We Begin Our Ascent Read online

  As a teenager, I was drawn to riding because of the certainty it offered, the way a clear objective made stark the choices of when to train and when to eat and when to sleep. Liz’s work is based in routine too, and yet the aims are different. I realized, on that visit, she was creating a system in the hope that expectations would be confounded, with the wish that something unbidden, inexplicable might arise. When I visited, she was coming to the end of her thesis research. She’d been studying a particular gene: the one she would continue to study in her postdoctoral work. She had hopes, supported by data, that this gene was operative in cell repair. “And so?” I wanted to know.

  “It could teach us things.”

  “Yes?”

  “How bodies repair themselves, perhaps.”

  “Which would be useful for humans too?”

  “Maybe. Possibly the things you are thinking: disease prevention, cancer cures, that kind of stuff.”

  “You think this is likely?”

  “The chance is what wins us funding,” she said. “But we must still be lucky, of course.”

  “You don’t like to trumpet your work?”

  “The world doesn’t lack for ambitious promises,” she said.

  “Right,” I said. I thought of my own career: the managing of my aims, the focus on single steps, individual acts.

  “I’m putting my energy into the actual project,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said. “The doing.”

  She smiled. “The activity itself,” she said.

  * *

  With the breakers caught, the racing begins in earnest. Teams coalesce into groups within the peloton, sprinters and team leaders are shepherded to the front. Everyone who surges out ahead of the group is chased down now. The pace lurches to absorb attacks. It is hard, even in the middle of the peloton, to keep pace. I ride in front of Tsutomo, who is in front of Fabrice. We are at the mercy of the most ambitious, the most nervous. “Keep your underwear on,” says Rafael over the radio. “Keep in there. Stay calm.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the flash of our team colors. Sebastian squeezes his way between other riders, Johan on his wheel.

  We come into the town in which we will finish, hammering along. The peloton is beginning to shed riders off the back. It is a looser thing. There is traffic furniture to negotiate. The group stretches, and we slice around a roundabout. We rattle down these small roads like pebbles down a drainpipe. Our freewheels fizz as we cease peddling for a moment. On the outside, a couple of riders hop onto a curb, and down again. The noise of the crowd is intense. It is nearly impossible to communicate among the mass. The road kinks slightly up ahead. The riders in front of me judder together but stay upright. I glance my brake to avoid colliding with the wheel of the rider in front. A Slovak rider, a time trial specialist, goes off the front with five kilometers to go. He stands and sprints and then, when he has opened up some gap, he tucks himself into his bike and pounds the pedals. The two teams holding the pace at the head of the peloton seem to be modulating the speed of this pursuit. It is very likely that we will get him easily, and his leading in the meantime discourages others from attacking. I see Sebastian ahead of me, though he is slowing, being passed by others. Johan is somewhere in the melee at the front. My own thighs burn. Fabrice is huddled down behind me. Exhausted riders are dropping from the group ever more frequently, and so we are at risk of colliding with those slowing. We travel at motorcycle speeds without the hydraulic brakes or leathers. I come up by Sebastian, nearly glancing his shoulder. My legs are agony. I feel my calves on the verge of cramp. I check right, move to the side, try to get out of the main flow. We hit a corner and I concentrate only on keeping my line. Tsutomo leads Fabrice now. They are both in front of me. The cramp in my calves arrives, fully, but I cannot stop in the middle of this group. The Slovak is hovering forty yards ahead of the rest of us; I see him over the heads of others at the top of a slight incline. People are still accelerating past me. I feel like I am being left behind a breaking wave. I pedal. I hold my pace until it is truly safe to slow, to make my way to the line in my own time. The head of the peloton has no doubt surged around the Slovak. The helicopter moves in a steady line up ahead, following the sprint finish. The noise of the crowd on the final straight is deafening. I let myself freewheel down this last stretch. I turn my attention to preserving energy.

