The time at the rehabilitation clinic once again flashed in his mind. The brain concussion had healed after a short period of bed rest, but his right elbow had to be surgically fixed several times until everything was back in place and growing together normally. The doctors said he should take it easy, but whenever Olav saw his colleagues and rivals on TV, frustration boiled up within him.

Why him? Why did he have to hurt himself so badly on this crappy ninth stage that the Tour was over for him? Under any circumstances this should never ever happen again!

Olav lay deep into the curve. His eyes showed a serious gaze, unlike Max and Nobuhiko, whose eyes radiated with feral madness behind their protective glasses. They bumped into each other and roared like beasts of prey. No one was willing to give even a single inch to his opponent.

When the turn was over, Olav saw his chance coming. He shifted up a gear, leaned far forward and pedaled and pedaled and pedaled. Sweat dripped from his chin. His legs burned and his heart seemed to explode in his chest.

Any normal person would have preferred to die than to stand such torture. But not Olav Olsen. Olav, the cinnamon roll hero, felt happy.

The voices of the presenters echoed from the speakers incomprehensibly. Just a few more meters, then he would finally own the yellow jersey. Finally! Finally! Olav was back. Back on the great cycling stage of the world, he...

"No one underestimates MAX SPEED!"

Twenty centimeters.

30.

40.

Half a meter.

Just a goddamn two-footer!

Max Mustermann roared in triumph and raised his arms to the sky. Olav felt like collapsing on the handlebars. He slowed down, let his bike roll out and finally stopped panting.

Someone helped him out of the saddle and supported him. A towel was put around his shoulder and he was handed a bottle of water, which he drank greedily. Cameras clicked.

The audience cheered his name.

"OLAV! OLAV! OLAV! OLAV!" They patted him on the back and shook his hands, but Olav could not rejoice. His smile to the TV cameras seemed to be tortured. 

A goddamn half meter! That was less than three hundredths of a second by which he had given away the stage win. And in professional cycling, unfortunately, hundredths sometimes meant everything...

Haakon finished fourth. Then followed by team Bismarck Bells, finally Matti, Mamoru, Jun and Team ShamroClovers.

Olav rubbed dry his sweaty hair and then threw the towel into the crowd in frustration. A couple of girls screamed and bickered about it, but Olav couldn't even laugh about it anymore.

He let his shoulders down and trotted to the mobile toilet cabins, got rid of all reporter requests and hoped that this time he could do his business in peace without Punyaa falling around his neck again.

Outside the toilet, the crowd was still cheering. The walls of the plastic cabin trembled whenever the speaker announced the next finish. There was no real serenity.

A little later Olav finished his business and yawned heartily. The door squeaked as he pushed it open and stepped outside.

There you go, no Punyaa! I guess he understood that I was a bit embarrassed about his snog attack yesterday.

"Hey, Viking!" Olav was about to take out a handkerchief and blow his nose, but then changed his mind and put the paper back in his back pocket. 

Did he really want to get into another argument with that snotty voice?

"Yes, please?" He smiled friendly and built himself up casually in front of Nobuhiko, whom he outdid by a forehead length. Yes, Olav looked friendly. But on the inside he grinned broadly.

Nobuhiko pursed his lips. His black hair was all wet and he had combed it back. With his forehead free, he didn't look half as audacious as yesterday.

Olav could see how hard it was for the Japanese to speak his mind now. Nobuhiko curled his forehead, pulled his eyebrows together and looked to the side.

Go on, say it, say it!

Even though Olav was very annoyed that Max was faster than him today, the victory over Nobuhiko, who had only come in third, felt like pure satisfaction. He would have loved to scream this satisfaction into his face. But Olav wouldn't have been Olav if he hadn't kept his temper and remained friendly.

"Ore ha, chigau! Eigo desu-ne! (I am... No, wrong! I have to say it in English!) I wanted to say..."

Was he nervous? 

Olav didn't understand a single Japanese word and was glad that Nobuhiko quickly came back to his senses and spoke English.

He looked away embarrassed and mumbled something.

"What? Sorry, I didn't understand you." The corners of his mouth twitched, but he had to keep up the nice Olav a little longer.

"Well done..." Nobuhiko scratched the back of his head. "You won today, Olav. It was a good race." He still did not look at him, but held out his hand.

Olav shook his hand. "Thank you. I really enjoyed competing with you again, Nobuhiko!"

"Nobu to yonde mo ii-yo..." (You can call me Nobu, if you want.)

"What did you say?"

The Japanese still held his hand and suddenly looked deep into his eyes. "Jitsu ha..." (The truth is...)

Olav had a bad premonition.

"Ore ha Olav no koto ga..." (I am...)

Olav took a step backwards and tried to free his hand, but Nobuhiko did not let go of him. Then he pushed his back against the toilet cabin. 

"Suki!" (In love with you!)

Suddenly everything went so fast that Olav could not even say how it had happened in the end. On the other hand he was able to save the last seconds of the race in his head as if they had been racing in slow motion! So why did his mind let him down again now?

Nobuhiko's free hand shot up and hit the door of the mobile toilet next to Olav's head. The Japanese reduced the distance between himself and Olav. Olav narrowed his eyes. He could feel his hot breath as he breathed "Suki desu, Olav!" once more and then pressed his lips on Olav's.

And I still thought the last Tour de France was the worst cycling tournament I have ever participated!

...I take it all back!