The Wet Giro Grinds On

Week Two Poem Recap

Dane Hamann

The drops of rain make a hole in the stone, not by violence but by oft falling.
– Lucretius

The only safe place
is in bed. Coffee, tea,

something warm in a cup.
But that’s not the job.

Pain. Cold. Biting
at wet gloves, stripping

soaked jackets, blowing
grimy road spray from

numb nostrils and lips.
Slick streets. Shattered

bikes. Sickness. They say
that’s the job. Italy can’t

seem to shed its rain clouds
as easily as the race sheds

riders. The job is to write
a story of perseverance.

Three escapees. Victory
only after leg-crushing

kilometers in alliance, then
seconds of foretold betrayal.

\\\

How else to describe water
but as attritional? It bleeds

Italy—oxide stains run down
concrete retaining walls

and bridges like the aftermath
of a broken nose. It eats at

the stone fortresses capping
green hills. It tears the land.

It tears the riders into tatters—
none dare slice too close

to the corners of descents.
It doesn’t matter—gravity

and water have shaken
hands this race. Riders tumble

like matchsticks from a box.
Those worse off are unable

to reignite the furnace—
like cool, soaked embers,

they’re carefully scooped from
the roadside, loaded into wagons.

Even the hungry break won’t
risk biting at their stems—

they stay upright, but the jaws
of the sprint teams finally close

around them as they gnash
toward a raindrop-margin win.

\\\

Wrapped in the haze of distance,
dark green foothills float

almost softly on the horizon.
The snowy passes beyond

seem too otherworldly for now.
The high mountains are ghosts

that haunt the main contenders.
The pink jersey and its entourage

roll through the stage, none too
eager to face the demons

of altitude and cold. The sky for once
withholds both rain and sun

from the riders. A large break forms,
then another crafty trio finds freedom

at the head of the race. Wringing
whatever energy they can find

in their spectral legs, the sight
of the finish brings the three back

to life. They dash for the line, digging
deep despite the days to come.

\\\

If anything, we learn the race,
when lopped in half in heavy rain,

can still erupt like a volcano.
A mountain quietly waits

as the riders disembark buses.
Then, a sudden surge and shock

of watts. Heat builds beneath
rain jackets. Riders boil out

of the bunch. Crossing the peak,
they slow, front tires sticking

to the damp and dirty descent.
They pour lava-like into the valley.

The half-melted mounds of snow
give way to phalanxes of grape vines.

Italian rain gives way to Swiss sun.
A brief reprieve it would seem.

Weaving through the vineyards
on the final climb, the small break

of climbers must be able to taste
that night’s glass of victory

wine. They desperately urge
their bikes up the switchbacks,

one rider attacking again and again.
Perhaps one attack too many.

\\\

Once more the road dances
incessantly with water. Flourishes

of tire spray. Restless tip-tap
of raindrops. Everything’s wet—

steely mountain lakes are filling
in the riders’ shoes, cold water

numbing their open mouths.
It’s a day of jackets and gilets,

dropping back to the cars to change
out dripping gloves. A day of two

races—staying safe and warm-ish
versus stoking the furnace

of the big breakaway engine.
A day of two-wheeled fury

as the shattered lead groups chase
each other through roundabouts

and road furniture. A day, like most
days on this Giro, of heartbreak

and individual jubilation—the scene
playing out much like it has before.

\\\

Shadows! Which can mean only one thing—
the sun is falling playfully across the road,

warming the sloped shoulders of the riders.
Their silhouettes tangle with each other,

with the webbed shadows of trees, absorb
into the dark blocks and spires cast across

dry tarmac. The narrow roads roll joyously
around the doorsteps to the high Alps.

Out of another big break, a trio is unleashed,
attacking and bird-dogging each other.

Dig. Follow. The shape of the lead triad stretches
in the bright Lombard daylight. The rule of thirds

seemingly applied to the closing kilometers.
Three riders. The tension of space, open road.

Their shadows chasing each other like dark arrows.
Only one can strike the bull’s eye of the win.