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Julián entered his boss's office, having received a page earlier that day. Alonso and Amelia were already there, as were Ernesto and Irene. He was late, though this time it had nothing to do with Maite. The boss had just happened to page him in the middle of rush hour, something Alonso and Amelia didn't have the pleasure of experiencing.
“Now that you're all here-” said Salvador. “You three have a new mission. We've got word that a team of protestors are going to try to interrupt the 1992 Tour de France.”
“Tour of France? France captured Spain again?! No, I won't stand for it. We shall help them regain their independence!”
“No, Alonso, it's a bike race, not a military offensive. Leave your sword at home,” said Salvador, cool as ever. Julián supposed one needed a level head when giving orders to someone like Alonso, who got worked up over any perceived slight against Spain. Which there had been a lot of in the last 400 years.
“Indurain won that one, didn't he?” Julián asked. He vaguely remembered the race, having spent half of it home ill with the flu with little else to watch on television.
“He did. Or he will, if the race doesn't get interrupted. That's where you guys come in. You'll get into San Sebastian two days before the first road stage. Your contact Alejandro will meet you at your hotel,” Salvador explained.
“So what's the plan?” Amelia asked.
“That's up to you. Alejandro will have some ideas, I'm sure. We wouldn't be Spanish if we had this all figured out already.” Salvador adjusted his glasses and gestured for them to leave. “Angustias, go get Velazquez! There's some graffiti I need to talk to him about.”
***
Julián remembered 1992 fondly, at least what he actually could remember of it. Aside from the two weeks he spent in bed while the Tour de France was going on, Julián and his friends spent most of that year enjoying their newfound ability to purchase alcohol on their own. 1992 was a great year for Spain in general as well, with Barcelona hosting the Olympics and Sevilla hosting the World's Fair. He tried to fill his teammates in on some of it, but it didn't help that he was generally clueless when it came to sports.
The door to 1992 led them all directly into their hotel room. Julián almost thought they were in the wrong year at first, since the room's decor was straight out of the 70s. Only the copy of the newspaper that had been shoved under the door allowed them to conclude that they were in the right place.
Before they could get settled in, someone knocked on the door. Assuming it was their contact, Julián went to go open it.
Julián eyed their contact up and down, wondering if the man in front of him was really who he thought it was. “Alejandro…Valverde?”
“Call me Bala,” the man said, stepping into the hotel room the Ministry has set them up in.
“You're with the Ministry?” Julián asked. His colleagues looked confused, clearly pondering whether they should know this man or not. They shouldn't, but Julián would have to explain that later, when he wasn't so confused himself as to why a famous cyclist from the present would be greeting them.
“The 2024 Ministry, yes. After Movistar wouldn't let me come back, the Ministry offered me a contract to continue riding,” Alejandro explained. “I can ride any race I want, as long as I answer the Ministry’s page. I just got done riding the 1945 Vuelta. You don't know hard until you've ridden 300 kilometers on a fixed gear.”
Julián nodded, not that he knew the first thing about what constituted “hard” in cycling. It all sounded pretty hard to him.
“So how much do you know?” Amelia asked, wanting to get immediately to the point as always.
“A group of protestors are planning on interrupting the first day of road racing. Probably by throwing tacks in the road. They tend to do that here in the Basque Country,” Alejandro explained.
“That sounds dangerous,” Amelia said.
“It is. I've had it happen before, you can hit the deck pretty quickly with a tack in your tires.”
Hit the deck? Alonso silently mouthed at Julián.
Fall, Julián mouthed back.
“Julián, I'm told you're a photographer?” Alejandro asked.
“I was. Until my wife…until a couple years ago.” Julián didn't want to have to explain his past to yet another Ministry employee, especially one he suspected he wouldn't be seeing again.
“Good. I've managed to commandeer a motorcycle. You can act as a race photographer, as long as we can find someone to drive you. I won't get on a bike unless it has pedals.”
“You require someone to drive a motorcycle?” Alonso asked, his eyes beaming with glee.
“You're qualified? I was told you're from the 16th Century,” Alejandro said, perplexed. “Sometimes I don't understand this Ministry. No matter. That means this is for you.”
Alejandro handed Amelia a bright orange T-shirt. The smile on her face contorted, as she realized she was meant to wear it. Julián didn't blame her. The shirt was hideous, even for the 90s.
“I've left a map of the route on the desk. Good luck,” Alejandro said, making his way to the door.
“Will you be riding?” Amelia asked.
“In the Tour? No,” Alejandro replied. “I only ride races before 1975. I don't want Eusebio asking questions in ten years. I will be riding a course recon this afternoon though, to spot likely places for the protestors. I'll let you know what I find out.”
