He is riding flat out, up hill, neck and neck, tire-to-tire. It is late in a Tour stage and he wants the win. His coach is riding behind the lead group in the pace car screaming out stats, data and words of motivation and encouragement. Seemingly oblivious to all of it he mutters the following between breaths: “So, do you like apples?” His couch falls silent. Time enters that eerie zone of total clarity. The coach pauses for a split second then says with a laugh, “yeah, I like apples.” And then he stops talking, turns off the microphone, and lets the rider go.
The rider takes in a sharp, deep, cutting, breathe then turns and glares at the others around him. They can’t respond so he turns back to look straight ahead. The crowd senses the change, he senses victory, those around him seem to miss a beat, either that or he catches one they cannot feel. His legs fire like pistons, his lungs are fuller than they have ever been, within seconds he accelerates and he is gone.
All alone, with head bowed down in reverence, eyes a fire, sweat dripping from his chin, one arm raised and one finger pointing skyward, he manages to ask, “well, how do like them fuckin apples?”
See you at the starting line…
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