There Is No Conclusion

The Best Seafood Platter has been eaten.

The shells have been saved.

Saint Roley has vomited.

Boris has come over with a blank piece of paper and Sweezus has signed it.

That's thirty nine dollars they don't have to pay to Boris's family.

Good luck in the Tour Down Under, says Boris shyly.

Thanks, kid, says Sweezus.

Boris goes away.

He was my friend, says Terence.

You've got a nice photo of him, says Unni.

Mama! says the Magpie.

Luckily Boris is too far away to hear it.

We must get our skates on, says Gaius. Team Presentations are on Saturday. Does anyone know a rider called Ludwig?

It'll be that philosopher, says Unni. The tall skinny one.

Wittgenstein! says Gaius. But he's never ridden a bicycle! His only encounter with one left him suicidal.

He hopes it won't be that Ludwig.

Sweezus and Arthur are suddenly serious about the Tour Down Under.

Saturday. The Team Presentations.

Yeah, Richie'll be there, says Sweezus. And Pete Sagan. And Clarkey, and Gerrans.

Richie? says Arthur. Mind if I show him your poem?

It's your poem, says Sweezus. Wait on. How does it go?

Arthur recites it.

The Fig Tree. (We already know it).

Woah! says Sweezus. That's mega out there. If leaves are like fingers. What's the conclusion?

There is no conclusion, says Arthur.

Heavy, says Sweezus. Suck on that, Richie.

......

In Adelaide, the teams have assembled.

The Tour Village is buzzing. And dripping. It's hot.

Team BMC, Team Bora-Hansgrohe, Team Ag2R La Mondiale....

Team EF Education First Drapac p/b Cannondale... yes, that's a new one. An American team. And Clarkey is in it. Simon Clarke, who broke a shoulder in the Vuelta, 2016. Clarkey and three other Aussies, because Aussies are always in shape this time of year.

Ludwig Wittgenstein lopes through the village, avoiding the bikes.

Thump. He bumps into Richie. Richie Porte, who broke a collar bone and pelvis in the Tour de France, 2017.

Mate! says Richie. Watch where you're going!

The world is independent of my will, says Wittgenstein.

What team are you in? asks Richie.

Team Philosophe, says Wittgenstein. One should not stay up on the barren heights of cleverness.  I have entered the valleys of silliness temporarily.

Well, good luck mate, says Richie.

Team Philosophe, eh? Old dudes. No chance. But where is Team Condor?

Richie has a poem he wants to run by them.