My Precious-est Part

Terence has fallen into the zoo.

The parakeet has flown off.

Terence finds himself in an infant-shaped hole, next to a bustard.

Fortunately for us, (and the bustard), Terence doesn't know it's a bustard.

Where did you come from? asks the bustard.

Up there, says Terence, pointing.

Where? asks the bustard.

Wah! cries Terence, having noticed his claw has come off.

What's the matter? asks the bustard.

My claw! says Terence. Help me find it!

The bustard starts looking, then stops.

Wait. What does it look like?

A claw, says Terence, holding up his small cement hand.

Those are fingers, says the bustard.

YES! says Terence. Because they're not missing!

The parakeet flies down, to see what is happening.

What's happening?

He's lost a claw, says the bustard.

What does it look like? asks the parakeet.

A finger, I imagine, says the bustard. Although he denies it.

No! shouts Terence. It's my blood brother's claw. And he's got my finger.

How was I to know that? asks the bustard.

You could have asked, says the parakeet.

How to frame the question? asks the bustard.

A small crowd has gathered, including a junior zoo keeper.

Merde! says the junior zoo keeper. Un trou!

Help! says Terence. I fell off the balcony and ruined my precious-est part.

Is this it? asks the parakeet, picking up something curly with his beak.

It must be, says Terence.

Belle arrives, having run down the steps.

Terence! What happened?

Votre enfant? asks the junior zoo keeper.

Yes, says Belle.

Il a fait un trou, says the keeper.

And he's injured, says Belle.

Wah! cries Terence. My claw fell off, and now it looks different!

We'll fix it, says Belle.

She drags Terence up the stairs, back to the café.

He's lost his claw, says Belle, to the general table.

Claw? says Isidore, who is still at the table discussing teratology (deviation from normal structure) with Gaius. The child has a claw?

Don't get excited, it's not what you think, Isidore, says Gaius.

Everyone's Responsible

Sweezus comes over to the terrace, to fetch Terence.

Is this your infant? asks the zoologist.

No, but he's with us, says Sweezus. What's he been up to?

Talking to a parakeet, says the zoologist. But I shooed it away. Hence the infant won't speak to me.

Say something, little dude, says Sweezus.

Cucumber, says Terence.

Ha ha! laughs the zoologist. Why did he say that?

I probably smell of it, says Sweezus. Had the Detox du Jardin.

Excellent choice, says the zoologist.

Except for the black plastic straw, says Sweezus.

Oh, that, says the zoologist.

Choking the oceans, says Sweezus.

I know, says the zoologist. But I'm not entirely responsible.

Everyone's responsible, says Sweezus.

Even you, says Terence.

Not if I speak up, says Sweezus.

Do I know you? asks the zoologist.

Tour de France, says Sweezus. Team Condor.

Mais oui! says the zoologist. Team Condor. You were unsuccessful. Do you know Team Philosophe?

Sure do, says Sweezus. They're sitting at our table. Come on over.

Sweezus and the zoologist head across to the table.

Terence remains on the terrace. The parakeet flies down to a railing.

Spit!

What's that? asks Terence.

Tomato seed, says the parakeet.

Gaius looks up from his cheesecake.

Isidore!

Gaius, mon vieux ami!

Would you believe it! The zoologist has turned out to be Isidore Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, whose father, Etienne, formed the menagerie in the late eighteenth century.

Welcome to the Jardin des Plantes, says Isidore, fetching a chair.

It's gorgeous, says Belle. Was that you I saw talking to Terence?

It was, says Isidore. He was speaking with a rose-ringed parakeet.

Trying to persuade it to become his pet parrot, no doubt, says Gaius.

Would he like one? asks Isidore Saint-Hilaire. They can be quite a nuisance.

He'd love one, says Belle.

How about introducing us, says Vello, to Gaius, who has neglected to do it.

I'll introduce myself, says Isidore. Isidore Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, zoologist and authority on deviation from normal structure.

