Photo: Tom Humpage
"It's a bit like sex when you're 15,' commented Larry with the kind of dry humour you would never normally associate with a Canadian. But it was difficult to deny it (obviously I never had sex when I was 15 but we all know what lithe male cyclists get up to.) We had cycled 65km in the Italian sun chasing down our guide Paulo who was riven with fear that he may miss this particular stage of the Giro di Italia and thus was riding at around mach 10. We arrived on a corner near some town which noone got the name of because we couldn't read it with so much sweat in our eyes. We stood for 20 minutes cooking. We waited. We were sworn at for not buying a pink t-shirt for 10 euros (I'm sorry but it doesn't matter how fit you are, noone can wear Giro pink and rock it. Noone. Fact.)Then the lead pack went through: zoom, zoom, zoom. Then some cars went past with wheels on the top - love those. Then the peloton went past. I scream at Bradley Wiggins but he had his iPod in. Or his mission control earphones. Whatever. Then another Team Sky person flew past and I yelled bravo at them. And then it was over. All that anticipation for 30 seconds of screaming. And whereas marathon runners smile deliriously at you, pro racers don't give back, they just fly on past. Quel point? At least at the Tour you get free pens and pointy foam fingers.
Then we chased Paulo for another 40km as he cycled riven with fear that he may miss lunch.
There is more to this story: soon you'll get to hear how I raced in the Nove Colli and came 38th out of all the women. I have yet to find out how many women actually raced but I'm praying it wasn't 39. Pretty sure if I'd shaved my legs before hand I could have inched up to the 37th spot. Obvs.
p.s. we are staying at the Belvedere Bike Hotel in Riccione. Seriously cannot recommend it enough. You will come away a much better cyclist. Or fatter. Depends which Italian passion you embrace with the most vigor.
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