INFERNO Stage 1 — “Whereon the tempest fell” It’s no secret Venice slowly succumbs to the indifference of seawater, but it seems all of Italy always drums with surging rain when riders take the line. Another course roils under a deluge. The riders watch through aero visors as any chance of a safe opening cruise is swept into overflowing gutters. The rain transforms stairs into a waterfall, any ramp into a flume, the gray curtains dooming an early picture of the overall. The race adjourns, the stage is canceled. Stage 2 — “Beneath the veil of the mysterious” Sunlight as warm and soft as fleece settles on the riders’ shoulders. A small break gambles on possibilities. How far will the leash be let out before the mountain gradients begin to chop the peloton into pieces? Just as the favorites grimly start to spin a high cadence, a thunderstorm hangs an obscuring shroud over the race. Somewhere on the climb riders attack, while the ambition of others decays. Anything can be happening up there. The mystery is resolved—a lone rider, the favorite for pink, is revealed, ripping the descent. Taking a flyer, she holds a gap all the way to the line. Stage 3 — “Therefore a little faster spur thee on” Checkerboard hillsides of green crops and flat roads. A breakaway at its limit, staring into the abyss, hands on the drops. Behind, the hungry eyes of the peloton. The breakaway churn their big chainring. When they feel like slowing, they squeeze a little more speed from their legs, fighting to maintain their lead of precious seconds. Like a raging flash flood, the peloton crashes between the stone walls of the city’s buildings. Teams, in the closing kilometers, burn matches for sprinters. The expected fastest triumphs. PURGATORIO Stage 4 — “From the bright fountain of celestial fire” Fireworks light the riders’ faces as they ascend the green hills of Italy. Lungs as open as embraces, the peloton explodes on the slopes. A swarm of color folds around the pink jersey, off her bike. She’s not long for the ground, steamrolling back to the pointy end of the race. Another rider leaps out of the crush of the hardworking group. She’s focused. Her heart beats as fast as her chain passes over the biting teeth of her spinning gears. But the pink jersey won’t let her go, taking the Italian champ with. Despite prayers of those behind, it’s this trio to the line. Stage 5 — “Upon this mountain’s crown, fair seat of joy” It’s a day of long chases and elevation. A series of mountains meant to humble. Tank-emptying climbs as acts of contrition. Strong groups are yo-yoing back and forth, seemingly insurmountable gaps are closed and then opened in heart-bursting attacks. A sharply curved thumb of downhill road snags riders, sends them skidding into grass. Out front, a young rider holds a dear lead. A storming pink jersey chases her. It’s so close, but she has finished the brave deed, waiting to celebrate until well past the line. Stage 6 — “And the light broken underneath” Over the lush hilly vineyards, the road shimmers with the heat of full sunlight. Snaking cracks jostle the riders, three thrown suddenly to the unforgiving pavement. There is shock and blood. Shadows planted on the curb. Sometimes fortune shines on the bike, sometimes it deals blows. A bike racer must cope with both edifying light and heartbreaking dark. The pink jersey knows this very well. She finds deep within a furious spark to ignite an otherworldly launch for a win. PARADISO Stage 7 — “Holds them still enraptur’d with the view.” It’s a warm day of terracotta rooftops and gray baking roads, a sheen of sweat on the riders’ forearms. Out of the drops, they climb toward the open blue sky. No wind troubles the trees. A glance seaward from the narrow road sees green slopes falling to the calm, bright water. Like a bird of prey, the pink jersey unfolds her wings and soars high, utilizing a thermal draft of talent, the race held firmly in her talons. Other riders focus on the seconds they have gained. A view of the podium uplifting the weary. Stage 8 — “Faces had they of flame, and wings of gold” Like waves lapping at a pebbly shore, short-lived attacks radiate from the pack. Persistent, but more probing than all-out war. Serenaded by choruses of dry leaves, the riders respond with rasping wheelsets and flushed faces. The road swells and dips, always-brilliant sun on helmets and casquettes. The peloton balloons and narrows like a flock of migratory birds as it passes over the rocky island landscape. Up the ramp of the finishing stretch, the strong riders grit their teeth, chalky from the day’s effort. Light shines upon them. Stage 9 — “Already on my temples beam’d the crown” The pink jersey allows the break to play in the heat of the day, the sky high and bright with summer’s haze. But the chasers weigh The catch perfectly, consolidating the race just before the sharp dusty corners of the pastel city streets. It’s the last chance for stage glory, and the teams’ warriors lean far over their handlebars and fire their great engines for a long dragging race. The coastal air is sweet with salt and applause, the victorious smile in deserved embraces. The pink jersey formally awarded to little doubt.
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Love it. Such a melodious way to recall the race.