The feelings are still a little mixed. Yet after a couple years away, my American holiday began this morning with the Tour de France.
Having the magic that is Lance back in the saddle is a definite draw. And having diverted eyes and attention since doping became the norm (or, at least, proven painfully public at last), some details had dissolved, those things that kept me enthralled for three weeks each summer, even waking early each morning to catch a stage live. Long, lean muscles encased in compact spandex; the hind quarter of a man is the sexiest of his parts, even more so wrapped in stretchy short pants. It’s that area dividing crotch and ass and cyclists have the best ones, solid and creased by muscle. I like to plant my flag there, and have.
The scenery along the route is breathtaking and comical; chalked terms of endearment along pavement, things like “Fuck Armstrong.” The showers of spit. On to cobblestone streets and quaint villages with buildings that look like they smell of warm bread and lavender. Sweeps of road curving through and around wide fields of flowers, up alps and along straights.
So I’m back. They had me at side butt.