You don't say? says Vello. A commendable interest. I daresay most of us deviate to some degree from normal structure. My big toe....

Papa! says Belle. He's joking, Isidore.

I'm used to it, says Isidore. But I must say your young Terence is a puzzle. He appears to be made of cement, yet exhibits a high degree of mobility.

Yeah, says Sweezus. But he can't ride a bicycle.

I should not have expected that, says Isidore. But he does appear able to climb onto a railing. Look, he is doing it now.

O my goodness! says Belle.

They all turn to watch as Terence tumbles head first off the railing.

And into the zoo.

Bustards Are Not People

Next day.

Team Philosophe and Team Condor are having lunch at the Jardin des Plantes.

Vello is paying.

The café is called Les Belles Plantes.

Flowered wall paper, wicker furniture, dried flowers.

A terrace view of the menagerie.

Can we GO now? asks Terence.

Not yet, says Belle.

Well, this is nice, says David, his mouth full of soft-boiled egg and asparagus.

So it should be, says Vello, prodding his semi-cooked tuna in ginger lime sauce.

Sweezus is scowling at his cucumber Detox du Jardin, with its black plastic straw.

What are everyone's plans after Paris? asks Vello. You, Friedrich?

Nietzsche looks at Grace Swan.

He's coming back to Perth with me, says Grace Swan.

How come? asks Sprocket.

Arthur nudges Sprocket.

They're an item.

Sprocket coughs up a lump of ratatouille.

My immediate plans are to remain in Paris, says Gaius. Look up an old friend. He has a connection to this place.

This café? asks Belle.

No, the Museum of Natural History, the menagerie and the Jardin des Plantes, says Gaius. My friend Isidore, a zoologist. I suppose he'll still be here.

Are we going? says Terence.

Not yet, says Belle.

Arthur and me are going surfing before we head home, says Sweezus. Côte Sauvage. Should be awesome.

Me too, says Sprocket.

Look! says Terence. There's a parrot!

He runs off to the terrace.

It's a green parakeet, with a red beak. On a branch, squawking.

Parakeet: Squawk!

Terence: Squawk you.

Parakeet: I was.

Terence: I mean, what you said.

Parakeet: Squawk you.

Terence: That's what I said. Are you in the zoo?

Parakeet: No. It's for losers, like red pandas, snow leopards, Arabian oryxes, white-naped cranes and bustards.

Terence: Ha ha! Bustards!

Parakeet: Why laugh at them?

Terence: Because they're people.

Parakeet: Bustards are not people. I'm off.

Terence: Wait! Be my new parrot.

Parakeet: No! Why would I?

Terence: Because Mouldy is useless. And he didn't win the Tour de France.

Parakeet: Neither did I.

Terence: And he isn't a parrot.

Parakeet: Why do you want me?

Terence: Two red parts. Your beak and your red and black neck ring

A zoologist looms up behind Terence and shoos off the parakeet

Zoologist: Away ! Away!

Terence: He's gone.

Zoologist: Good riddance. He eats the tomatoes in our kitchen garden. Let me take you back to your parents. Where are they?

Terence: In a palace, in Barcelona. I don't want to go there!

Zoologist: Who are you with then? Which table?

But Terence doesn't trust the zoologist who scared off his parrot.

No way will he answer.

Stage Twenty One: Rambouillet to Paris Champs-Elysées - Belief

Why are they going so SLOWLY? asks Terence.

Because it doesn't matter, says Belle.

Then they should go FAST, says Terence.

Mouldy exits the champagne-sipping procession and stops in front of Terence.

Get GOING! says Terence. You can win this!

Egan Bernal has already won it, says Mouldy.

Tell him he could still win the sprint, says Belle.

Is he actually registered? asks Grace Swan.

He's too short, says Terence.

Mouldy did not know that.

So it's all been for nothing.

He goes though a series of fast evolving emotions.

Depair, fury, desire for revenge...

