A sunny day. The riders are hugging the coast.
Tony Martin is in the yellow jersey. He looks confident.
So does Chris Froome.
In fact everyone looks confident. It's that sort of day.
......
Farky-Om-Farky sits in the back of a car.
His blindfold is removed.
Is that better? says his captor.
No, says Farky-Om-Farky. I could see quite well before.
What? How come? says his captor.
Omniscient, says Farky-Om-Farky.
(We are about to discover how rumour can mix up the facts).
I thought you were LUCKY! says his captor.
Not so lucky, says Farky-Om-Farky. Would I be here if I was?
If you were, says his captor. It's a form of conditional. But yes, you have a point there.
( Note that the captor is English).
.........
Sweezus has decided that Team Condor should function more as a unit.
It's not good, says Sweezus. You guys, doing your own thing. You should lead me out more.
Okay, says Arthur. You only had to say.
Sure, says Pablo. We were just waiting for instructions. We are like water.
Water doesn't wait for instructions, says Gaius.
And you, Gaius, says Sweezus, go to the back and find out what's happened to Farky. And bring some snacks back.
All right says Gaius, flowing backwards.
What was that about water? asks Sweezus.
Water is another matter, says Pablo.
It takes limpid lessons from stone.
Arthur grins, and speeds up immediately, Pablo follows.
Sweezus, busy trying to figure out what Pablo meant, misses the lead out.
........
Gaius drops back.
He is now level with David and Vello.
Heard the rumours? puffs Vello. Farky's been taken. Some say by Team Sky.
Because rumour has wings, says David.
Very funny, says Vello.
......
It's less than 500 metres to the finish.
Tony Martin clips the wheel of Bryan Coquard.
Crash!
Nibali falls, and Quintano. Tony Martin breaks a collar bone.
Tony finishes, but only with the help of his team mates.
Chris Froome will wear yellow tomorrow.
Water is another matter
has no direction but its own
runs through all imaginable colours
takes limpid lessons from stone
and in these actions plays out
the unrealised ambitions of foam.
Pablo Neruda.
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