One crack.
For a second, he was in no-man’s-land. The roar of the crowd and the whir of two hundred tires faded into a dull roar. He was exposed. The wind battered his left side, trying to shove him back into the fold. breakaway one crack
The pack realized the danger too late. A breakaway of two was dangerous; a breakaway of one was a nuisance. Elias pushed a rhythm, a brutal, drumming cadence that made his vision blur at the edges. One crack
Crack.
He shifted gears. The clack-clack of the derailleur was the only warning the peloton got. He didn't rise out of the saddle; he stayed low, aerodynamic, and punched the pedals. He was exposed
Elias sat up and looked at the dark, rainy sky. He hadn't won the race. He wouldn't get the glory. But he had forced the opening. He had bridged the gap.
The finish line was five kilometers away. The peloton was organizing behind them, a dark tidal wave surging forward. He could see the flashing lights of the support cars. If he stopped, the kid stopped. If he slowed down, they’d be caught.