Cinelli Vigorelli, a brutish steel construction – big ring, small cog – designed for one thing: speed, One describing it traverse flowing traffic must describe it as a 'fin' splitting waves, chaos left in its wake. Chaos said by: a buildup of vehicles in a horizontal heap spread across lanes, blaring horns, plus screams of bystanders witness to 'those scenes' playing out in stop motion between the frames of passing cars. Cause of the aforementioned is Cliff Walker, a blonde youth crouched over that bullet of a bike.
Others – like bees – swarm the streets behind himself, on fixed-gear bicycles trying to outpace one another – drowning all traffic noise underneath the buzz of wheel hubs.
"Cliff Walker does it again! The Wake Line Crew is firmly in the lead, beating out Light Cavalry's Owen Knight in a major upset! How long can he last!?" Taking a last drag of air, he shouts: "This is London v Manchester!"
Commentating the race is a young man, Callum Reed, on a – for lack of a better word – clapped-out bicycle, lacklustre on account of the rust on its features. Only highlight being the crude camera rig attached to the handlebars: one camcorder on a cut-to-size square plank of wood, both zip-tied down. To add to the misery, he's riding as hard as he possibly can, pedalling like a hamster on a wheel to keep up with the pack fast approaching Tower Bridge.
"Tower Bridge…" Huffing, lungs seizing. "Is the last section of the race! The final sprint approaches. Man, it looks crazy out here."
Traffic on Tower Bridge splits the cyclists the same way a lightning bolt's branches opt for the path of least resistance. It's every man for themselves on the search for the best line, and the result is decided from the very moment one takes a turn around the wrong car, or hesitates to force themselves into that slim gap – the beginning.
Skree… Bike frames hitting the ground.
Buses, and cars take out some. Others crash into the casual cyclists either trying to get home, each crash sucking others in.
"What the hell!? Is this a battlefield, I feel like I'm in the trenches—" He swerves, narrowly avoiding being clipped by an impatient driver. "Aargh! Fuck!" Only surviving by virtue of his middling speed. "Sorry for the shitty footage viewers... But on the bright side, I can see Owen and Cliff ahead."
Owen is trailing behind Cliff, leaving a hair between his front wheel and Cliff's rear wheel before pulling up beside him. "This is London's best? Figured I'd let you score some points on me, so you'd look good."
"Scoring points. Is that what you call it? Huh… This race isn't over, yet you know? Look ahead. Maybe you'll regret being so nice in enemy territory."
Up ahead, the barriers to the bridge begin shutting. Traffic grinds to a halt.
"What's the meaning of this!?" Owen shouts across.
"Tsk." Cliff clicks his tongue. "This is the selection stage; the race's start time was set specifically for this to happen. If you couldn't hang in the front, then you can't hang at all. Come on, keep up." Owen and Cliff break into a dead sprint, torsion from their pedal strokes flexing the frames of their bikes as they barely surge through the closing barriers that slam shut after they pass through. Tower Bridge begins to raise as they burst across its length at full pelt.
Meanwhile, the rest of the participants pile up at the gate.
"H-Holy shit." One sentiment shared by the rest.
…
"Owen, this is The Wake Line." Cliff jerks his bike into a diagonal line across the bridge, cutting off Owen's path. Owen is unable to respond to the sudden move for having not expected it, a fatal mistake. He can't brake, so is now forced to swerve and follow Cliff along in his direction.
"V-Viewers, listen closely. He's riding diagonally to maintain speed up the ramp, the more diagonal you are on a ramp, the flatter it is. But surely, he can't be planning to jump. That's like… suicide." Callum follows the riders with his camera, hands shaking. "And he's cut off Owen enough for him to not do the same thing. If he tries, he'll go straight into the railings. The angle's way too tight. Genius. But what of Owen if he doesn't make it off?"
"Owen! Kill him!" Noah Austin, of Light Cavalry. Grabbing at the fence looking to be on the verge of tears.
"Hate to say it, but it's already over. Owen's lost." Harry Shepherd, also of Light Cavalry. Burly and tall, fitting for the team's sprinter.
…
…
After reaching the apex, Cliff leaps over the growing gap between the bridge above the Thames, glancing back at Owen all the while. "Wake up from your dreams of being the best. Selection failed." Then landing into an immediate descent on the other side while Owen's stuck on the other side, having no choice but to make a U-turn before it becomes too steep.
"Don't… Don't you insult me." The last thing Owen says before Cliff disappears.
The crowd below falls silent seeing him come back down towards the opening gates, eyes distant. He rides straight past everyone, ignoring the jeers and calls for attention.
"Owen looks… upset? Is he going to ride back to Manchester from here? This is a first people—" Callum's camera is slapped out of his hand by none other than Noah who's promptly held back by Harry, struggling despite his monstrous size whilst she tries to get at him.
"Shut the hell up! You've been talking non-stop and it's getting on my bloody nerves!" If looks could kill…
"S-Sorry. I record races so I can learn from them, I tend to talk to myself a lot when I do." He kneels to pick up his camera, dusting it off.
Noah scoffs, Harry doesn't say anything, not seeming interested in something so petty. Without any more words, Light Cavalry mount their bikes and ride in pursuit of Owen. Gone before Callum stands back up.