MORTAL RACERS
The leaders went by almost half an hour before; it might be closer to an hour. With them, the fanfare, the motorbikes, the helicopters, the glory — even the fans. After a period, the fans went back down the mountain, or they turned to their mobile phones; they carry on with their lives — they drink a beer, eat a sandwich and watch the finish on TV.
Behind, the mortal racers make their way wearily skyward. They are the riders who endure the mountains — they do not soar like the gods who flew through this spot all those minutes before. They are the riders who slog and grind and count down kilometers and minutes until the end. They survive.
In the mountain tunnels, far behind the leaders, it’s quiet. There’s only the hollow buzz of chains, erratic breathing, tires zinging on forever-wet pavement, and the faint echo of the moment before.
