There are still 130 kilometers to Mont Dore, stage but the stage of the rebellion of the visas of Jonas Vingegaard and his nose pink with a whip is already thrown into the barake, the slope in the shadow of the temple of Venus of the Puy de Dôme in which -Sala de Fiestas-Restaura-Cueva de Philosophy of cycling and life. The sweat of the exploited for the well -being of their bosses. The collective strategy at a stage between volcanoes.
The swarm of wasps with meaning, with visma corridors in all steps and stations. They only think about harming. And to win. The most tour of the tour, 260 endless minutes for 160 kilometers, 38 per hour, subtleties in the asphalt, chess and poker from the cars, with him and with isolated and untouchable Pogacar.
“A team day,” Pogacar announced, who does not have his beloved Almeida, who animated him both sharing a room and accompanied in his adventures along the road, and is a bit of the nerves, like his team on July 14 of a French revelry. One day of Équipiers. Bridge stage between Llano and Pyrenees. Long leak, action over low heat and punki ben healy, an Irish pixie that disrupts everything, and makes the impossible expected, and, he alone, ends with the UAE rocks of Pogacar, with Politt, with Wellens, with Marc Soler and even with Jhonatan Narváez, who have no rest all day. The Healy factor. The ugliest style pedaling and the most human, agonized, wise and splendid, that of the disinherited who claim their place in the kingdom. Claudio Chiappucci revived, the Italian free man who made blood sweat to Lemond to beat him the 90 -year -old Tour, already indurain in 92. A heterodox leading to the extreme the orthodoxy of a stage of wear and tear. Heat and half mountain. The day begins at 3m 55 minutes in the general. The devil enters the escape and upset the stoves. Enter the escape of 18. Control it five minutes so that the Irish does not become a long -term problem, leave Pogacar without a team in the last two ports. The visma is apparently at your mercy. They surround him. They attack him. Picotazos that do not flinch. Jorgenson as sting. Nor tickle to the monster, and everyone flees in disruption when it responds. It only endures Vingegaard. Cross the goal after him. He approaches to shake hands. One more day. It is pedaling against a wall.
The landscape of the volcanoes is so disconcerting that the Tour journalists stay with their mouths open, stunned, at the door of the cheeseery where symphonies are supplied and elaborated for their chronicles, who want to be drunk green, so many vedes, the grass, the almost yellow clear grass, the rectilinear ceders such as stewarden Puy de Sancy arriving almost to black, and the oaks in the middle, and the live green of the fruit trees. Oh, nature, our nature, and on top of more than 1,000m high, the cyclists are delighted that, in their bubble they bare And above them, proud, a stupid and explosive dron to which Emmanuel Macron was ecstatic, more weapons, they have to fear, shout, surrounded in the presidential box of types with black glasses on black background as the future with airs of arms traffickers, which only understand a word of the beautiful marsel. To arms.
Citizens will prefer non -military feats, the poetry of the greens to the blue poison. There are still hope. Cyclists still compete who do not seek to be afraid but be loved, admired for their talent and courage, more fragile than Champagne flutes with which they provide at night their victories and so strong, deposits of countless watts, attacking the mountain guided by an instinct, the memory of the past pain stronger than their will and the artificial intelligence with which they want to rob them We give the attributes that we would like to have. How beautiful, what childish joy the fireworks on the roads of the Puy de Dôme wild, seven seconds in a continuum subbaja, when 29, among crazy people who only look in front and beach head that watch over the rearview Pogacar team with no one in front; Simon Yates and Víctor Campenaerts, spearhead of the Visma strategy; Lenny Martínez, grandson of Mariano de Burgos, who also won on July 14, the Escalator Trasgo that revives when smelling fresh mountain air and wins all possible points to dress moles, like his grandfather, except in the last two ports, already dead; Healy, Simmons, Alaphilippe who does not accept the Thus the glory of the world, The end of its ephemeral passage through the sky, and the Spaniards, the debutants Romeo and Castrillo, and García leg, second tour but also young, O’Connor specialist. Arensman… They begin 28. There are six to 20 kilometers.
Spasmodium and indefatigable, animated by an annihilating will, Irish ben healy is determined to reduce them to nothing with countless accelerations towards the forest on the rough asphalt that Airbnb tourists hate so much because the wheels of their samsonites are struck. Asphalt that cyclists hate because he thinks he grabs the wheels, slows them down, turns their excessive efforts into small steps forward, and they cannot even enjoy the show of the landscape of the mountains. One by one, almost everyone yields. Opportunistic, always on a wheel, Simon Yates asserts its freshness and earns easy. For Healy, 24, Irish by the will of an adult-he was born in the British Midlands, near Birmingham and Coventry, where more bikes are manufactured, of English mother and Irish father-, the honor reserved for the greatest, a true legion of honor perhaps a Monday like this, and, after the victory of stage in vire last Thursday, a yellow advantage, not so much, on Pogacar, but from Stephen Roche no citizen of the greenest island dressed in yellow.