Alejandro saw himself out of their room. Alonso still looked delighted with their assignment; Amelia not so much.
“The clothes the Ministry gave me were bad enough, but this?” Amelia said, holding the T-shirt out for everyone to see.
“It's Basque orange. You'll blend in with the crowd better if you wear it,” said Julián.
“My parents would kill me if they knew I was pretending to be Basque,” said Amelia. “Not to mention they'd kill me if they ever saw me dressed like this.”
Julián eyed Amelia's current outfit. It was rare to see Amelia in pants. She did look a bit strange in them, but the acid washed jeans went quite well with her complexion. “I think you look great.”
Alonso scoffed.
“I’ll send a text to Ernesto and see if he can bring me a camera and some film. I could use a couple of practice shots.”
***
That evening, the three of them were out on the town after Julián offered to buy a round of drinks. Technically they weren't supposed to go out when on a mission, but there were so many people in the city that no one would notice them anyway. He'd even invited Alejandro to join them, but he declined, saying he wanted to stay in peak racing form.
In Julián's hands was a Nikon F-3 camera, equipped with Kodak’s Professional Digital Camera System. Julián didn't think digital cameras existed in 1992, but Ernesto had assured him that this one did, and Julián didn't have any reason to doubt him. Ernesto claimed that he had scoured the Ministry's object archive for the camera and warned him not to lose it. Julián learned a while ago that the “object archive” was actually just a euphemism for eBay. Ernesto’s warning was most likely tied to the price he paid for it.
Julián took a couple practice shots of revelers on the streets of the old town. The fact that the camera was digital meant that he could view his photos right away. The results weren't too bad so far. Apparently his years away from the hobby had not caused him to lose his touch just yet.
“Let's find a bar,” Julián said. “I want to practice some low light shots and I owe you two a drink.”
They ducked into the first bar they could find, none of them having any familiarity with the city. The inside was decorated with neon lighting and the speakers were blasting Gonna Make You Sweat by C+C Music Factory. It wasn't Julián's usual type of place, but they served alcohol, so it would do.
“What is this noise?” Alonso shouted over the music.
“It's dance music,” Julián shouted back.
“What kind of dancing do people do in the 20th century?” Alonso asked. “Actually, I don't want to know. I'm sure it's nothing good.”
“I'm with Alonso,” Amelia shouted. “This is worse than that concert you took me to.”
“It could be worse. They could be playing Basque dance music,” Julián said. “Let me order you guys some drinks. It gets better with alcohol.”
Ten minutes later, Julián was knocking back a beer, Amelia was sipping her scotch on the rocks, and Alonso was slurping a strawberry daiquiri, a cocktail Julián had accidentally gotten him hooked on after he had misjudged Amelia's taste in alcohol. None of them was truly warming up to the music, but they were at least tolerating it.
“I thought you came in here to take pictures, Julián. I haven't seen you touch that camera yet,” said Amelia, pointing to the camera sitting on the table.
“Let's fix that then, shall we,” said Julián, standing up from his chair. He grabbed the camera and set it up on the far end of the table. “I'll show you guys a trick.”
Julián returned to the other end of the table, knelt down behind his colleagues, and threw his arms around them. “Say patata!”
***
The following morning, Alejandro met the trio at their hotel room with his notes - far more detailed than Julián expected - from his ride of the course. He nodded along as Alejandro talked about headwinds and gradients and other technical things none of them cared at all about. Eventually though, Alejandro explained that he thought the climbs would be the most likely places to expect protestors, as they would cause the most disruption there. He suggested posting Amelia at the Jaizkibel, where he said the fans tended to go crazy. Alonso would ride ahead of the race and Julián would take pictures from the back of Alonso’s motorcycle. Alejandro suggested taking the motorcycle for a test drive today to prepare for the actual race tomorrow. That was a proposition that Alonso could not turn down.
The motorcycle was waiting for them in the hotel’s parking garage. It reminded Julián of the motorcycles the Madrid police force used to ride.
Alonso studied the motorcycle carefully. “Bulky. How fast can it go?”
“Top speed? I don't know. You're not going to want to go any faster than the peloton though,” said Alejandro.
“Pelo-what?” Alonso asked.
“Peloton. The riders. Did they not tell you any of this in your briefing?” Alejandro asked.
“You assume our briefing is more than five minutes,” said Julián.
“Jesus, you guys are worse than the Movistar DSes. Just don't go faster than the fastest guy on a bicycle, okay?” said Alejandro.
“There's no one on a bicycle today…” Alonso pondered aloud.
Julián dreaded whatever he was thinking.
***
“The Ministry has to pay for this, right? It's part of the mission.”
“That was not part of the mission.”
