Stage 06: Gérone to Barcelone (181.5km)
Jul. 9th, 2009 10:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleIt was inevitable that someone was going to make the joke: today, the rain in Spain did not stay on the plain.
Well, we've done wind, we've done heat, now today we have rain. Up, down, up, down we go through the lesser mountains of Spain, passing by what is, more or less, the epicenter of second homes for cyclists. Many of the men in the peloton today conducted their ubiquitous interviews with their kids in their arms and their wives and/or girlfriends at their sides, after having spent the night in their own homes, in their own beds.
It's been a fairly exciting stage, if only because there's always a slightly sick thrill at watching these men speeding down mountains in the rain. Sure enough, it looks at first like several riders were taken out in a roundabout by an all-too-common hazard: white road paint. Though closer examination shows it may have just been a moment's misjudgment and not that paint, next time you cross the street, take a look at the stuff, glistening in the rain. It looks pretty innocuous, right? Now imagine hitting it at speed with a total of perhaps six square centimeters of rubber and nothing else. While it's wet. With 169 or so of your best buddies all around you. Yeah, good luck with that.
Mick Rogers of Columbia and Tyler Farrar of Garmin-- two highly-rated stars of the Tour-- are looking very, very much the worse for wear. Rogers, especially, looks utterly broken. A tenth of what he's probably feeling would put me in bed for a month. These guys? These guys hobble back to their bikes, carefully swing a leg over, and keep going. Whether they can do it again after a night's stiffening "rest" is another matter entirely. And this, of course, if nothing's broken, torn, or otherwise unfixable. (CyclingNew.com reports that Rogers will indeed start tomorrow. I just hope he can finish! But these men are made of stronger stuff than most.)
We're less than eight miles from the finish now, in damp, overcast Barcelona, and coming into a turn, it even happens again. Surprisingly, though, this time, it happens at the front of the peloton, while they're chasing two groups up ahead. Well, one group, and one solo rider. That solo rider is Garmin's Brit, David Millar. 29km from the end, he's holding off the whole peloton single-handedly, and it's amazing to watch. For a while, back there in the rain, he was even the race leader. That's some serious heart.
Crap! 6.7km to the end, and ANOTHER curve takes out ANOTHER group-- including Belgian National Champion and ass-kicking sprinter Tom Boonen-- one of my favourite riders. He landed full-length on the street, and worryingly, didn't get up too fast. Eventually, he limped to his bike, and was off. But he's NOT looking happy.
The crowd is unbelievably loud, five and six deep solidly, screaming, mile after mile through the city. They may not have the slightest idea who the hell this lonely rider is, but they're behind him. It's impossible to watch him go past, here at the end of grueling hours in the saddle, and not cheer your brains out for him.
Another broad turn, and oh, my G-d, this is a beautiful city, shown to perfection even in the grey light. (It's the Catalonia Art Museum-- you have to go look it up. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Museu_Nacional_d%27Art_de_Catalunya) Go David, GO!
But no. Dammit.
Less than 2km from the end. Astana, who have been pushing the pace and staying safely at the front for hours now, lead the pack that swallows him up whole. The entire race is back together, now, as the course climbs uphill towards the finish, each team pushing, pushing, leadout men testing each other, pounding to the line-- and coming up like a train, it's The God of Thunder, Norwegian rider Thor Hushovd of Cervélo, his white kit grey with rain and dirt, throwing his arms up in the traditional, instinctive victory dance of a stage sprint winner. Spain's Oscar Freire is inches behind.
The race leaders arrive safely in the pack, which means that they all retain the same times. Cancellara keeps yellow.
I know I always say, "Hey! Tomorrow's gonna be great!" And I admit, I'm biased. I like almost every stage. But this time, it's the riders themselves who are saying tomorrow should be...interesting. Tomorrow, we hit the real mountains, up to a finish on a mountain rated "Hors Catégorie," or "Beyond Classification." Cancellara himself admits straight-up that he's not the best in the mountains, and will more than likely lose the Maillot Jaune. He's fairly laid-back about it, though. He's had a good run, and is by no means out of the running for the Tour as a whole. And it's early days, yet, which means everyone's still comparatively close on time. Strange things happen in the mountains. Desperate, fabulous, scary, exciting, crazy things. A guy who's three minutes back in the GC and dozens of spots down can catch a break, be at the right place at the right time, and grab the lead out of nowhere. A tour leader can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or fall, or get caught behind a crash. Worse, he can bonk-- he's forgotten to eat or drink enough, and uses up all his energy, going from 60 to zero in a few agonizing miles. It's horrible to watch. All the other riders, pedalling smoothly, pass this one poor SOB as if he's standing still, but he's sawing back and forth on the bike, dragging himself up the mountain by sheer force of will because it's either that or give up, crawl into the back of the team car, and die.
