In the Long Run
Copyright© 2024 by The Horse With No Name
Chapter 84: Scheming and Suffering
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 84: Scheming and Suffering - Mark and Lydia hit a lot of bumps during the cold war and fate eventually brings them to the other side of the globe, but even there the challenges don't end. This is the founding story of my planned "It's always the Germans" universe, which will be created when this story reaches the year 1998.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Sports Incest Mother Son Light Bond Anal Sex Double Penetration Exhibitionism First Massage Oral Sex Pegging Petting Nudism
Mark
By the time I was done with Lydia’s legs, I felt like I had run the marathon, because my arm muscles screamed bloody murder at me. Without Jogi taking over once in a while to work on the less wrecked muscle groups, I wouldn’t have made it through the entire session at all.
Just like Femke had done in the altitude camp in Malaysia, Lydia had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Unlike our favorite muscle babe though, Lydia weighed next to nothing, so I could easily carry her to our bed. It was testament to just how exhausted she was, that she didn’t even stir when I hoisted her up.
Nadja
Since she only competed in one event, Lydia was the first of us to finish her schedule, and it had to be said, she was literally done. She even skipped breakfast the next morning because she could hardly get out of bed. Regina volunteered to stay in the hotel to look after Lydia and Jogi did so too to administer some recovery massages throughout the day.
There had been a moment of panic when we realized that the cycling road race and the ten kilometer final were on the same day, only to realize that we had mixed up the dates. We somehow had convinced ourselves that the 10K was on the day after the marathon, but that wasn’t exactly true. The road race was to be run two days after the marathon, and the 10K were to be held two more days after that. Not that this fact would make too much of a difference – with just two days between my two competitions, I would be lucky to stay in the top ten in the ten kilometers.
With Lydia, Regina and Jogi staying behind, the rest of us got our training bikes from the basement of the hotel and we set off to scout the routes for the individual time trial and the road race. Femke was doing the time trial, while I was slated to run in the road race, so we could discuss things freely as we were not in danger of meeting each other as rivals.
Femke and I were not best pleased. Both routes looked like something one would find in a spring classic. There were many short but nasty climbs. The trouble was that, even with her improved climbing, they were just a bit too long for Femke. Her massive leg muscles were a big advantage on a flat course, but in hilly terrain they were her Kryptonite as she would have to expend a lot of energy to haul her bulky frame up the sharp inclines.
I had a similar problem, but in reverse. The climbs were simply too short for me to distance my opponents. We were all in agreement that the road race would most likely be won by a late breakaway group, almost certainly full of one-day classic specialists. Alas, I wasn’t one.
“Nadja, I have an idea,” Femke said and we all steered our bikes to the roadside and stopped. She took out the road book and studied it.
“You are doing that lap six times,” Femke explained after studying the route again and pointed at one of the hills ahead. “You’ve got to go over that climb six times.”
“It’s too short,” I said, my voice laced with consternation. “I’ll get five seconds, at best. The barroudeurs will close that gap in less than two kilometers.”
“Not on the last lap, they won’t,” Femke argued. “The last lap has a different configuration. It has two more climbs, right after that one, which are not part of the first five laps.”
“Even if I get ten to fifteen seconds out of it, it’s still another three kilometers to the finish and I can’t sprint to save my life, so I would have to make sure I’m alone.”
“Every one of the favorites knows that you have to launch the decisive attack on lap five,” Femke explained. “Mark my words. The winning group will go on this very climb on the penultimate lap. You have to be part of that.”
“That leaves the problem of my lousy sprints,” I reminded her doubtfully.
“You have to plow the field from the start,” Femke insisted. “On every lap, even on the first one, when you come to this climb, go to the front and drill it. Don’t attack, but set a really stiff pace to make everyone suffer. By lap four or five a lot of girls will be carrying a ton of lactic acid in their legs. The final attack group will be much smaller than it would otherwise have been.”
“I think I could do that,” I agreed. “And I guess you want me to go on a final Hail Mary on the last lap?”
“Exactly,” Femke said. “As I said; the last lap has three consecutive climbs. If you’ve tenderized the meat enough by that point, the combined climbing distance should allow you to sneak away and then you’ll have to time-trial the hell out of it on the last three kilometers.”
“I guess Jogi and I will be in much demand that day,” Mark said with a chuckle.
Mark
After finishing our scouting tour, we were all somewhat busy. Lydia was busy suffering, while Jogi and I took turns to work on her wrecked muscles.
Meri was sitting over the road books of Nadja and Femke, trying to work out how many Watts they had to drill on different sections for optimal use of the available energy. Twenty years later that would have been normal, but back in the day we were miles ahead of most other teams in terms of science-based training. We had given away quite a bit about our methods in that documentary, but the few months since its release had been too short a time for anyone else to build up enough data to match our efficiency.
Back in 2000 there was still one big caveat though. The equipment to measure the sustained power output was chunky and way too heavy to be used in the actual race. We could measure the output on the roll, but Femke and Nadja had to memorize the correct cadence and gear settings for every number of Watts Meri had calculated.
Of course, when it came to memorizing and adhering to specific cadences, we had the world’s foremost expert in the team – Lydia. Although she was mostly still marooned on the massage bench, she provided the vital clue – music.
Femke and Nadja spent the next two hours on the training installation, humming songs to themselves the rhythm of which matched the necessary cadences. It was an unusual method, but it seemed to work as both matched the different energy outputs within reasonable tolerances.
For all intents and purposes we had done all we could, and then some. That didn’t make Femke or Nadja favorites for their respective races, but at least they had a shot at a good result. Considering that the route characteristics were unfavorable for both of them, we agreed that any top five result would be a massive achievement.
