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la vuelta: week two in poems

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la vuelta: week two in poems

Dane Hamann
Sep 6, 2022
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la vuelta: week two in poems

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Stage 10: Elche to Alicante

A day of whiplash—
trading mist-soaked
green slopes for flat,
palm-studded shores.
The great whooshing
rush of the pack, all
shouts & gear shifts,
traded for the solitary
sawing of disc wheels.
One by one, the riders
stop atop the big ramp
below the golden stone
fortress before they’re
sent to attack the walls
of themselves. Going
from rest to sheering
away the sense of self
as anything other than
motor, perched aero
over bars—becoming
an extension of the bike.
Passing one more test,
along the coast this time,
before red can be fully
held at the end in Madrid.


Stage 11: Elpozo Alimentación to Cabo de Gata

Like a soft branch before the knife,
the race is whittled down.

Wheels are tugged by invisible hands
of fate, airways stricken by unseen sickness,

& the sun drives the desperation of
the day. The race is changing

along the dry, shrubby coast. The peloton roars
into a desolate village, asphalt-heat as high as

the riders’ anxiety. A sprinter takes his first
grand tour win, fast against the sea-salt wind.
unipublic /charly lopez
Stage 12: Salobreña to Peña Blancas. Estepona

Geography as if
terraformed 

Martian
mountainside.

Slopes of
cleaved rock,

red. A lava flow,
cooled.

The road.
Up, up, up

into pines.
Otherworldly,

the gold-helmeted,
gold-striped

rider. Engine
hearted.

Piston legged.
Vindication

sought
& found.


Stage 13: Ronda to Montilla

The fog of the second week
has thoroughly settled over the riders

talk of legs & unknowns

who’s going for the win

                               breakaway / leaders / sprinters

the peloton sluices through sun-drunk olive groves

bright-kitted bunch like a fistful of jellybeans
whipped down the road

the orange dirt countryside / dusty blue September sky
             / white hilltop towns / feathery green trees

sink into the infinite horizon

even as the champagne spray

evaporates beneath the shoes
of the former world champ / current green jersey

the race does not seem like it will have
                                                               an end.


Stage 14: Montoro to Sierra de la Pandera

The helicopter can’t fly
high enough to show

what’s portrayed by
the Ben-Day dot layout

of the huge swaths
of olive trees. Perhaps

like the Lichtenstein painting
Drowning Girl, the countryside

is a swirling wave crashing
upon the mountain where

the rocky climb lifts above
the sunny Andalusian land

as if it were trying to breathe
the sky, trying to survive

the day’s suffocating heat.
It’s a day of melodrama—

the red jersey under siege
but not defeated—a day

that tries to sink those riders
desperately treading water

to keep their tenuous places
in the rankings. There’s no

calling for help in the closing
kilometers—the domestiques

have all peeled off, slowed
to a crawl, or already flown 

home sick. Any hand the day’s
protagonists reach out

must be met by their other hand—
they must pull themselves

above the waves of pain.
& so, when the digs launch,

they each must search
among the shrubs & sun

for motivation. Sweat pours
like tears down their cheeks.

A sense of chaos grows between
the boulders at the summit.

Hairline cracks suddenly
visible are pried open.

The day belongs to gold again.
But the race for red is on.
unipublic / charly lopez
Stage 15: Martos to Sierra Nevada. Alto Hoya de la Mora. Monachil

Another survival 
on the summit
& a first-time win.
The rest of the field

scattered like sand
over the serpentine climb.
The peloton is chipping
away at itself

as if it were carving
the final standings
from a limestone block.
It’s a general truth

that the harder you strike
the rock, the wider
its fragments are thrown.
The strongest issue

hammer blows, others
splitting off like
glinting shards
above the olive groves.

There’s no hiding
from the strikes
under the hot sun.
The seconds tick away.


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la vuelta: week two in poems

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1 Comment
Arjan Tupan
Writes #trpplffct | fresh poetry & fri…
Sep 12, 2022

Wonderful. This is so nice to read as a race report. Love this. And the poetry is great, too!

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