Bowie gave an extra tug on his belt. He’d poked a third notch in the leather during the summer, a tribute to the two hundred daily sit-ups and his vegetarian diet. Obsessive routine served him well. One more rep, one more step. Prevented him from thinking, dwelling, remembering. Memory was a thing to be obliterated at any cost, be it through pain, pride, or the simple joy of loathing the jackasses who had hired him.

At least those jackasses paid well. If Bowie survived this gig, he’d be set for a few more years of solitude. Attitude was everything, and a little mystique helped with the hype. Bowie had a reputation, all right, though he only cared when the bean counters made a big deal of it. He knew he was on the downhill slide and soon reputation would be all he had left. But that was just as well. The thrill, after all, was gone for good.

Nothing left but the next step, the next rep.

The next breath.

For perennial Tour Du France champion Lance Armstrong, it had been all about the bike. For Bowie, it was all about the boots. He’d logged two thousand miles in the personally designed Timberlands that hugged his feet like twin sets of spooning lovers. In the group orientation meeting, Bowie had advised everyone to buy either a waterproof boot or else apply waterproofing themselves. He’d even recommended SealSkinz socks, though he wasn’t getting any sponsorship kickbacks from the company. But he didn’t think anyone had followed his advice. They’d probably survive, but he wouldn’t mind if they were visited with blisters, bunions, athlete’s foot fungus, and the odd hangnail thrown in for good measure.

“Yo, how much farther?” said someone a couple of places back. Bowie had to slow his breathing and divert his cynical musings to come up with the name.

Initials.

Something with initials.

Rhymes with “hay.”

Okay.

A-okay.

Okay McKay.

C.A. McKay, the golden boy, the next Lance Armstrong.