(photo credit: cycling tips)
At 11.30pm or so last night, when I started drafting this post, I had titled it “Easing You Into It” as, after the first hour or so of coverage, the famed winds of Holland had not really appeared, leaving a large comfortable bunch calmly watching a three man breakaway on a picture perfect day in Holland, heading towards Belgium looking cruisey as you please. I’d learnt a lot about Eddy Merckx (as the race was ending in his home town and bands had been playing “Happy Birthday” for some hours in the lead up), but not much else. I would not have called it exciting riding and was greatly afraid that I would be required to steal a story from the Tour de France Official Guide to keep you all happy.
Then things began to get messy. A little dog ran out onto the road and took out my buddy David Millar and Ivan Basso. I felt personal affront. Then, around 10km out, the peleton began grinding down the breakaway which reduced from three, to two and eventually – after Maarten Wijnants (Quik) had spent an impressive good long stint leading out the group – they were gobbled by the resolute power of the pack. Think of it as that sinking feeling you get coming down Canning street when a whole mess of frightening commuters bear down on you as you know you’re going to miss the lights. Times a million.
Then, about 4km to go, there’s a giant sharp turn and Cavendish (as far as I can tell a man who can sprints very very fast but does not seem to have nice manners) and Freire were down. Another crash shortly after completely blocked the road with the entire GDP of Chad’s worth of bikes strewn across the road in a sad swamp of carbon fibre. Bye bye Tyler Farrar (Garmin) and Ciolek for this sprint. Lucky for me, I had already celebrated American Independence Day with a turkey burger the size of my fist earlier in the evening.
Eventually, Alessandro Petacchi powered home over the top of Mark Renshaw (an Australian for those who care for such things). And nothing changed in the GC because just about everyone else had spent time on their arse in the final three kilomtres.
Lampre are riding with Specialized helmets in a pretty basic colourway of blue and white teamed with a very striking jersey of hot pink, blue and white. I don’t know if it’s just the ridiculous i-mac thing that we’re watching it on, but it’s a helluva colour combination with a deep, European summer tan. Paris Hilton wishes she could get that much PAPOW from an outfit. And, unlike HTC – whose pale jerseys kind of blend in the final sprint stages (though the military intent is still palpable), they’re bloody good fun to watch lining up and positioning their rider in the last kilometre or two.
I can’t say yet if I prefer the sprints over the climbs – this is, after all, an achievement for me, this is the first time I’ve been awake for an entire stage of any cycling race – but what a start.
On top of the race excitement, I’m remembering how cute I think Phil Ligget is (and nice work Matt Keenan for the warm up act) and, with plenty of Australians in the field to watch, you could almost feel like you were catching up with a few old friends. None of whom I have actually met (except Robbie McEwan – more of that fascinating story later) or have much in common with, so perhaps it’s an illusory feeling.
The biggest surprise for me, however, was that My Man In Cuba totally fell asleep before midnight, making the whole thing a little more opaque for me than I had hoped. Consider this commentary duly compromised. Guess I shouldn’t have made him drive seven hours before getting here.
eleanor j jackson 