Writer's Notebook

This week the Sunday Scribblers are wrapping the mind around the word phenomenon. Which led to this very French contribution. I'm not sure if folks in other parts of the world are aware of what's going on here, but I hope you will enjoy this anyway.
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Robbie slept soundly that night. So much so that he didn't wake until well after 8 a.m. Today was the day he'd lived for all year. Ever since the news first broke that this year's race would be coming right through their village and that the final time trial would be around the lake in the next valley, he couldn't talk or think of anyone else. Almost every year it was on this stage where the tour was won and lost. And he would be there, in the front line. Together with his uncle, his parents had finally been able to raise enough money to rent one of the small cabins on the final straight before the finish. It was to be a combined christmas and birthday present for that year. But then he would have given a decade of christmas and birthday presents to be present at this year's tour.

It could be said Robbie had been born on a cycle. If the truth were known his mother had merely been ridden to the village clinic on the back of his dad's well-worn *** some 2 hours before his birth. He had been cycling ever since he first succeeded in raising himself up on two feet. Walking was still hazardous, but he whizzed around on that little toy bycicle like a champion and it wasn't long before he got his first real cycle. There was no stopping him then. Even the village club's unwritten rule that foreigners were not welcome, rescinded at the sight of his enthusiasm and commitment. His room was papered with posters of tour champions past and present. But pride of place went to Tommy Simpson, his fellow countryman - one who never made it to the finish but whose grit and determination led to his death whilst wearing that coveted yellow jersey during one of the most gruelling stages in race history. Could he Robbie ever emulate that great man's courage?

This year's race promised much. It promised to be one of the most open races ever. Anyone of a number of cyclists could take final victory this time. And very soon, one man set tongues buzzing. A climber! Could this year's race really go to a climber? A rare, if not unknown occurrence. Then, the news broke. One rider after another fell disgraced by the wayside until the inevitable happened. Even the great climber had had to succumb. It came as a surprise to no one, apparantly. But it devasted Robbie. And worse, was still to come as he took refuge in his books on the history of the tour, only to discover that similar substances had probably contributed to the death of his hero all those many years ago, during that last, fateful stage.

So Robbie slept soundly that night. He didn't wake until well after 8 a.m., far too late to go down to the lake to see the riders start. It was a day like any other, yet not quite like any other. For the first time in years, Robbie's bike stayed locked up in the garage. The commemorative, yellow jersey he had meant to wear, remained folded neatly in his wardrobe. He would never wear it again. But the same fate would not befall his bicycle. Tommorrow would be an new day. New riders would come. Riders for whom cycling and not money would be the first love. And they would do battle with all those who had brought their sport into disrepute. And Robbie would be one of them.