So yeah. Like I always say, tomorrow's gonna be great.
Well, we've done wind, we've done heat, now today we have rain. Up, down, up, down we go through the lesser mountains of Spain, passing by what is, more or less, the epicenter of second homes for cyclists. Many of the men in the peloton today conducted their ubiquitous interviews with their kids in their arms and their wives and/or girlfriends at their sides, after having spent the night in their own homes, in their own beds.
It's been a fairly exciting stage, if only because there's always a slightly sick thrill at watching these men speeding down mountains in the rain. Sure enough, it looks at first like several riders were taken out in a roundabout by an all-too-common hazard: white road paint. Though closer examination shows it may have just been a moment's misjudgment and not that paint, next time you cross the street, take a look at the stuff, glistening in the rain. It looks pretty innocuous, right? Now imagine hitting it at speed with a total of perhaps six square centimeters of rubber and nothing else. While it's wet. With 169 or so of your best buddies all around you. Yeah, good luck with that.
Mick Rogers of Columbia and Tyler Farrar of Garmin-- two highly-rated stars of the Tour-- are looking very, very much the worse for wear. Rogers, especially, looks utterly broken. A tenth of what he's probably feeling would put me in bed for a month. These guys? These guys hobble back to their bikes, carefully swing a leg over, and keep going. Whether they can do it again after a night's stiffening "rest" is another matter entirely. And this, of course, if nothing's broken, torn, or otherwise unfixable. (CyclingNew.com reports that Rogers will indeed start tomorrow. I just hope he can finish! But these men are made of stronger stuff than most.)
We're less than eight miles from the finish now, in damp, overcast Barcelona, and coming into a turn, it even happens again. Surprisingly, though, this time, it happens at the front of the peloton, while they're chasing two groups up ahead. Well, one group, and one solo rider. That solo rider is Garmin's Brit, David Millar. 29km from the end, he's holding off the whole peloton single-handedly, and it's amazing to watch. For a while, back there in the rain, he was even the race leader. That's some serious heart.
Crap! 6.7km to the end, and ANOTHER curve takes out ANOTHER group-- including Belgian National Champion and ass-kicking sprinter Tom Boonen-- one of my favourite riders. He landed full-length on the street, and worryingly, didn't get up too fast. Eventually, he limped to his bike, and was off. But he's NOT looking happy.
The crowd is unbelievably loud, five and six deep solidly, screaming, mile after mile through the city. They may not have the slightest idea who the hell this lonely rider is, but they're behind him. It's impossible to watch him go past, here at the end of grueling hours in the saddle, and not cheer your brains out for him.
Another broad turn, and oh, my G-d, this is a beautiful city, shown to perfection even in the grey light. (It's the Catalonia Art Museum-- you have to go look it up. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Museu_Nacional_d%27Art_de_Catalunya) Go David, GO!
But no. Dammit.
Less than 2km from the end. Astana, who have been pushing the pace and staying safely at the front for hours now, lead the pack that swallows him up whole. The entire race is back together, now, as the course climbs uphill towards the finish, each team pushing, pushing, leadout men testing each other, pounding to the line-- and coming up like a train, it's The God of Thunder, Norwegian rider Thor Hushovd of Cervélo, his white kit grey with rain and dirt, throwing his arms up in the traditional, instinctive victory dance of a stage sprint winner. Spain's Oscar Freire is inches behind.
The race leaders arrive safely in the pack, which means that they all retain the same times. Cancellara keeps yellow.
I know I always say, "Hey! Tomorrow's gonna be great!" And I admit, I'm biased. I like almost every stage. But this time, it's the riders themselves who are saying tomorrow should be...interesting. Tomorrow, we hit the real mountains, up to a finish on a mountain rated "Hors Catégorie," or "Beyond Classification." Cancellara himself admits straight-up that he's not the best in the mountains, and will more than likely lose the Maillot Jaune. He's fairly laid-back about it, though. He's had a good run, and is by no means out of the running for the Tour as a whole. And it's early days, yet, which means everyone's still comparatively close on time. Strange things happen in the mountains. Desperate, fabulous, scary, exciting, crazy things. A guy who's three minutes back in the GC and dozens of spots down can catch a break, be at the right place at the right time, and grab the lead out of nowhere. A tour leader can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or fall, or get caught behind a crash. Worse, he can bonk-- he's forgotten to eat or drink enough, and uses up all his energy, going from 60 to zero in a few agonizing miles. It's horrible to watch. All the other riders, pedalling smoothly, pass this one poor SOB as if he's standing still, but he's sawing back and forth on the bike, dragging himself up the mountain by sheer force of will because it's either that or give up, crawl into the back of the team car, and die.
So yeah. Like I always say, tomorrow's gonna be great.