I am taken with the annual biking extravaganza in France. I find myself thinking about the peloton, meaning “the rest of the madmen,” I would guess, who travel the Tour in a streaming cluster behind the “breakaway” elite. I compare today’s group of colorful, ad labeled, earpiece wearing, chest monitored riders whose bikes have gears, to those of the nineteen twenties who rode in more grueling conditions, rode day and night, and encouraged each other to smoke even while riding to “improve the lungs.” Ah, those unfiltered cigarettes must have really helped during the grueling Alpine ascents. Craaazzy. I am reminded of what it takes to go the distance.
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