La Vuelta Femenina 2023 Retrospective

The Poetry of the Race

TTT

The leisurely sun-drenched seaside city
belies the heart-bursting effort
of the team time trial thrashing through its streets.
The riders seem calm enough
on this opening day in spring-softened Spain,
not yet carved by the sharp-end of hard miles,
not yet carrying the heat and scars
of furious grand tour racing.
Not yet ready to accept where they’ve fallen
in the overall results, numbers as meaningful
to them as their names. But their legs
must be coursing with blood-fire,
quads as hot as supernovae, visors down
to hide the wide-eyed viciousness
of their test against the clock.
They slice across the line by the beach,
finally sitting up and drinking in the salty wind.
We count the seconds. Some are short.
Others, long. Survivals or disappointments,
it doesn’t determine the race quite yet.
We watched the teams leapfrog each other
for the podium, as finished riders rush off
to recover for the pedal-churning days to follow.
For now, the serene sea continues to slap
the sand and the spectators turn back to the sun.


Stage 2
(with lines from Miguel Hernández)

Carving a sinuous path through
the cream-colored soil, the riders flash
between dry hills under the soft sun.
A swarm of blues, pinks, and yellows,
rockets of purple and red and white,
they make the dirt magnificent with color.
Shimmering turquoise reservoirs are scattered
like puzzle pieces throughout the patchwork
of olive groves. With a taste of all suns and seas,
Spain beckons you. But there will be no respite
on the fast run-in toward the finish line.
It seems absence can foster bravado,
as a long-range attack flies from the front
a little too far from the line. The winner
of the first sprint stage will be the sharpest
sword, conqueror of flowers and larks.
Rival of the sun. A cool shadow of speed.


Stage 3

It’s a shame we don’t see the iron-legged race
beaten in shape across the blowing plains.
Strong teams acting as hammers, using the wind
as an anvil. The cameras are not yet flicked on
to capture the ceaseless lactic-fed forge
of echelon racing. We can only guess the point
at which the hammer broke the molecular bonds
of the bobbing peloton into the sharp nose-to-stem
swords of struggling groups. We see a few dusty
villages, gleaming white in the sunlight. But most TV
images show short fields of powdery red and pale green,
and the long ribbon of empty road unrolled between
la cabeza de carrera y el grupo perseguidor.
The day’s coverage unfolds without mystery.
Already we know the results table will be shaken up
like dice in a gambler’s cup. The unlucky will tumble
from the top as if caught in a crash. The well-placed will save
their race. And the strongest will rage red across the line,
the wind unable to steal the wattage from her legs.


Stage 4

Already deep green among the red soil,
the trees and shrubs of central Spain
spectate from roadsides and hillsides,
waving in the breeze to the riders,
rustling with gentle applause along
the lonesome route. There’s a comforting
beauty to the hilly day. Shadows splash
across the dry road. A few breaks
nose in front of the main group.
The riders don’t seem to carry
much stress. They steadily push
big gears up to hilltop towns, power through
plazas and plateaus. The team cars catch
the dropped like butterflies in a net.
It’s the type of day that makes the bike
seem like a powerful machine,
its spent fuel shining on the riders’ warm skin
like the sun rays from the vast pool of sky.
The type of day that makes the viewer
stand at its end, stretch as tall as a pine,
reach for the bike, run a hand along
the cool saddle, shake the handlebars,
and promise to ride. The type of day
that gifts us an unending desire to pedal
to new heights.The type of day that leaves
us feeling as strong as the red jersey.


Stage 5

If we don’t see it, did the peloton
ever split in half on the mountain
as if a storm-battered ship on a cold sea?
The mountain rises like a rogue wave
on the course profile. A single spike
of red cresting above smaller troughs.
It’s there, we know, a truth of tree
and rock and tarmac atop an undulation
of earth. But we don’t actually know.
We don’t know how deeply the suffering
was etched on the riders’ faces.
We don’t know where the sails snapped
and the wind was lost. We don’t know
how desperately the pursuers clung
to the hull of the race as they began to drift
downwards, gasping, overcome by the climb.
When we find the riders on the plains,
they’re separated into the chasing and the chased.
It’s slightly unconvincing now that we see it.
Like skipping ahead to the conflict
in a dense novel. What led us here?
How hard earned were these seconds?
The engines of the chasers are slowly building steam.
Those at the bow of the race
keep their eyes on the horizon.
Another road rears upward. A small stitch
of black in a blanket of greening mountain forest.
Another wave that will dash apart what’s left
of the groups until the riders roll one-by-one across
the line as if they’re shipwreck washing ashore,
indistinguishable from grains of sand.


Stage 6

Some things are inevitable, I suppose.
A headwind when you’re at your limit.
The body’s desire for the comfort of sun,
coolness of rain, or just the touch of air.
That your successes will only outweigh
your failures in their joy. That the world
champion will dig uphill for kilometers,
a sprint-like attack to shed all at her wheel.
I didn’t expect such an escape. I should’ve
known better. To win any grand tour,
you’ll need to take every advantage
you can. The power of the rainbow jersey
seems back, until an unexpected bridge
is made. A master and apprentice vibe
persists to the line. The two lithe climbers
strain at the pedals, wringing as many
watts as possible from their frames
for the top step on the podium. I suppose
it’s inevitable, too, that the new generation
will always at some point surpass the present.
At the end of the stage, another inevitability:
the red jersey will land on its final set
of shoulders tomorrow. Anything’s possible.


Stage 7

It’s a day of shadow and light
among the lush mountains.
Sunlight spills into the valleys
and lower slopes. Fog blankets
the summit’s rocky outcroppings.
The clear, cold rivers are rushing
toward the sea. The riders
are rushing toward the sky.
The peloton passes the early
kilometers as if in a boiler—
the heat of anticipation building
and building and building. One last
climb, one last attack. All that’s left
in legs. The last few kilometers
angle upwards into the softness
of the mountain’s obscuring mist.
Ears fill with drumming heartbeats.
The moment can wait no longer.
Rounding a corner, the red jersey
loses the wheel—and it’s power,
power, power up the hard percentages.
The clock starts at the line—
the overall victory is in the balance.
One second, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight, nine…