King of the Mountain

Voltaire and Hume are riding disconsolately at the back of the peloton. Rousseau is nowhere in sight.

Voltaire: Jean-Jacques has gone off his head!

Hume: Again.

Voltaire: Accusing me of not sharing my Power Bars and sports drinks! Outrageous! And now he's sulking most absurdly and threatening to pull out of the race.

Hume: You offered to share them, no doubt.

Voltaire: Of course. But you know him. He won't accept anything that smacks of charity. He insisted on paying me for them there and then. So there he was, rummaging around in his jersey pockets for some bits of change, and wobbling all over the road. You can imagine how I laughed. And of course that drove him to distraction. And then there was the drama with his irritating dog.

Hume: He should have left it at home. He was up all night cleaning up its mess. No wonder he's in such an evil mood today. Where is he anyway?

They look behind them. A strange sight meets their eyes. Rousseau is pedalling towards them at a phenomenal rate, clad in a long flapping Armenian caftan and a fur hat, Sultan well ensconced in a basket attached to the front of his bicycle.

Rousseau ( in passing): Farewell my enemies! I am commencing an undertaking hitherto without precedent, and which will never find an imitator! I intend, without the aid of anyone, to become King of the Mountain on Mont Ventoux!