He remembers his weekend as a thrombolite during which he learned acceptance.

Look at the other riders. They are drinking champagne. Only the sprinters are still plotting....

Mouldy remounts and joins the riders.

But no one gives him champagne.

There are no small glasses.

Sweezus, Arthur and Sprocket have already downed several glasses.

Sweezus has become philosophical.

Good tour, says Sweezus. Best one yet. You never knew what would happen.

That's always true, says Arthur.

Yeah, but this time you never even knew what you thought would happen, says Sweezus.

Different guys winning, says Sprocket. That was cool.

Same team in the end, though, says Arthur.

Yeah, says Sweezus. Team freaking Ineos.

Have they won before? asks the ingenuous Sprocket.

Up ahead, Team Philosophe is also swilling champers.

Except for Nietzsche.

Here's to you, Friedrich, says Vello. You've done us all proud.

Thank you, says Nietzsche. Here's a question. Should I should grow my moustache back?

NO! says Vello.

Inadvisable, says David.

It was rather manly, says Gaius.

Nietszche wonders which of those opinions might best reflect those of Grace Swan.

Perhaps you should ask her, says Vello.

He won't though. That would be demeaning.

He might ask young Sprocket, later on.

The Champs Elysées at last!

The sprinters have organised early.

But to make a short story shorter, let's cut to the end.

The end:

Caleb Ewan has won the final stage in Paris. His third stage win in his first Tour de France.

He claims he can't believe it.

Egan Bernal wins the overall Tour.

Only twenty two years old and the first Columbian to win it.

He also claims he can't believe it.

But what's the point, if you can't then believe it?

Stage Twenty: Albertville to Val Thorens - Eight-fold Path

The stage has been shortened today.

But what remains will be gruelling.

And peppered with ifs.

If yesterday's weather had been different ....

If I could have finished....

If  he....

Just think, says Vello, any one of us might have ended up wearing yellow.

A number of events would need to have happened for it to be you, says David. Or me. Or even Gaius.

Or me, says Nietzsche.

I didn't include you for a reason, says David.

May I ask the reason? says Nietzsche.

Extraordinary things seem to happen to you, says David.

Doesn't make it more likely, says Vello.

Doesn't it? says David.

In the light of that, says Nietzsche, I feel I should tell you that something super-extraordinary has happened.

You are in love, says Vello. We guessed that.

Nietzsche is deflated.

The road steepens.

Vincenzo Nibali rides past.

Further up the road Nibali passes Team Condor, who are weighing up their options.

He hears one of them say: Lobster thermidor pie.

Focus, Vincenzo!

It just popped out, says Sprocket.

Again? says Sweezus. Anything with it?

Nut and herb crumble, says Sprocket. And apple salad.

You know what? says Arthur.

What? says Sweezus.

Schopenhauer had that for dinner once, says Arthur.

So, it's coming to me through my saddle, says Sprocket. Funny. It only started yesterday.

You're tired, says Sweezus. Try and focus.

On what? says Sprocket. The food or the eight-fold path?

Whatever helps, says Sweezus.

But not both, says Arthur.

Sprocket chooses the eight-fold path. Number six. Right effort

His mother would approve it.

Further up the road, the yellow jersey group pursues Nibali.

With number seven (right mindfulness) and number eight (right concentration).

The eight-fold path is quite useful.

But Nibali is powering his way up to Val Thorens.

Today is his last chance to win a stage and prove that competing in the Giro didn't bugger up his chances.

E-huh! E-huh!

It's hard though. Because up to now it has seemed that it has.

But no! He is still in the lead. Focus Vincenzo!

Not on pain and misery.

Not on running clown idiots

Not on the never-ending mountain.

Something uplifting. Something to aspire to.

Something like....lobster thermidor pie.

Stage Nineteen: Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne to Tignes - Fingers

Bang. The teams roll out of Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne.

No one knows what is ahead of them.

Except John the Baptist.

