Saturday in Brussels. The Grand Départ.
The teams have departed. They ride on a flat road. They loop southwards through Flanders.
Déjà vu, says Sweezus.
Green trees, says Arthur. Grass, haystacks and boxy grey houses.
You guys, says Sprocket.
What? says Sweezus.
It's cool, says Sprocket.
Greg van Avermaet passes, in a breakaway.
Mouldy is hot on his trail.
Pity we couldn't register him, says Sweezus. He'd be an asset.
He might still be an asset, says Arthur.
They slow down. There's no point in joining the breakaway.
Some distance back, Vello and David are lamenting.
I shouldn't have eaten those eels, says Vello. My stomach is cramping.
Likewise, says David. But it sounded so tempting. Eels in the green.
I wonder what the green was? says Vello.
I'd need to see it again, says David.
That's quite likely, says Vello
Nietzsche is riding beside Gaius.
How are you finding it? asks Gaius.
Easy, so far, says Nietzsche. I look forward to the mountains.
Excellent, says Gaius. You should do well.
Richie Porte catches up.
Hello Richie, says Gaius. Better luck this year.
Thanks, says Richie. All good so far. Hey, was that Baby Pierre who buzzed past me a while ago?
No that was Mouldy, says Gaius. If you want some free advice, avoid him.
Yeah, he looks dangerous, says Richie.
He speeds up, in his white kit with more red this year.
Nice fellow, says Gaius.
....
It's the final ten k.
Fuglsang has gone down and got up again, with a cut near his eye.
In this, Mouldy was blameless.
A big crash in the pack has brought Groenewegen down.
Mouldy may not have been blameless.
Mike Teunisson hangs on in the front.
A Dutchman.
It is thirty years since the yellow jersey has been worn by a Dutchman.
He goes like the clappers, avoiding Mouldy.
It's him or Peter Sagan. Or Caleb Ewan.
Fantastisch!
It's him!
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1 comment:
A delightful call. All sport should be like this.
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