la vuelta '22: the final week in poems
Stage 16: Sanlúcar de Barrameda to Tomares They call the sun-browned stage pancake flat. A few bumps. The finale, a launchpad for rocket-booster legs. The heart is always jammed in the throat during such things. We’ve seen failure before. The rockets cease their climb, crash back to earth, fins askew. It’s always shocking. Always breaks us. Small pancakes of blood pool on the dark tarmac beneath the defending champion heaving great gasps of pain & blinking away sweat. The sport sometimes demands too much. Stage 17: Aracena to Monasterio de Tentudía The race has changed again, & it is diminished. The red jersey is more-or-less on its final pair of shoulders. Secure & hard-fought for what it’s worth, while the challengers disappeared in sickness or blood or simply off the wheel. Every winner finds doubts & what-ifs wheel-sucking for most of the race. This time though it truly was a desperate battle for a while, violent sprints & crashes. The race goes on for every other rider. Breaks must be paid for in decimated energy stores until the finish line is crossed. Charges forward & uphill must gambled, legs must implode. Now is the time for last chances & redemption, jumps in the standings. Stage 18: Trujillo to Alto de Piornal Heartbreak comes in waves. More of the peloton felled along the roadside even as they continue their march toward Madrid. The race starting to feel as if it were re-creating a fraught anabasis, classical like Xenophon’s story or more cult-classic like the film The Warriors. Either way, the riders must feel hunted by now. They’ve come out to ride, practice their trade of suffering on two wheels, & so they suffer. Polka dots clatter on the pavement, an emergent rider cruelly taunted & captured by gravity. A brave lieutenant caught before the line, mere meters from avenging his fallen leader. These stories have been told & re-told. We’ve heard many iterations. But the race goes on. The red jersey is less dream & more reality. Another win proves it so.
Stage 19: Talavera de la Reina to Talavera de la Reina Fast day under the Spanish sun. Buried heads keeping the pace high. Steady climb up the mountain, twice, as if a mirrored mirage under the sun. The wire ropes of the long bridge fuzz the sky like a fishnet sail. But the riders must be the opposite of a sailboat. On such a fast day, they must be a spear slicing through the air. But they are heavy with days spent on the roads, slowing falling back to earth, ready for the race to come to a close. The green Jersey has enough left to take another sprint win. Stage 20: Moralzarzal to Puerto de Navacerrada The last big day of challenges, a day of shadows. The trees darkening the smooth roads. A stray cloud. The riders shadow each other, seeking a win, earning mountain points, or just keeping tabs on their rivals. Many are shadows of themselves at this late point in the race, almost to Madrid. Shadows chasing shadows, the laser-focus of simply finishing now a doorway of light at the tunnel’s end. The new polka dot jersey must feel that bright warmth. Another win in the mountains. The red jersey crossing the penultimate line, emotions heavier than the days of climbs & crashes. He is already bathed in the light of victory, the race, an affirmation & a relief. Stage 21: Las Rozas to Madrid. Paisaje de la Luz Madrid—green & gold & pale blue—sees a day of celebrations & endings. The first Belgian Vuelta in decades & the last grand tour for a pair of past winners. The riders almost frolicking on the long, processional neutral start—jokes & knocked shoulders & champagne— until they enter the center of the city & the shadows of the white buildings—the dusky sun soft & bright over the red rooftops—& the speed begins to ratchet up. One last surprise before the parties & photos— a lead-out man takes the final line.