  I find Fabrice at the finish line. He’s okay. He finished with the main group, lost no time. “It’s a meringue of a stage,” he says. “You’d never think so much energy would go into something so boring.” He is happy. He wheels over to a barrier and signs autographs. He gives a brief and playful interview to a young reporter from a local radio station.

  Johan and Sebastian are already near the bus when we arrive.

  “It didn’t work out for you?” I say to Johan. He scowls but doesn’t answer.

  “He had a good day,” says Sebastian. “He came eleventh.”

  “Please don’t brag about me coming eleventh,” says Johan. “I have some dignity.”

  “Amongst this caliber of racer,” says Sebastian, “that is not a small accomplishment.”

  Johan sighs and stalks off to cool down on the stationary trainer.

  I cool down myself. I climb onto the bus. I retrieve my tracksuit, my phone, my wallet, my wedding ring.

  * *

  Liz and I married within nine months of meeting. The days of that first autumn together were swift, clipped days. Liz was busy in the lab, finishing a PhD, and I was training steadily. My landlord was putting the house I rented on the market. Liz’s housemate was moving out. It made sense to live together suddenly, and that fact seemed to open other possibilities. We were living strange, unbalanced lives, our eyes on the horizon. It was a comfort for each of us to be with someone else who thought about the future, who weighed days ahead over wearying present routines. The similarity of our positions, of our needs, felt so uncommon.

  I didn’t know the register to propose in, how serious it should be. I felt that I was speaking a language that I only knew so well, in which I could communicate blunderingly or not at all. We were not those people, I hoped, who believed a wedding to be the climax or culmination of a life. We had objectives beyond the ordinary. I did not want to get down on one knee in a tastefully lit restaurant, to have others applaud as if we had actually achieved something, to have a bottle of champagne arrive in a polished stainless steel bucket. Still, I did not want to do it comfortably. It seemed important that the gesture should make me a little uneasy, and that I should endure that discontent. Doing it in privacy would have been a cop-out. I wanted to show the extent to which being with Liz had allowed me to step outside myself.

  I asked her on the riverbank in the end. We had eaten an excellent dinner. It was a Tuesday night. We walked toward the river, close to the theater we had been to on that first meeting with Liz’s mother. I stopped her at the edge of the river, near a closed gateway that led to a floating ferry landing. The dark water lapped ahead of us. The fittings clanked with the shifting of the jetty. I did not get down on one knee, which I regret now. It would have been a small thing. I took out the ring it in its box and placed it on the wall we leaned against. “Will you marry me?” I asked.

  “Okay,” she said, so lightly that I was disconcerted. Yet that was her, I thought: someone always ready for whatever came next. She sometimes seemed to know what I would say before I did. She was prepared for the world, forever set to meet what it would cast toward her. She smiled. She fingered the ring, put it on, took it off and played with it, put it on again.

  Chapter 4

  I wake to birdcalls, to sunlight seeping through the patterned curtains. It is still early, and the alarm has not gone. I lie back. Tsutomo is still asleep. I clear my throat as quietly as I can. I feel my soft palate as I do so, alert to a catch, to a tenderness that might presage a cold. There is not a morning of the past ten years that I have not woken and worried about my state of health. My airways feel clear though. I con
centrate on my breathing, on the inhale and exhale, on the slight strain of an intercostal muscle that this reflection makes clear.

  I cannot sleep. I know my alarm will go soon, that the day will commence. I lie and let my mind run.

  The hotel room is neat, plain. It lightens in imperceptible increments. It is an antiseptic life, this. In a couple of hours, I will pack my small bag, vacate the room without more of a trace of my occupancy than the rucking up of the sheets. It is so different from home, with B, so many things spread across floors and tabletops. I think of Liz getting up far away, making her own way into the day.

  At the breakfast table, I sit next to Fabrice. He asks whether I dreamed. I think back and find nothing behind the sensation of having woken, my slow thinking as I waited for the alarm.

