a roiling autostereogram

Prose Poems for Week One of La Vuelta 2023

UNIPUBLIC / SPRINT CYCLING AGENCY

Machines in the Dark
(Stage 1 — Barcelona > Barcelona)

They start by the sea. Aero helmets like beached torpedoes beaded with rain. They launch slowly down the shiny red ramp, recently mopped. The city’s colorful glare of traffic lights, neon lights, headlights greets them in the evening rain. Camera flash. Blue strobing police lights. A constant mouthful of oily wheel spray from the heavily trafficked urban roads. Shouts and cheers from dark shapes under umbrellas echo between buildings. All things assault their senses, tighten the vise grip of anxiety around their chests. But forward they go in a fast line. They follow each other with an awful awareness of danger. Forward, forward, almost uncontrollably. The lucky ones today, those who had at least a dying light, were those who had poor results last year. Maybe a harbinger of changes of fortune.

UNIPUBLIC / CHARLY LÓPEZ

Passing Storm
(Stage 2 — Mataró > Barcelona)
Red earth. Green trees. Black roads. Rivers brown with runoff. Spain is still full color under gray skies. Patter of rain like half-hearted applause. The peloton keeps the breakaway close. But an element of the unexpected remains. A bike race never flies truly straight. There are corners and twisty descents. Roundabouts. Crashes when rubber fails to grip water. A few bikes go horizontal. The Tour de France winner pats the air with his palms. Calm, calm. The riders soft pedal for a moment. And so, the break’s bravery may outlast the pack’s power. Leaf litter from the passing storm escapes the gutters like thousands of discarded gel packets. The clock is stopped away from the finish line, and the red jersey passes from one unexpected rider to another. The riders out front begin to disintegrate on the wet roads. A climb toward a castle, gardens, and old Olympic venues allows one last gasp for glory. The chasing pack can’t match one rider’s determination. The day’s winner is crowned. 


Opening Salvo
(Stage 3 — Súria > Arinsal. Andorra)

The rocky gray Pyrenees, scruffy with conifers, roll ominously, beautifully, toward the horizon, as if they are the past days’ rain clouds that have hardened and settled onto the land. Sunlight falls gently onto the mountain villages. A breeze puffs through the valleys. Gondolas cross over the wide, well-surfaced roads. A train of riders chug up the day’s steady incline, the peloton not too far behind. As the altitude increases, wide brown rivers narrow into white cascades emulating the brightness of the melted snows from which they were born. This is quintessential grand tour mountain racing. Burning through their energy stores, the breakaway diminishes to a couple veterans with mountain legs. But the first big summit proves too tempting for the charging contenders. The riders built to attack alps and smash sierras all but glide up the gradients. In the last kilometer, there are so many still together that they explode in a climbers’ bunch sprint. The former world champion crosses triumphantly, beating the Belgian colors on his chest, hands a little too far from the brakes.

UNIPUBLIC / SPRINT CYCLING AGENCY

A Roiling Autostereogram
(Stage 4 — Andorra La Vella. Andorra > Tarragona)

The roads are straight. The sun, clear and white. Shade can be found, but the deepest shadows are pencil thin. The moisture of the mountains and seaside city has evaporated, the sky so blue that it seems the rain never fell. The riders are sweeping like the wind toward the sea. It seems strange to see the long gray ribbons of highways empty of everything besides the bike race. The polka dot jersey has been allowed to escape to collect a few points, the peloton confident about the day. The riders spread across the road, the washing machine effect creating a roiling autostereogram from the bright jerseys. Beneath the speed and the fight for the front, there is an answer to the question of the day’s victor. It is difficult to see in the chaos. Finishing-kilometer nerves during a squeeze and a tight corner take some of the guesswork out of it. A steep ramp to the line whittles it down to two sprinters. One spreads his arms wide in triumph, the other bangs his bars. Deep gasps for air are shared all around.

UNIPUBLIC / SPRINT CYCLING AGENCY

Event Horizon
(Stage 5 — Morella > Burriana)

From the start, the day has been meant for the sprinters. A lone rider stands no chance of stealing a solo victory. Wheels cut through the air as the peloton bisects red-roofed and white-walled villages, as it rips past silvery groves in the orange dirt. The soundtrack of the day an incessant whir and click of chains up and down cassettes. Like matter stretching and falling into an event horizon, the spaghetti-thin line of riders is pulled down a descent. Toward the sea. Toward another inescapable moment of tension and speed. Bikes and bright jerseys swarm through roundabout after roundabout, a colorful line pulsating outward before collapsing into itself again. The front of the race flies faster and faster around each bend in the course, their velocity building to a point of no-return. The lead riders are practically dizzy in their utter commitment, lactic acid flowing through their bodies as if water jettisoned from a dam. The sprint becomes a contest between an interesting group of challengers, but the inevitable victor raises his hands a half wheel in front of the rest.