Three of his fingers are in Saint-Jean-de Maurienne, in a golden casket.

They have been (at some point) cut off.

You could call it an omen.

At the beginning the weather is fine.

John the Baptists's fingers: ^ FOR NOW ^

Nibali, Bilbao, Martin and Herrada ride away.

John the Baptist's fingers: ^ MUCH GOOD WILL IT DO THEM ^

They are caught early at 35k.

At 36k Thibaut Pinaut is forced to abandon.

John the Baptist's fingers: ^ A TORN MUSCLE ^

Twenty nine riders form the front group.

John the Baptist's fingers: ^ WEATHER ALERT! ^

But no one heeds the fingers. It's too early.

The fingers are now out of range.

Sprocket is feeling combative.

I might go for it, says Sprocket. Should I?

You go for it, says Sweezus.

I will. I feel super confident, says Sprocket. Not sure why.

Schopenhauer's bicycle, says Arthur. What thoughts are you having?

The eight-fold path, says Sprocket. Right understanding, right thought, right action....lobster thermidor pie.

That's only four, says Sweezus.

Three, says Arthur. You can't count the pie.

Sprocket speeds up, the pie notwithstanding.

Everyone rides hard.

Col de St André, monteé d'Aussois, col de la Madeleine, col de l'Iseran ....

Egan Bernal crests the col d'Iseran first.

Now for the descending.

Did he but know it, he could stop right here.

John the Baptist's fingers were right, although light on the detail.

A freak hailstorm hits the road down ahead.

The road is covered in rain, hail and muddy landslides. Impassable

The race is abandoned for reasons of safety.

Egan Bernal will wear yellow tomorrow.

Stage Eighteen: Embrun to Valloire - Nutty Philosophy

A mountain stage, with three difficult climbs.

Nairo Quintana believes that today he can win it.

Roman Bardet has high hopes of doing the same.

Sweezus has given up on his quest for the polka dot jersey.

Yeah, says Sweezus. Should’ve practiced more instead of sitting in the office with Nietzsche.

Wasn’t he sitting there too? asks Sprocket.

Yep, but he’s not doing that well either, says Sweezus. Truth is, I fell for his nutty philosophy.

Arthur laughs at the thought of that happening.

Not funny, bro, says Sweezus. He went on about being a lion.

Not a dragon? says Arthur.

No, a lion, says Sweezus. A lion that needs no justification.

To do what? says Arthur.

Create new values, says Sweezus.

Like not winning, says Sprocket.

It appears he is right.

Many riders ride past them including Team Philosophe.

Giving up? shouts Vello over his shoulder.

Enjoying the scenery, says Sweezus.

And it’s well worth enjoying.

The Alps are spectacular. Great peaks and green valleys. Rocks and scree. Escarpments. High fortifications. Crowds of people at the tops of the climbs, poking their hands out. Someone is dressed as a chicken.

Hear that? says Vello. Team Condor’s giving up.

More fool us, says David. It’s incredibly hot.

No, says Gaius. We owe it to ourselves to keep on to the finish. What do you think, Friedrich?

Nietzsche collects his thoughts, which had wandered away to Grace Swan.

Perhaps he might follow her back to the PICA.

If god is dead, as he has long contested, the gap might be filled by art and culture.

But what was the question?

David wants to give up, says Vello.

The spirit becomes a camel, says Nietzsche, the camel a lion, and the lion a child.

He’s lost it, says Vello. Keep riding men. I see Belle in the distance.

It’s Belle with musettes full of pelardons.

And Terence with bidons of water.

They have to lean down to pick up the bidons from Terence.

They wobble, but no one falls off.

Way up ahead, is Nairo Quintana.

For Nairo Quintana today, the camel has become like a lion who has become like a child.

A child is innocence and forgetfulness, a new beginning, a sport, a self- propelling wheel, a sacred ~YES~

Nairo Quintana rides solo to victory, through the angular streets of Valloire.