You hold it up to the light.
You pause.
You hold it closer.
You hold it away from you, as if distance might change the outcome.
It does not.
There is a moment in every changing room where everyone realises the same thing at the same time and nobody wants to be the first to say it.
Someone finally does.
“Is this… see-through?”
It is not a little see-through.
It is not “in certain lighting” see-through.
It is television-definition see-through.
You put it on anyway, because that is what you do. You are a professional. You race in whatever you are given.
You look in the mirror.
You turn around.
You turn back.
You sit down for a moment.
In the team area, the mood is subdued.
Everyone is adjusting. Pulling. Repositioning. Having quiet conversations that begin with, “Can you…?”
Someone tries to laugh.
The staff say it is fine.
“It tested very well.”
“It’s fast.”
“It looks great on camera.”
This last part is technically true.
Later, your phone starts vibrating.
It is your mum.
“I can see your bum on the TV.”
You do not know how to respond to this.
Messages arrive from friends. From people you have not spoken to in years. All with the same energy. Screenshots. Concern. Excessive use of the zoom function.
You are in the middle of a World Cup sprint tournament and your family group chat is discussing your level of transparency.
Between rounds, everyone is still talking about it.
“We’ve got enough to think about,” someone says.
And it is true.
Gear ratios. Tyre pressure. Call-up timing. Race tactics. Warming up properly.
You had not factored in national broadcast fabric analysis.
A meeting is called.
“The sponsor is very happy with the exposure.”
Exposure is the correct word.
You are told the kit is staying.
Of course it is.
Because this is elite sport.
You smile for the team photo.
You pin on your number.
You line up to race, trying not to think about high-definition slow-motion replays.
Because performance is everything.
And apparently, so is opacity.