To the Stars
(Stage 6 — La Vall d’Uixó > Pico del Buitre. Observatorio Astrofísico de Javalambre)

Thin cloud cover lends a pastel quality to the lumpy terrain. Whenever the high-altitude winds release sunshine again, greens and tawny reds deepen and white paint burns with brightness. A beauty that belies the battle playing out on the road. The race has essentially split in two. Each half, though not exactly the same in size, seems equal in climbing power. And a finishing climb awaits. They arrive at its base still in full flight from the all-day chase. Soon, the two armies find themselves deadlocked as they shed the helpers and sprinters that can’t cope with the speedy climb. Sweat beads on their faces. Stars flash in their eyes. Suddenly one team initiates sequential attacks and the straightforward march to the treeless peak explodes in disarray. Whether it was tactical brilliance or overwhelming power doesn’t seem to matter. Yellow and black jerseys rocket away from their rivals. Team leaders are scattered all over the mountain. Time gaps stamp question marks over the general classification. A well-deserved stage win for the loyal super domestique. A gallantly acquired red jersey for the youngest rider at the race.

UNIPUBLIC / SPRINT CYCLING AGENCY

A Big Engine
(Stage 7 — Utiel > Oliva)

Once more to the sea. The country is a peninsula after all. The riders spend much of the day zipping past green groves, warm-yellow striations of dusty dirt gleaming between the rows of trees. Bad luck nips at the heels of a few riders. More blood and bruises. The peloton remains mostly intact as it turns along the flat coast, the wind stronger than the pace at the moment. White breakers crash against the beach, incessant as clockwork. Palm trees shake their long fronds. One rider of a two-man break is consumed by the bunch, the other is allowed to yo-yo a gap for a short while. The cheers of the crowd echo among the high-rise hotels and resorts and condos. The peloton spreads across the road, creeping into the headwind along the seaside, past inland hills that swell like sleeping giants. There is no rest for the men on their bikes. More vicious crashes on narrow and twisting streets. The sprint turns messy on the wide drag to the line. Sometimes teams bring sprinters to races. Sometimes they bring a lineup only meant for the mountains. But they always bring a big engine. A rider with lasting strength to pull the peloton across a nation. Sometimes a rider like this will find his nose in the wind. He will hear the sound of rapid pedal thrashings behind him. He won’t see anyone between him and the photographers waiting to snap a shot of the victor. No one he needs to help. No one he needs to guide. A long way from the line, he will go for it.


Menacing Hornets
(Stage 8 — Dénia > Xorret de Catí. Costa Blanca Interior)

A desperate day of climbs and descents. And breakaways scattered on the road. The peloton knows there’s danger in determination. They chase hard. Crank arms groan under power. No time to take in the landscape through eyes exhausted with effort. Stinging vision. Sandy earth capturing the sweat of the riders. Small fields of sunflowers imitating the bright sun of the previous grand tour. Ashy green trees silent to the spectacle of hunter versus prey. The feared riders whittle down the bunch as they consume the emptied escapees. The front of the race is heavy with black and yellow. They watch each other as they ignore their burning legs on the final climb. The red jersey slips behind. Another rider will slip his arms through it by the end of the day. From the helicopter, it looks like the riders are high-kneeing up the gradients as if running through a shallow lake. They approach the summit, and break into a sprint. It becomes a perfect day for the menacing hornets of the peloton.

UNIPUBLIC / SPRINT CYCLING AGENCY

A Bit Haywire
(Stage 9 — Cartagena > Collado de La Cruz de Caravaca)

Dusty skies. Dusty roads. The ochre earth has infiltrated everything. The riders are feeling sepia tinted as well. The wind ages them as they stress over echelons and time gaps on the wide plains. The air looks smoky, the distant hills fogged to the same gray as the sun-blasted asphalt. Everything a bit haywire before the rest day. The heaviness of the air seems to bewilder the riders as they dodge fingers of sandy mud that reach from the shoulders of the road. The breakaway has been granted a chance at victory. The peloton and its favorites are riding hard, but not to catch anyone. Rather, they mean to inflict pain on each other. The race surges through the last town before the finishing climb. Attacks. Gaps. Unmoorings. Amidst the rocky soil and scrubby vegetation, tired riders search for victory and survival. Their minds swirling with fatigue as they fight to knock out the first week of racing.