The tour.
Of Italy, of Belgium, or of France. Or just of the suburbs.
I cannot say that I was focused entirely on Marianne Vos taking back Pink on Stage 4 of the Giro Donne. I mean, I too “struggled in the climb but I had a go in the descent because I knew I could make a difference” and at the end of my new found commute, there were suburban sentinels. The keepers of the cards. Like, what is with the hills to Enoggera?
I took my hills alone and there was no lead out train for me, so no one to disrespect it.
There was loveliness in the light, prettier than Belgium. And with only a few of those pesky traffic directionals to get in my way.
Some of the women were glad to be out of the mountains, but I was oddly pleased to have a view of things that were going up only. Like the pinkish moon.
Tonight it seems that there will be bobbles and cobbles. I sing to myself while I cross over the creek, and think not of bumps and lumps because they make my headache worse.
I am going to look at this cafe tomorrow, because it is on my way to work now that I have a new way.
And I refuse to cover the stages when Cavendish wins.