Julián opened the door to their hotel room to see Amelia standing there waiting for them. She looked concerned.
“What are you two arguing about?” she asked.
“Speedy Gonzales here managed to get a ticket for going double the posted limit,” said Julián.
“Who is this Spidi González to whom you compare me?” Alonso demanded. “And why is there a limit on how fast you can go? What reason do motorcycles exist if not to go as fast as possible?”
“Alonso,” Amelia sighed.
“Any news on your end?” Julián asked Amelia.
“No,” she replied. “I read a little about the Tour de France. Twenty one days on a bicycle, I can't even imagine! Though bicycles are a lot different now than in my day. I don't think you could ride twenty one days on a bicycle with a giant front wheel.”
Julián nodded, picturing the pennyfarthing she was describing. He couldn't imagine riding twenty one minutes on one, let alone twenty one days.
“Anything else?” Alonso asked.
“I watched some television,” Amelia said. “How common is it to be switched at birth in your era?”
“Not common at all…” Julián mentally added telenovelas to the list of things he needed to explain to Amelia. “We should probably get this ticket to Ernesto to see what he can do about it. The last thing we need is Alonso to get a criminal record for unpaid traffic tickets.”
***
Julián secured the helmet that was provided to him, making sure the straps were nice and tight. The race organizers had given him the option of not wearing a helmet at all, Spain's mandatory helmet law not having been enacted yet. Julián politely declined on behalf of both himself and Alonso. He had seen enough head injuries in his days as a paramedic to know that he wasn't willing to take that kind of stupid risk.
Julián took a sip of water to ease his nerves. He had watched multiple videos of previous Tours de France on YouTube the night before, and Julián was able to get a good look at the photographers that accompanied the race. Not only did they typically ride backwards on the motorcycles, they also tended to hang off them at weird angles in order to get better shots. With the way Alonso drove, Julián wasn't entirely sure he was going to make it through this race alive, even with a helmet.
“Julián, Bala and I are in position. Are you ready where you are?”
Amelia had departed earlier with Alejandro, who would be handing out water bottles on a different climb. They were able to communicate with each other thanks to the earpieces that Alejandro had surreptitiously borrowed from Movistar headquarters in 2024.
“Ready at race start. How's the shirt looking?” Julián said.
“Like it's going straight into the trash once this mission is over,” Amelia replied.
Julián smiled, Amelia's humor easing his nerves a little. She didn't joke around nearly enough.
“Ready, Alonso?”
“I can't believe I have to drive this thing at ten kilometers an hour. Does a man ever tell his horse to crawl?” Alonso grumbled.
The race director’s car in front of them started to move. Julián instinctively grabbed onto the motorcycle to brace himself. He forgot that he didn't need to - yet. The first seven kilometers were what Alejandro referred to as the “neutral start”, basically a parade ride until they reached the outskirts of the city. While its purpose was for safety reasons, it provided Julián with an opportunity to survey the crowd within San Sebastian.
Facing backwards, Julián did not have the benefit of being able to see the race director's car in front of them. So when the race actually started, he got no warning before Alonso hit the gas. He was lucky his camera was secured around his neck, or else it would have ended up in pieces on the pavement. He didn't want to think about how mad Ernesto would be if that happened.
The first climb wasn't until almost fifty kilometers into the race. Alejandro mentioned that there would not be many fans on this part of the course, which turned out to be true. It didn't leave Julián with much to do other than what he was technically supposed to be doing: taking photographs. He'd never taken action shots before. Most of his photography experience was limited to photos of Maite, if he was being honest. It was a good thing Ernesto had found him a digital camera for the job. He could see immediately how terrible his first few photos looked, with nothing but blur covering the screen. He deleted them all, glad not to be wasting film. Eventually though, Julián started catching on. He even captured what he thought was a particularly nice shot of the riders coming out of the forest.
However, just when Julián felt he had gotten the hang of this photography thing, Amelia interrupted him. “Guys, we've got trouble.”
“Protestors?” Julián asked.
“Worse,” said Amelia. “Lola.”
“Here? At the Tour de France?” Julián asked.
“It's definitely her. What should I do?” Amelia asked.
“Keep your eyes on her,” Julián radioed. “Whatever she's up to, I'm sure it's not good.”
Why Lola would want to interrupt the Tour de France, Julián had no idea. It seemed outside her mode of operation to interfere with a sporting event.
“I don't like the sound of this,” said Alonso. “We should alert the boss.”
“I can't just pull out a cell phone in front of a bunch of television cameras,” Julián said. “There are no Nazis this time, so I'm sure Amelia can handle it.”
Julián tapped the radio receiver in his ear. “Bala, do you see anything where you are?”
