Somebody won the Tour de France today. The name flashed before my eyes, into my brain, then bounced back out again. Italian, I think?
Remember how Sherlock Holmes didn't allow certain mundane facts, like the earth going around the sun, to crowd more important things out of his head, like varieties of cigar ash? Although I don't solve mysteries or relax with cocaine, I can empathise. Racing only intrudes into my thoughts insofar as it creeps into practically everything cycling.

I'm not here to diss racing. But I think it's mostly a bad influence. The kit alone turns us into The Other; it separates (and lifts? is this a bra ad?) cyclists when I believe what we need is mass integration. George Hahn put it thus in
So I Don't Wear a Helmet. Get Off My Ass:
From the time Lance Armstrong took his first major victory in the early ’90s, cycling culture in America has been dominated by racing. Drunk on it, actually. Not only does everyone suddenly need a helmet, but we also need specialized gear and tight Lycra clothes with taint padding. The bikes themselves are razor-thin, feather-light contraptions, helping the non-professional rider go even faster. It’s all about the extreme… extreme lightweight, extreme racing, extreme speed, extreme tension on the face of the rider. And apparently extremely dangerous all of a sudden.
Nor does it help that
champs are given a platform to pontificate on matters which have nothing to do with their area of expertise, which is going faster than the next guy.
As I don't live in an isolation tank, some cyclesporty stuff does seep in and stay. Miguel Indurain, for example. Won the big one a handful of times, got to keep the medals? There was something about him I admired. He reminded me of Bjorn Borg: icewater in his veins, heart beating once a minute.
