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stories for people who think time trials count as a genre of poetry.
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Sunshine and lakewater cede to green, forested slopes. Across open expanses, the mountains fade to blue and then to white in the humid air. The horizon obscured as if filled by puffs of steamy smoke. What do you call a slowly ascending firework? A bike race, perhaps. Sometimes, you must wait a long time for those explosions of color and sound. But when the fuse is lit, the race rockets forward as if fired from a mortar. Crowds burst into manic energy as the riders pierce their tunnels of shaking arms, snapping flags, and general roar as a dozen languages blend into a single sentiment of Go! Go! Go! Riders duel in front of bright motorbike lights and crackling engines. The tightly packed group begins to disintegrate as riders blink out like extinguished stars. They cling to each other’s wheels from the scintillating speed of the ascent. None can hide from the steep gradients. Our eyes fix on the last lingering climbers. Their eyes fix on the summit finish, the promise of bonus time, and reordered jersey standings. — The photo shows front tires piercing the black and white finish line like trident prongs. But before the three threw their bikes in bleary-eyed exhaustion, they danced around the road like bees freed from the speeding swarm, probing for gaps of daylight. The downhill day was fast, and mostly by-the-book. A cat-and-mouse game of sprint squads stretching the peloton into a long string, the small breakaway without hope on dry roads. Beach umbrellas aligned to spell town names and IL GIRO along the wide strips of sand. Beside the Adriatic, a sprint victory brings cathartic normality. — Rising like ancient spearheads, the gray Dolomites stab into the sky. Today, though, the blue beyond does not bleed rain but rather light. The bright peaks, immovable and always dominant, loom over the roads. A few things are as dependable as the craggy, snow-stroked mountains. Heartbreak, for one. The passage of time, another. This is often the story for the peloton. For specific riders. Bike racing is about consistently losing. Form. Youth. The wheel. The race. Anything fleeting. Or ephemeral. The loss is as sure as the tick of the clock. And so they turn the pedals. They go up the road, fans running chaotic lines alongside. Loyal lieutenants subtly put down the power, and the race becomes as jagged as the massifs. They unzip not only jerseys but also quadriceps, shred their lungs in search of victory. Perhaps pyrrhic. Every gain is also a loss. For a short time, the domestiques duel with each other, shedding almost every other contender, widening the race’s final gap. When those reliable mountain goats pull to the grassy verge of the narrow road, the veteran leaders chase each other to the clouds. This is often the story of how the race was won. Despite heartbreak. Despite age. — Of course the skies couldn’t resist one last cloudburst on the last climb of the hardest mountain day. It had been such a nice hike. Some sun, some clouds. All shades of green blanketing the ascent, until the tree line broke into rock and alpine meadow. Fingers of snowpack lingering as if winter was desperately clawing at the stone. The rain came down fat and heavy, ricocheting off of the riders’ shoulders and helmets as if they were motors, overloaded and letting off sparks. Again, the duty of revving up the pace fell to faithful teammates. And ahead, more breakaway heroics whipped the crowds into a frenzy. The barren peak teeming with multicolor life. One last raucous attack to shake away seconds. — The road is at its most beautiful, perhaps, when a rider is alone. The wind flows as words do, so soothing to the heart that anything seems possible. A wall of noise rises like the silent trees or mountains themselves. Sheer speed forces a tear from the windward corner of the eye. The seconds melt into the skin, in the way of sunlight. The body offers salt in return. It is a time to be everything and nothing. To let it all pass through oneself or to become the sum of present and past. The road parts for the solitary rider, whose eyes focus deep within. This brave, painful loneliness is bike racing at its most intimate. — It’s the golden hour in the Eternal City. The light plays with buildings both modern and ancient as if they were toys. A bike is many things. Vehicle. Job. Toy, too. Riding one is joyful. It can be hard: days of strip-mined muscles, earthquake heartbeats. The gamble of a bike race, the throw of the dice. Illness can place an anvil around the shoulders. A crash can shatter both bike and body. But in the end, the bike is beloved. It cuts through the air much like the wind moves through the trees. A toy, sure. But ageless. Leaves will never not know wind’s force. The stories of redemption and goodbyes will never not catch and float into hearts. Not even this will be the end. The bike always writing a letter of an infinite love.