I can’t believe those guys used to ride those mountains on fixed gear bikes over dirt roads. Amazing.
Stop at the top, flip the back wheel around for a taller gear, and haul ass. I like fixed gear, I ride mine when I can, but I cannot imagine driving one up those big mountains. That was when men were men. They had squat for support, carried a spare tubular around their shoulders, and did what they could.
Assassins. They called the Tour organizers that for sending mere men over godly mountains. Some of them never came back alive, but some found glory in their legs and made history.
People make fun of me when I have my spandex bike panties on. I am not such a man to win a race over the Alps or the Pyrenees, but I’m good with that. I like to ride my bike, and I have the sense of history that makes my heart beat out a proud recollection of men gone by. Christophe, Campagnolo, Bottecchia, Coppi, Anquetil, Fignon, Merckx, Hinault, even Lemond and Indurain and Armstrong. Even Contador. I am bound by my honor to respect and remember the men of the Tour. They did things I can only dream about.