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Carla’s Point of View
I lay awake all night. The cotton sheet stuck to my skin and the ceiling fan pushed warm air across my face without cooling it.
I wouldn’t turn on the AC unit because the blocked sinuses and headache were worse than enduring sticky heat.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the brake line under the lamp — that smooth edge, perpendicular, no fraying, no fiber pull. Rubber doesn’t break clean. I knew that. My hands knew that. And now my hands wouldn’t let me sleep.
He must have pumped his brakes at the start of the race. Every rider does. I did it every time I got on my bike — front lever, back pedal, feel the pressure build, feel the pads bite. If the line had been cut before the race, he’d have known on the first squeeze. The lever would have gone to the bar, and he’d have pulled straight back into the pits.