la vuelta - week one in poems

Stage 1: Utrecht to Utrecht

The road has a story yet to tell,
& the riders like in a dream
are held before a glossy field
of red, the soft air pounded
by amplified voices & music.
They twitch on their sinuous
machines, a countdown flashing
on the bright wall behind them,
& when they’re released, sparks
sprout like trees to either side,
so that the only way forward
is down the ramp, onto streets
of searing lungs & burning legs,
the race fast & suddenly very real.


Stage 2: ‘s-Hertogenbosch to Utrecht

The peloton glides over bridges,
water placid in the rivers, fields
rough-greened & august-browned,

& though the sea-level sunlight
falls gently & the asphalt stretches
as flat as a page from a book,

the riders at the tip of the race
bury their hearts in the furnace
of long pulls & desperation too

many kilometers from the finish.
& so we know the long-shadowed
swarm of sprinters are destined

to sweep through roundabouts
& across narrow roads until they
charge sweat-blurred for the line.


Stage 3: Breda to Breda

One last lowland loop.
     Brick buildings & bike-flash
          in rows of windows.

Streams of multicolor 
     roadsides. Streaks of raucous
          Vuelta red. Under the trees, 

the roads squeeze 
     the race, as bikes whip
          around road furniture.

The breakaway is caught
     at the right time before 
          the line. Lead-out riders clip 

off the front like petals
     pulled from a blossom.
          A sprinter repeats his last one.

Unipublic/Charly Lopez

Stage 4: Vitoria-Gasteiz to Laguardia

Finally, Spain. Sunlight reflects off everything.
The road & its metal guardrails & white dashed lines.
Tawny stone buildings & hard, tawny earth—exposed

rock in the hills bright beneath thick trees. White-hot
flashes into the cameras from the riders’ helmets &
sunglasses. Dry & striated vineyards, raked Zen gardens

from the helicopter. The mountains in the background—
sharp Basque climbs—loom like question marks. Who
else but the man most comfortable in red to tackle them?


Stage 5: Irun to Bilbao

Agonizing,
     the seconds
left on the road        after
     the all-day flight
along the coast,      up & down
     the green hills
in the heat    despite
     the softly overcast sky.
The day spent    spending
     legs,    energy,        chances,
cutting through
     the crowded slopes,
ikurriñas snapping
    at wheels, a smattering
of orange    instead of red.
     How difficult it is
to watch
     the chasers sling
through the web        of city streets,
    the seconds between
them        & the lone leader
     almost tangible
on the screen,        as if we could
     squeeze the gap           closed
simply by    willing it so.
     Call it        what it is
a reprieve,    a mistake,
     a survival fed on bravery.
The agony of         the break.


Stage 6: Bilbao to Ascensión al Pico Jano. San Miguel de Aguayo

The fog comes
with a cycling fan’s passion
to northern Spain:
hanging out
all over the climbs,
parting only for the riders
as they prowl
like hungry-eyed cats
into unseen kilometers.

It tests their faith
that the finish exists
somewhere up the narrow
ribbon of asphalt,
& does not leave
even after
the first lone rider
crosses the line
in damp, obscured joy.

Unipublic / Charly Lopez

Stage 7: Camargo to Cistierna

Between sobs, a single 
word: agua.

A film of dust & sweat
shines on the skin

of the rider
sitting with legs splayed

at the end of the road.
The rider is broken

by joy & emptied
by the all-day effort

climbing up the plateau,
his unlikely sprint

just enough for the win.
His soigneur cracks

open a plastic bottle &
pours small amounts

delicately onto the neck
& helmet-matted hair

of the rider, washing away
the salt & road grim

with his own bare hands.
The soigneur can barely

contain his pride. He’s trying
to cool & clean

his rider, but his hands
won’t obey completely,

stopping every now & then 
to embrace the rider’s

tired, heaving shoulders. He holds
the rider, pulls his head

to his lips. He can’t help
it. Cameras flash. Reporters

crouch & speak breathlessly
into microphones.

The sun shifts behind
some clouds, & the rider’s

deep gasps slow &
his eyes clear.

The reporters press closer.
The soigneur, still shaking

with happiness, moves away
to give his rider some space.


Stage 8: La Pola Llaviana/Pola de Laviana  to Colláu Fancuaya. Yernes y Tameza

It’s a pilgrimage.
Pain, a certainty
throughout
the lumpy day.
The road twists
through jumbles
of mountain villages.
Mossy outcroppings
& caves.
Dark stone
& timber chapels.
Green slopes
leading into fog
again. & again
it’s with a swift
cadence that the solo
rider ascends
the final climb,
a grimace turned
heavenward.
The sun breaks
through, lifts
the mist off
the summit.
Disbelief transmutes
into the familiar
grin of victory.


Stage 9: Villaviciosa to Les Praeres

How do you measure savagery
in a sport without body contact?
Yes, the strongest can blow up
the pack, shredding the invisible
filaments that hold front wheels
to rear wheels. & yes, the deck
can savage the spilled body. But
it’s often the race route that proves
the most vicious. Serpentine descents
of inevitable undoing. Climbs of
unforgiving steepness. & so,
as the lightweight climber forges
up the Asturian wall, beckoned by
the summit’s peaceful grassland,
we can see in his hollow stare 
& determined cadence that even
the rampaging red jersey won’t
reel him in with a dream-denying
savagery reflected by the demands
of gravity & the pitch of the narrow
mountain road. Across the line
he’ll roll, tires whitened by dust,
holding his arms weakly aloft, as if 
giving himself over to the hungry beast
of the climb. His first grand tour win.

Dane Hamann is a Chicagoland editor and poet. His book A Thistle Stuck in the Throat of the Sun (Kelsay Books, 2021) is ostensibly about running. His second book, Parsing the Echoes, a collection of ekphrastic poems, is forthcoming from Main Street Rag Publishing Company. Occasional tweets @donnyhamms.