  * *

  Once she had agreed to marry, Liz went into it with a velocity. Neither of us had the patience or the time for worrying about outfits and dances and table decorations, but we had a large meal, a party afterward. My mother came. She had recently retired from her job as a hospital receptionist, and she had just seen a retirement counselor who had told her that her life from that point on was her own. She was on her way to Spain to buy a house, an act of uncharacteristic resolve that I sensed was a gesture toward a new imagining of herself. My mother is a quiet woman, capable but diffident. She cannot place herself at the center of an anecdote but loses her way in detail and texture that she does not have the confidence to discount. She sat with Katherine and Thomas, and I was gratified and a little surprised by the patience with which Katherine listened to her stories.

  Liz and I moved to the northern periphery of the city. I came south to this new house, Liz north. Liz had finished her PhD and begun her postdoc work in the same lab straightaway. There we were, suddenly with all of this: a summer ahead of us; a largely empty house; neighbors; a street of London plane trees; a route for me, up along the river, out into the countryside above the M25.

  We saw Liz’s friends when we could. We would meet them for dinner. Liz would come straight from the laboratory, and I would take the train into the center of the city. The friends were interested in our new lives, in our marriage, though, as a rule, not quite curious enough to make the journey to see us at home. We would barely have been in the house to greet them anyway. Both of us were busy then. I was riding better than I ever had, increasingly finding myself selected by Rafael for the bigger races. I wondered whether my new life, my new perspective, was helping. It was probably just conditioning, I told myself reluctantly: adaptation, development, the body as machine. The friends asked about my racing still, but it was hard to explain my advances. They expected, I think, when Liz mentioned my recent successes, that I should be winning races, appearing on television. They did not really understand the difficulty of making it into the ranks of truly world-class riders. They saw I was zealous, but not that this zeal could be surpassed by others, for whom racing meant even more. Liz could identify with this. She had similar problems communicating her own work with her friends. She had moved up in the hierarchy of the lab, and now the success of certain protocols, of essential parts of the study, rested with her. “If it goes well, it’s like cooking,” she said. “If it goes wrong, it’s like a murder investigation.” It was going well. She had good hands, an observant eye. Her results were regarded as reliable. It was patient work, systematic and unglamorous. I felt heartened to hear that she saw elements of her own work in mine, pleased by the sense that it drew us together. We were partners in our sense of isolation, in our preoccupations incomprehensible to so many. We both had our routines, our slogs, in service of single moments, possibilities. It felt noble, all this putting off.

  * *

  On the journey to the start, Rafael rattles around the coach like a wasp trapped in a Coke can. Today is another flat stage, another day to simply make it through. Tomorrow is a day of low rolling hills. We are in what Rafael has dubbed the “maintenance” portion of the Tour: days during which no great gains are to be made and losses are to be precluded. He is agitated. The bus sighs to a halt. Rafael stands at the front and speaks before we disembark. “I am not getting the best feeling seeing you all today,” he says. “You seem tired. You seem without interest.” I can hear the public address system, the patter of words, the high-frequency creak of speakers. “Let me say, nobody outside this bus cares about you. Nobody out there requires that you race. You do this because you want to.” Rafael sighs loudly and theatrically. “You care. I care. Otherwise everything is fucked.”

  Later I join Fabrice on the warm-up bikes. “A cyclist is riding in a race,” he says, not looking up from his steady pedaling. “Halfway through, the race referee pulls up beside him. The race referee tells the cyclist that the car of his directeur sportif crashed into a tree half an hour before, killing everyone inside.” He looks at me now, though he doesn’t change his cadence. “ ‘Oh good,’ says the cyclist. ‘I thought my radio earpiece was broken.’ ”

  “A good one,” I say.

  * *

  That new house was a surprise in all that it seemed to ask of us. Liz and I had chosen it, of course. We had driven around the locality in the estate agent’s branded car. It was what we could afford. It had good transport connections. I could travel easily to airports to fly abroad.

