Lycra Soup

When I first began watching cycling, I’ll admit, my interest was purely anthropological.

Having made a new friend one April, I couldn’t understand why suddenly – mid-July – the strange bugger kept appearing dishevelled and exhausted for coffee in the morning, explaining his crumpled demeanour with, “sorry, I fell asleep in front of the television”.

Eventually, having promoted said friend to friend-with-benefits to partner, I worked out that – for them at least – sleeping in front of the television for weeks on end was not a sign of depression, just a “healthy interest” in the sport that spins. Spurred on by a very mild curiousity, I sought to learn more about this cycling business, asking the big questions like, “what’s with all the fat dads in lycra?”, “how can your bike cost more than my car?” and “how come if it’s a sprint race, they start off by going super super slow?”

Then after a lifetime of deriding sport as the bastion of the culturally bereft, I find myself here – up at all hours of the night, re-arranging my entire holiday around four hours of television coverage of a whole bunch of skinny men (some presumably fathers), all of whom have bikes worth more than my car and for whom my idea of breakneck speed is their idea of super super slow. As Lance said, sometime after dropping a fair whack of time on last night’s stage: that’s the way the ball bounces.

All of which is a really long lead up to the fact that – in the past – when I watched the coverage of the Tour, all I could ever see was Lyrca Soup. Just a sea of brightly coloured high-tech fabric, angry legs, polarised lenses and tans so deep they made me wonder if the Cancer Council shouldn’t be approached to sponsor the Tour Down Under.

Last night, however, watching the riders from Wanze to Arenberg, over seven stages of cobblestones – Lycra Soup was Back in Town. Stage 3 had been vaunted as a key stage with many teams adjusting their tactics to suit the stretches of (broken) bone-jarring roads. The group was visibly nervous after yesterday’s mishaps and in anticipation of the terrain ahead. Things seemed to go alright with a early breakaway making some good time.

Then, 100km in, you get the first serious crash. Teams jostle for position at the front for each section of cobblestones. One moment you can see the yellow jersey up front and clear, then it’s swamped in a sea of riders. Saxo Bank and Cervelo drive the pace. Things feel frenetic. Boom! Down goes Franck Schleck with an eventual broken shoulder. Boo. A big split forms. Big riders are off it. Big riders are in it. Cancellara is pumping the elite group to catch Hesjedal. Everyone has a flat tire. Chavanel, the yellow/green jersey, is changing bikes. Again. Again. Again. Armstrong finds himself off the pace and drags himself back in. Hesjedal is caught by the lead group, Thor takes the stage win, Contador gets a flat in the last kilometre and I’m not alone in thinking Vinokourov might be receiving some awkward looks on the tour bus.

Riders looked dirty as coal miners from the dust thrown up in the cobbled stages and once again the yellow jersey returned to Saxo Bank. So I can’t review their helmets again. Lucky for you.

Cadel Evans made it back to third place in the general classification after suddenly appearing in the front group making the chase for the plucky Canadian rider from Garmin. After losing Christian Vande Velde to injury, the team stated yesterday that it would be looking to keep the ride interesting and keep the ride interesting they did.

As a complete aside, and I will be mentioning the women’s tour which is happening concurrently in Italy, the podium girls’ outfits are very poorly fitted this year. And those bizarre umbrella skirt polkda dot outfits are atrocious.

(photo credits: promise to update after I come back from this ride)