32: Fresh Water
"You like wearing those tiny swimsuits," Stormy asked more as a statement than a question. He was still wearing the MP square cut he started the day in. Ricky was in the hot looking Q Swimwear suit, still showing a nice package, both guys were. "I have never worn one," Stormy added.
"Yeah, I think they are really cool," Ricky replied. "Not for everyone, I guess." The two guys passed Allen as he rolled down a steep hill, he looked authentic cyclist as he tucked low on the bars to take advantage of the speed. "Look at him go," Ricky shifted the subject. Ricky's eyes wandered from Allen to Stormy, the way he looked all aroused in the tight suit. Stormy's hand somewhat masking the erection he was still sporting. "You look great in that suit, you would rock a smaller suit," Ricky shifted back to the topic at hand.
"Maybe," Stormy replied. "All the guys on my old team wore jammers, but seeing all of you in those racer suits..." Stormy gave Ricky a smirk. He never finished, Ricky knew what he was going to say.
"Well, I like you in jammers, too," Ricky replied. "You look wicked hot in anything."
"Thanks, man. So do you." Stormy replied, blushing and more aroused. He felt himself get full on hard, even a little wetness seeping out. If they kept talking he was going to loose control right there. Ricky slid his right hand onto Stormy's leg. Up high, very high. Stormy reclined back in the seat. "Oh man," he moaned. Ricky knew he was going to make Stormy go crazy. Exactly his plan.
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The climb through Mount Chase was brutal. Mount Chase was the last big hill, an endless climb that came late and long in the ride. Allen was beat, his Spandex cycling kit was soaked, clingy, and feeling grimy more than comfortable. His legs screamed for it to be over, so did his mind. He was pushing hard in the small ring up front and the big ring back, the old derailleur system grinding at the extreme setting. Top speed was 6.5, but Allen did not care. He was happy to be upright and moving.
A car full of girls, probably tourists, came by and honked and screamed. About caused him to fall. In his agitation, Allen mustered a hand gesture back at them. "Bull shit," he yelled. The sun was hot, the day was long and he still had the hardest of the hill to go, a half mile 12% grade that would about do him in. He looked down at the road, watching the white line slowly move beneath his front wheel. He was up, off the seat, pushing all he could to keep enough momentum to stay upright. Sweat filled his eyes and poured from his face. The crossbar of his bike soaking in the sweat dripping off him.
"You got this!" The voice pushed adrenaline into Allen's veins. He pushed harder. "Keep going, you are nailing it!" the voice called again. Allen was just a few hundred feet off the crest. He finally looked up to see Chris, standing outside his handsome F150 wearing nothing but his white Zumo California Republic brief, the one Sherie liked. It was like seeing a mirage in the desert. Allen smiled, a big grinning smile. He finally crested the hill. Chris grabbed the bars holding the bike upright. Allen was too tired to even unclip the pedals.
"Wow, that was an impressive climb!" Chris complimented Allen. "You rocked that!" Chris held the bike steady as Allen caught his breath. The salt was caked on his face, the remnants of his hard climbs the last few miles in the heat of the day.
"That f..king sucked," Allen gasped out. "But, I made it!" Allen slowly I clipped his left foot, then his right and stood over the bike. His shorts were dripping with the sweat that had drained off his face and arms in the 72% humidity. His masculine odor permeated the air. Allen was totally drained. If he could get off the bike now, he would.
Chris raised up a gallon of water. "Ready?" He asked. Allen nodded as the water came streaming over him, a welcome relief of fresh, cool, clean wonderfulness. A second gallon followed, as the spandex kit clung to Allen's body, wet and refreshed. The feeling was awesome.
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