  We had made the logical, forward-looking choices, encouraged by the man in his polyester suit. We were some way out of the city, and so we came to the understanding that we should be entitled to another bedroom, to a lawn. The garden was for the cat, ostensibly, but who would spend so much for just a cat?

  Liz did not allow herself to settle too readily into this new life. She did not take her mother’s prompts to decorate or get to know the mostly older neighbors. She was keen to hold off the routines and compromises of our new suburban existence, I sensed, and I was glad to see this but also worried by the sense that her wariness strayed into a wider feeling of dissatisfaction. The more she progressed with her job, the more it seemed a source of distress. Her colleagues marveled at her fluency, but in her actual accomplishment of the position she had built so long toward, she was truly faced for the first time with the scant effect of the work she had chosen, the world’s apparent indifference to all her expertise.

  It was not logical to think that the slow, steady science she was doing should have won her wide recognition, and yet we are not always logical in our hopes. I thought of all my slow progress in my career and the sense I used to have that others did not recognize the difficulty of all I did, that people around me did not take time to understand the milestones I was passing. I made a point to highlight her successes, to talk of what went well with her work. She was grateful but dissatisfied with the praise. I was partial, after all. It was not my role to offer the affirmation she sought.

  For a while she exercised rigorously. She would borrow my turbo trainer after work, attach her own bike to it, and sit in the bike room, spinning, rubbing sweat from her forehead with a hand towel. She would go to the gym on her way into the lab. She jogged on the weekends when I went out to ride.

  Liz had been a swimmer when she was at school. I could imagine it: the bleached-out hair, the loose walk, the smell of chlorine on her skin.

  Her exertions seemed a way to channel frustration, to displace energy, and yet I also felt that there was some part of her that wanted to show that she could have, had she wanted, been doing what I did. I believed it. I did not deny that my work was more straightforward, that she would, had she really wanted to, have easily succeeded in my realm. My work was not the work of a lifetime though. There was that. It advanced more predictably, but then would be done so much faster.

  We saw less of Liz’s mother in these days. We worked. We steadily made the house more livable. Liz’s friend Davina came around for tea. The two women had been friends since school, far longer than Liz had known the rest of her social group, whom she had met at university. They talked animatedly in teenage voices which they’d preserved someho
w. She was short, Davina, chubby, fair, and loud. The contrast between her and Liz seemed somehow more explicable when I thought of the two of them together as teens.

  Liz went to a couple of conferences. I went to continental Europe for weeks on end. It was still a surprise to come home. Settling in the place was less easy than I had anticipated. We were beginning the ordinary rituals we had put off for our careers, and yet in delaying these activities, I realized, we had taken them to be more thoughtless, more automatic than they were.

  When one is cycling surrounded by others, one does not think of slowing, or speeding up, or stopping pedaling. One thinks only of behaving as the group dictates: leaning into corners at the same angle, pumping one’s legs at a similar rate, marking the same parabolas around alpine turns. There is not, in one sense, a single choice to be made. In another sense, however, there are many choices: the hard and unending decisions made in the service of behaving uniformly, reliably, and predictably.

  * *

  The start line is its usual chaos. I cycle slowly toward it behind Tsutomo. We weave between team cars, packed and ready to follow behind the race, past journalists and broadcasters mounting motorbikes in preparation for pursuing us. Some engines are running and there is a smell of petrol in the air. The television helicopter is up already, filming the gathering crowds. The publicity caravan—the parade of sponsors’ floats from which promotional materials are thrown out to the grasp of waiting fans—has departed some time ago. Ahead I can see that spectators have massed to watch the start, clasping inflatable batons and wearing souvenir hats. As we approach the line, Tsutomo swerves to avoid the doctor of another team stepping out from behind the race referee’s car. Tsutomo says “Bastard!” with the force of a sneeze, and the man holds up his hands, surrender-like, in apology.