Cranking the big winch of their bikes, the time trialists haul themselves along the blue Adriatic. The gap to the winner is a wide net, already ensnaring competitors. A statement Of speed, no argument can be made in the golden afternoon light. Then, a crash among the beach-side hotels throws long shadows into the mix of the surviving sprinters. So wild In the wet, Italy continues to feed the riders to its snaking streets, forcing fires to fizzle and road spray into faces. Mud-speckled riders churn up toward the finish. Taking deep gasps Of petrichor in the mossy limestone mountains, the breakaway circles the plateau to find a new home for the pink jersey as the race favorite climbs alone among rivals. Slipping down On the glassy streets, the rainbow jersey arcs into muddy gravel. Chaos hounds the jacketed bunch. Gathered like droplets on a camera lens, one swipe sends them trickling into gutters. On their way to the sea, The sun finally erupts and flows over the riders as they swing along coastal cliffs and cut through multihued canyons of stucco, stone, and iron. The bright light of pain sears the hard chase. Not enough Steely-eyed impetus from the riders as the race climbs the spine of Italy. A trio flutters between walls of snow, neon butterflies lost in the wind of open meadowland. Giving everything to reach For that debut grand tour win, a solo attack bolts from the break. The rain has turned Italy greener than usual, the stage dotted by mountains like emerald islands. The search for victory is a lonely matter, Each rider must wait for their time, staring at mirrors of sky flooding the road, the hooks of wet corners baited with seconds. The riders know the race for pink may catch them out someway or another. Luck lasts only so long.
Sorry, I'm not a fan of poems that attempt to capture the flavor, energy, and drama of a bicycle race. This is not what I signed up for when I ponied up for a paid subscription. Two of the last 3 three emails were poems.