Regina
I wasn’t very fond of large groups of people, a problem that does not come in particularly handy if you are a spectator at the Olympic Games. The day before I had had the convenient excuse of watching over Lydia, but the day-long effort of Mark and Jogi had finally gotten her back into good enough shape and we all headed out to watch Femke in the individual time-trial competition, keen to see if all the preparation of the day before would come to fruition.
Time trials were not the most spectator-friendly discipline, because every rider rode on her own and keeping track of things was a case of watching timing screens instead of the race itself. Thankfully we all had press passes, which meant we could not only evade the tedium of sitting in packed grandstands, we also had access to said timing screens and feeds from all cameras of the TV world feed.
Back in my days as an English teacher I was used to trying to keep order in a class of twenty often bored and supremely disinterested children, but trying to look at twenty screens at once, and making sense of that deluge of information, was beyond my capacity. Thankfully my better half Meri seemed to have less problems in that regard. She leafed through her notes, occasionally providing her own appraisal of the goings-on with a gracious nod to no one in particular.
Not wanting to disturb her in whatever she was doing, I concentrated on a single monitor with the world feed that people would see on their TVs at home. Although I had spent the last seven years living among world class athletes, I wasn’t exactly an expert by any definition of the term, but I had seen Femke compete often enough to know that she was a woman on a mission, and obviously she was following the strategy that Meri and Lydia had worked out for her.
According to Lydia’s premonition, most riders would try to minimize energy consumption on the flat parts of the course to maximize their reserves for the group of hills in the middle section. Femke was to try and reverse that approach. Drilling a big gear on a flat piece of road was her party piece and she could reach speeds that were definitely illegal for car drivers within city limits and often required some daring-do from the support car drivers, just to keep up with her.
Meri had calculated that it was better to accept some modest time losses on the inclines which she could then make up for by going all-out on the flat bits.
And our lovely muscle babe did just that. She cranked a massive gear on the flat parts of the course to the point that she was on average three to four kilometers per hour faster than anyone else. The commentators immediately nostradamus’ed that there was no way she would be able to keep up that pace and they verbally patted each other on the back when they saw Femke’s pace drop in the hilly section. She had dropped from having a twenty second lead at the first intermediate time to third position with a fifteen seconds deficit at the second intermediate, just after the last hill.
What they had not expected was that Femke had actually deliberately run at reduced energy output and then immediately reactivated the after-burner once the road was flat again. With many of her opponents knackered from the hard hilly section, her deficit reduced, and it reduced fast.
Alas, the course was just a wee bit too short as a Dutch team mate of hers barely held on to the tiniest of margins, winning the Gold by three tenths of a second, relegating our girl to second with Jeannie Longo of France coming in third with just half a second deficit on Femke. I almost instinctively looked over to Lydia. Everyone was waxing lyrical about how she could still hack it at age forty. Well, that French woman, who had just bagged a Bronze, was two years older than her.
Meri
Saying that I was inordinately pleased with myself would have been an understatement. My calculations had worked out almost perfectly. Granted, just like Lydia two days before, Femke had come home half immobilized, with her massive leg muscles screaming bloody murder at her for the abuse she had subjected them to, but she had won a Silver medal that had not necessarily been hers to win.
The fact that she had to do endless media rounds after the race had not been particularly helpful either, but considering that the Netherlands had scored a one-two in a discipline that was the biggest religion this side of speed skating for the Dutch people, it came as no surprise.
By the time she finally ended up on the massage bench, it was already dark outside and Femke was more than a little buzzed from several celebratory glasses of Champaign in the Dutch house of the Olympic village. It had been foreseeable that she fell asleep while Mark was still working on her muscles.
Mark
We all cackled the next morning when we heard Femke yelp in the throes of a hefty orgasm. Since she had once again fallen asleep on the massage bench face-down, lying on her boobs all night, she had needed a little help that Jogi was only too willing to provide – with Doreen’s permission, of course.
But we didn’t have too much time to make fun of Femke and her cross-eyed look when she finally joined us at the breakfast table, because the events were not over yet. It was Nadja’s turn that day.
The tactical plan that Femke had worked out for Nadja predicted that the crucial action was going to happen on that climb we had inspected a couple of days ago. That made the choice of where we would go to watch the race a foregone conclusion.
With Lydia now able to leave the hotel again, we were out in full force. When the peloton came past for the first time, I immediately noticed two things. First, Nadja was following Femke’s tactical advice to the letter. As soon as the road started going uphill, she went upfront and drilled it, immediately spitting some sprinters out the back of the bunch. They would have no problem to come back on the flat parts of the course, but it would drain a lot of energy.
The second thing I noticed was that Nadja was practically invisible to her opposition. The favorites wore the colors of Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, France and Spain. They watched each other like hawks, but nobody gave a rat’s end about that small women on the business end of the pack, the sole rider wearing the colors of Iceland.
The whole spiel was repeated lap after lap. As soon as the main bunch arrived at the foot of the hill, Nadja went to the pointy end of the pack and put the hammer down, whittling down the size of the peloton in the process. By the time they came around for the fifth and penultimate time, the main pack as such didn’t exist anymore. A lot of riders had lost contact by lap four at the latest, and what was left was a select group of about 20 riders, most of them one-day classic specialists, just as we had suspected.
As Femke had predicted, several favorites tried to attack on the climb, but with Nadja already keeping a stiff pace upfront, they didn’t get far. They opened a gap of about three seconds, but Nadja and the other riders immediately caught them again.
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