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“I’m going to break into a run,” he warns me. “Expect some jolts and try to absorb them by keeping your core stiff. Also, shiftwithme and not against me. That way, we’ll move as a unit.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He runs a few meters. My head and back feel every jolt.
He stops when my glasses go skittering across the floor. “You’re too loose.”
I tighten my grip around his stomach and neck. This position is truly bizarre. It would’ve been erotic if it wasn’t so ridiculous.
His lordship isn’t pleased. “If you keep squeezing your thighs like this, I’ll pass out.”
I relax my grip.
He adjusts my legs. “Don’t worry, we’ll find the sweet spot between too loose and too tight.”
“This is hard,” I complain. “I’m beginning to tire.”
Squatting he sets me down. “Take a breather, and then we’ll try again.”
I grimace as I retrieve my glasses. “Again?”
“The couples we’ll be competing with have been training for weeks.”
“Then we can take it easy! There’s no chance of victory, and, therefore, no pressure,” I say as I return to his side.
Louis refrains from commenting. But I’ve spent enough time around him to know he’s the kind of guy who can’t enter a competition and not give it his all, no matter how low the chances.
He holds his hand out and nods to my glasses. I reluctantly give them to him, and he makes for to his sports bag. He returns with a bicycle helmet but not my glasses. “Put this on.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to hop over that padded bench.” He points out the bench in question.
I look at it, then at him. “While carrying me upside down?!”
“One of the dry obstacles is a log, and it isn’t padded.”
As I put the helmet on, I scoff, “Traditions… Pff! Duty… Pff! This is all about your competitive streak, I’m telling you.”
“I don’t have a competitive streak.” He hunkers down and pats his back as an invitation. “I just hate losing.”
CHAPTER13
CAMILLE
The next day dawns bright and clear, and by that afternoon, it’s abalmyfour degrees Celsius. At three, Louis and I and fourteen other newlywed couples are in position. Both the male racers and their female jockeys are dressed in Santa Claus costumes with their number on their fronts and backs. Louis and I are number ten. My fake beard camouflages the chin strap of my special Santa hat which hides a semirigid helmet.
The track runs in a hollow between two soft hills just outside of Pombrio. It’s actually not far from the RV park where I used to live in what now seems like years ago. On either side of the track, thousands of fans have gathered to watch the race. And to have a good laugh as we make fools of ourselves. The Annual Christmas Wife-Carrying Contest is about to kick off.
As we wait for the emcee to make a short speech, I look around. Reporters from every Evorian news outlet are stationed around the track, aiming their cameras and furry mics at us. The crowd is ebullient. The competing couples are taking deep breaths to calm their nerves.
At last, the emcee speaks, “My fellow Evorians! I know how impatient you are for the action to begin, so I’ll just cover the basics for the first timers.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, as I’m still unclear on some of the rules.
“This competition exists in a number of countries across the world,” he carries on. “Here in Mount Evor, we’ve changed things up a bit. For example, other countries organize this race in summer. But we’re mountaineers. To prove how tough we are, we do it in winter.”
Speak for yourself!I don’t feel the need to prove to anyone how tough I am. And the last thing I want is to test the toughness of my skull.
