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Seb

If the Tour of Flanders was my lucky race, then the one that reliably deflated my ego every year, right at the beginning of the season in Europe, was the Omloop Het Nieuwsblad.

Even worse than the late winter weather was the team introduction beforehand in the Ghent velodrome, where we were paraded before a crowd of fans in strobe lighting and manufactured smoke to make the whole thing artificially dramatic.

One year I’d even slipped on the blue-carpeted circuit and fallen off my bike and that clip had been played more often than any other footage of me.

In the packed backstage area where the team buses were parked, milling with riders and officials and team staff, there were a lot of familiar faces – too many.

The Belgians turned out in force for the opening of the Classics season, the one-day races that dotted the calendar between the longer Grand Tours, and every team I’d ever raced with was in attendance, including the second-tier Walloon outfit where I’d got my start.

But I was the only Belgian signed to Harper-Stacked, making me feel even more out-of-place than usual.

Our lead riders Colin and Lars Fiske got to stay home instead of competing in the bitter February cold and Lori was similarly absent from the women’s race that started two hours later, although that hadn’t stopped me daydreaming about what it would have been like to meet her gaze across the breakfast room of our hotel once more.

I was still low in the pecking order, rolling onto the stage behind my teammates to wave awkwardly to the crowd, wondering how my new kit would look in photos. There had been some unfortunate design flaws over the years that had drawn too much attention to the crotch.

At least I was deep inside the bunch staying warm at the starting line.

By the end of the race I was always certain I would lose two fingers and my little toe to frostbite.

But the local crowd was enthusiastic despite the weather – or perhaps there was something stronger than coffee in their insulated flasks – and my teammate Derek Sabel, an Australian youngster on his first year in Europe, glanced around him in awe as he shivered.

We’d practised parts of the route and the climbs yesterday and I’d kind of enjoyed feeling useful, introducing the kid to the tortures of the Cobbled Classics.

My job that day was to lead the young hot-shot out, ride in front of him to save his strength and help him get into position to attack at the right moment – and hope he didn’t lose any skin on his hands as the bike shook him to his bones on the brutal surface.

‘Coucou! Sebi Franck!’ I heard from the crowd. Turning to smile and wave, I hoped they’d leave it at that. ‘How’s your new team? Have you settled in?’ the fan continued in French.

‘Très bien,’ I called back. ‘G’day mate! She’ll be right!’ I caught sight of a phone trained on me and gave the person a wink.

‘What do you have drawn on your arm today?’

That one surprised me. I hadn’t expected anyone to remember I’d used to draw symbols on my arm for luck before every race.

I’d stopped after one time I drew a picture that was supposed to be my niece but everyone had thought was Ed Sheeran and the team had taunted me by singing ‘The Shape of You’ endlessly until I wanted to cut my ears off like a Belgian van Gogh.

‘I haven’t done that in years!’ I called back. That was all I had to say to get a permanent marker flung at my face. I fumbled to catch it and then studied it thoughtfully.

With a self-conscious glance at the fan standing behind the barrier, I pulled up my right sleeve and tugged off the lid of the marker. Once I’d thought of something to draw, I couldn’t not draw it, so I scrawled the little picture quickly, capped the pen and tossed it back into the crowd.

‘What is it?’ the fan asked.

I held up my arm to show him the little black creature, eight legs splayed threateningly. ‘In honour of my team.’

‘That’s cool, man!’ Derek said, beckoning to the fan to throw back the marker. Before I had a chance to regret what I’d started, the entire Harper-Stacked team for the race had drawn the little critters on their wrists and I would have to live with what I’d done.

Five hours and 200 km later, I couldn’t feel my extremities and black spots hovered at the edge of my vision, but my blood was fizzing with adrenaline despite the exhaustion.

I’d done my job. Derek attacked, heading for the breakaway at the front of the race with plenty left in the tank after staying behind me for most of the course.

I could listen to my screaming muscles and slow down before I hit the wall.

But I didn’t. I kept going. I got in behind Derek and kept up and, with a rush of disbelief and elation, I crossed the finish line half a length behind the kid, as he secured second place in his first Spring Classic.