“Nada,” Alejandro replied. “Stay with the peloton, I've got this hill covered.”
Alonso did as Alejandro directed, much to his dismay. Julián gave their contact a wave as they passed by, and Alejandro responded with a thumbs up. While it was good to know this hill was safe, it still made Julian nervous about what lie ahead.
Once they reached the bottom of the hill, Julián checked in with Amelia again. “What's she up to now?”
“Nothing. Just standing there. She brought something with her that I thought might be a box of tacks, but then she pulled a beer out of it,” said Amelia. “It's starting to get crowded up here. I don't know how long I'll be able to see her.”
“We're on our way soon,” Julián replied. In this section of road, there wasn't much for him to get a good picture of. Some of the other photography bikes were starting to come up to the front of the race, so that they could ride ahead and set themselves up on a good spot on the Jaizkibel. Julián took that as their cue to do the same.
“Alonso, step on it.”
“I thought you'd never ask.”
Julián grabbed on for dear life.
***
Amelia had not overstated the size of the crowd on the Jaizkibel. If anything, she had understated it. There was barely any room for their motorcycle to get through. He didn't know how the cyclists were going to navigate this mess.
Julián thought he would never be able to spot anyone in this swarm of people. Alonso though had eyes like a hawk.
“There!” he shouted, pointing towards someone in the crowd. Sure enough, there was a man lurking around the side of the road with one hand tucked behind his back in order to hide what he was carrying.
Before he knew what was going on, Julián felt the bike lurch forward. The crowd screamed as Julián went flying off the back of the motorcycle. He had just enough time to think about the camera before he landed on the pavement, and held it over his head so that it wouldn't get smashed. All Julián could hear was the cacophony of whistles and shouting. A few people in the crowd quickly helped him to his feet. As he was regathering his bearings, he could see a horde of police officers descending upon the spot where he had seen the suspicious man a few seconds ago.
“You certainly have a flair for the dramatic.”
Julián turned around to see Lola standing next to him, calmly sipping a beer. “This is your doing, isn't it?” he asked.
“Absolutely not,” she replied. “I love Indurain, I would never get in his way.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Julián asked.
“Can't a girl enjoy a bike race?” she said, taking another sip of beer.
“Julián!” Julián immediately recognized Amelia's voice and turned around to see where she was coming from. She wasn't easy to pick out, since she was dressed in the same orange as everyone else. When he finally spotted her shoving her way through the crowd, he waved her over.
“Are you alright? I saw you fall when Alonso went to tackle that protestor.”
“I'm alright,” Julián said. “Just a little road rash is all. I've got -” Julián turned his head and saw that Lola had disappeared. “Well, I had Lola here.”
“Don't worry about it,” Amelia said. “I don't think she's behind this. She opened two more beers while you guys were on your way here and was chanting along with the crowd. I think we should probably worry more about Alonso.”
Julián couldn't see where Alonso had gone, though he could see his motorcycle lying on the side of the road. Julián flagged down a police officer, who generously escorted him to where Alonso stood on the hillside, proudly holding a confiscated bag of tacks.
“Mission accomplished,” Alonso said. “Now Mr. Indurain can beat the French at their own game!”
“He'll do it three more times too,” Julián whispered so the rest of the crowd couldn't hear him.
“Three more times? Mr. Indurain is the greatest cyclist who ever lived!” Alonso proclaimed.
“Hell yeah!” someone in the crowd shouted in agreement.
The crowd started chanting once more, the incursion quickly forgotten. A job well done.
***
Alejandro and Amelia were waiting for them at the finish line. Julián and Alonso had needed to continue on with the race, in order to maintain their cover. Julián had to admit, it was actually really fun to be behind a camera lens again. Even Alonso seemed to have some fun, despite the speed restrictions.
“Thanks for finding the protestors,” Alejandro said. “I understand it was quite the scene, but I think they should keep it out of the papers. They don't want to make the Basque fans look bad.”
“It's just a shame today's winner wasn't Spanish,” Amelia added. “Will you be sticking around for the rest of the race, Bala?”
“No, I don't plan on staying in 1992 for long,” he replied. “I probably ought to warn myself not to adopt a German Shepherd before I leave. Although I did really like that dog…”
“We should be leaving as well,” said Julián. “I'm actually excited to see how my pictures turned out.”
“It's been a pleasure,” said Alejandro, extending his hand. Julián gave him a hand shake and Amelia and Alonso, finally getting used to the gesture, did the same.
“Well. Back to the hotel,” Julián said to his colleagues. “If you guys want to, you can come over to my place and we can watch the race on YouTube.”
“YouTube?” asked Alonso.
“Only if I don't have to wear this shirt!” Amelia said.
Julián laughed. “Deal.”