen was nothing more than a dick-driven professional cyclist who had fallen in love with one of his colleagues.

This was exactly what the media wanted to hear!

Never ever!

The media was only interested in results. Stage wins. Nice stories about cinnamon rolls, about farmers in the village meeting up for public viewing whenever Olav, their hero, swung himself into the saddle.

Olav had fought desperately and worked hard. For months he did everything possible to keep his stamina high while his right arm had to heal. And the only thing which helped him not going insane during that long time was him: that one bottom.

That one bottom which could only be one of four. Four sprinters who, like him, had fought eagerly for every inch on the final sprint.

At the end the headline "Olav, our cinnamon roll hero!" was on page one of all daily newspapers and showed him crying of joy while the other four sprinters had lowered their heads deadly exhausted.

He knew their names and how he could have reached them.

But let's face it, what kind of man would react to a "Hello, can I see your ass so I know if I'm into you?" with a "Yeah, sure! Can you see it clearly this way, or should I ride my bike?"

…

Nobody. That's for sure.

Olav had to smile and tugged the velcro fastener of his gloves. The whole story didn't make any sense. But it didn't matter what anyone else thought about it. These four had helped him to get in shape again.

Nobuhiko Honda of Team Startory Jokers.

Peng Li of Team Diamond Dragons.

Kim Lutz-Park of Team Helvetia Hearts.

Punyaa Boonmee of Team ShamroClovers.

They were all professional cyclists like him. Everyone was one of a kind, but they had one thing in common: they were Asian.

Which language did they prefer? Could he speak proper English with them? And what about the average size of certain things? Were Europeans really bigger?

He wanted to find it out so badly. But asking this question made less sense than asking the ass question!

So in the end the only thing left was his left hand and a head full of questions...

SPLASH!

A flood of water hit Olav as hard as the hailstorm in the Pyrenees.

"Hey! Stop it!"

Suddenly he was wide awake and back to reality.

Morten, who wore a well-groomed full beard and hid his childlike personality under bushy black-brown eyebrows, grinned broadly and squeezed the sports bottle once more. "Boss, I think Olav has impure thoughts again!"

Haakon, Norwegian giant and leader of Team Viking Spades, cleared his throat.

Olav jumped up and grabbed the water bottle. "Give it to me!"

Morten clicked his tongue and hid behind his wife, who was just wiping her oil-smeared hands with an old rag. "Help, Märtha, Olav is threatening me again!" He was laughing out loud.

Haakon cleared his throat a second time. This time it was loud enough to get the full attention of the team.

Olav grabbed a towel and rubbed his brunette unmanageable hair dry.

"You know that I am not a fan of big speeches. So let me put it this way." He crossed his strong forearms, took a deep breath and looked deeply into the eyes of the assembled Viking Spades. "The shit is really hitting the fan!"

In view of Haakon's authoritarian charisma, even Morten stopped laughing and sadly lowered the bottle. He knew exactly what the blond Viking was about to tell them now.

"Financially speaking our team is really down. You know I don't want to tell you this, but if we don't get a respectable result in this Tour de France, that's it." He struck his palm with his fist. "Over, finished, finito! If things don't work out here we can all go home and get a new job as a sweeper or become inmates of the jungle camp."

Olav lowered his eyes and buried his fingers in the towel. He had the feeling that it was all his fault. He, Olav Olsen, sprinting ace of Team Viking Spades, who had to take a break for months because of injury.

Haakon growled. "No, Olav, it's not your fault!" His water blue eyes seemed to pierce him. "You needed some time off, so please stop worrying, boy!"

He patted Olav's shoulder. "Most of our sponsors are gone now, but nevertheless we are still an excellent team with a UCI continental ranking. And we won't give it back so easily!"

Olav looked around in uncertainty. But instead of looking into frustrated faces, everyone smiled at him. Morten, whose wife Märtha had come along as a technician, Ebbe, a gifted climber who could also set the highest records in drinking, Finnish newcomer Matti, who had a charming gap in his teeth, and all the other important and unimportant helpers who hadn't thrown in the towel during the last few months.

"I, uh..." 

Shit, now he started blushing and stuttering again! 

For a sprinter Olav was actually way too shy and plain, even though the media made him into a hero.

He swallowed briefly, then continued speaking. "I will not disappoint your expectations!" His gaze became firm and confident. "I've been preparing for the Tour de France for such a long time. This time I'm going to see the Eiffel Tower at any cost!"

Everyone bursted out in laughter.

Olav's ears turned red.

Morten jumped up and poked him friendly. "Our Olav! Always too shy and modest. You will not only see the Eiffel Tower, but this year we'll make sure you'll be the first to cross the finish line at Champs-Élysées."

Ebbe, whom Olav already knew from the Youth Sports Centre, hooked up on the other side. "We'll pull you over every mountain, no matter how high it might be, and then you'll grab the yellow jersey for our team!"

Olav was shaken to and fro. He wanted to cry. He was so happy. "Why does everyone have so much faith in me?"

Haakon raised his thumb: "Because you are our cinnamon roll hero! Now get out of here, the team presentation of the day is about to start!"

Cinnamon roll hero? Down-to-earth, sweet, brown and sticky? Whatever.

Before leaving the team bus Olav drove through his hair for a second time and threw the towel on one of the front seats.

As he walked out, his eyes once more got a glimpse on a certain magazine he brought with him. A magazine which had been his hope and salvation for the last months: Olav and the four other sprinters. Not for long and he would see them all again.

And who knew that...

Maybe this year's Tour de France had one or two surprises in store for him - not only in terms of sports...