Meaning I came in third. I was on the podium . I was usually ecstatic about a top-ten finish in my lucky race. But third in the Omloop? No, not me.

My thoughts were as foggy as the horizon as I followed Derek to the team bus, wobbling and stumbling as the directors and staff cheered and grabbed at me and then Derek wrapped his long arms around me and squeezed and I had to accept it was real. I’d had legs today.

‘Frankie!’ he hollered. ‘I should have been drafting you out there today!’

I extricated myself gently and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You did great.’

‘Yeah, but you kept up, even when we attacked!’

‘So I didn’t imagine that?’

Derek laughed, as if I were joking.

I must have had a sixth sense for Gallaghers, because I looked up to find Tony emerging from the back door of the bus, a calculating expression on his face as he studied me.

Clapping his hands above his head, he called out to Derek, ‘An Australian on the podium at the Omloop! Tell me when that last happened! Well done, son! You’re going places!’

Tony swaggered down the steps slowly, maintaining eye contact with me as he approached.

‘Great race, Frankie,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you felt good today? I would have got the other guys to help you out. Could have been you in second – or even first.’

With a gulp around a lump of nerves, I tried to find an answer that would satisfy him. Me in first – it had never happened and I doubted it would. ‘I didn’t know I… felt that good.’ I scratched the back of my neck, hoping he’d take his attention off me soon.

‘I’m impressed with what you did for Derek today, but I’ll be impressed if you go out firing for yourself some time too, ay?’

I managed an inarticulate response, something like ‘Glmph-kay.’

‘What’s that on your arm?’ he asked suddenly and I yanked my hand down again in a pointless attempt to hide it. ‘Looks like the fucking spider that bit my daughter!’ Tony joked.

‘Yep, it’s a redback!’ Derek added eagerly, showing the boss his own rudimentary spider drawing. ‘All the guys did them.’

I bit back a groan.

Tony chuckled and slapped me on the back again. ‘Just don’t let Lori see that!’

That grew less likely when Derek followed me onto the podium later, brandishing his redback spider in front of the cameras as he shook his champagne bottle with a wild spark in his eye.

The winner, a Fleming from another team, popped his bottle first, but then Derek was spraying me full in the face until I had bubbles up my nose, in my ears and drenching the fresh jersey I’d pulled on over my festering body.

‘You’re a legend, Frankie! I love the cobbles! This is the best day of my liiiiife!’

Lori

To me, Siena was the most beautiful city in the world: terracotta roofs snaking out along the hills, ancient brickwork, the striped white tower of the duomo, leafy squares hidden around corners, olive trees, window shutters in shades of green, and everything surrounded by the undulating Tuscan countryside.

And the legendary sterrati, the gravel roads through the arid hills to the south – they were my natural habitat.

The Strade Bianche – Italian for white roads – had been my first European race seven years ago and I still felt a touch of wonder every year in March, when I climbed out of the taxi in front of our team hotel, set right on the city walls with a view out into the hills, where we would do battle on Saturday.

The racing season would get hectic later in the year – and the hotels worse – but arriving at our usual family-run palazzo that was just big enough to house the team and support staff, to the faint scent of pine and sage, felt a little like coming home.

I’d told Mum that once on the phone and we’d shared a ‘moment’ before swiftly dropping the subject.

Ever since I was 18, Dad and I (and Colin, when he was old enough) had lived for six months of the year in an apartment in Lourdes in the south of France – whether because of the proximity to the Pyrenees for training rides or to an airport served by low-cost carriers, I wasn’t sure.

Dad knew all about the bottom line after all and cycling was not a sport soaked in cash.

Although I continually lost my stuff between the two homes, I enjoyed my time in Europe, where I could just be a cyclist and not live in the shadow of Mum’s expectations.

Lourdes was our base, but Siena was my happy place.

Surely my favourite white roads would turn my fortunes around – and help me snatch back my life.

Even if bad luck and the image of a fucking redback spider were haunting me, it couldn’t last forever – like these pesky emotional shenanigans about a certain member of the men’s team.

He’d been racing while I’d been in the air a week ago and I’d checked the results of the Omloop as soon as we landed, holding my breath while the website loaded too slowly.