How do you define an epic? It’s a noun grossly over-used by sportswriters, particularly those who write about cycling. Through the years, European journalists have described heroic deeds by brave athletes on bicycles with gushing prose that was rarely deserved. They even titled road racing’s formative years The Heroic Era.
Admittedly, in the long decades before live radio and television commentary brought reality to the grand tours and classics, cycling fans only learned about races through the written word. And journalists depended on selling newspapers to make a living. The better the story, the higher the sales. It’s no wonder they turned ordinary performances into extraordinary feats.
On reflection, were the daylong slogs through blinding rainstorms on muddy roads any more heroic than what miners did in their everyday jobs at the coalface? How meaningful was, say, Tour de France contender Eugène Christophe’s carrying his heavy steel bike down the Col du Tourmalet and repairing the forks at a blacksmith’s forge? Or did the survivors of “epic” editions in Paris-Roubaix really deserve the lavish praise heaped upon them by an adoring media?
That’s not to say that the riders who excelled in harsh conditions were not deserving of their recognition as exceptional individuals. But a true sports epic is one in which, besides having to battle the elements, the contestants go to the limit of their physical and mental capacities while still competing for the victory in a major competition. All of those ingredients came together on June 5, 1988 on stage 14 of the 1988 Giro d’Italia.
Over the past couple of weeks, there has been an excellent series of articles celebrating the 20th anniversary of Andy Hampsten’s win in the 1988 Giro d’Italia, starting with the grueling stage over the Passo Gavia, in which Hampsten finished second on the day (behind the Netherlands’ Erik Breukink), but with the maglia rosa of the overall leader, which he held until the conclusion of the Giro several days later.
I’m actually surprised the Reverend Big Ring hasn’t posted a sermon about this yet … but he has been busy finishing the new chapel and preparing to move his wisdom from the Hells to the Golden ones, if all goes well … so I find myself in the position of leading the prayer service.
Let us pray:
I believe in Hampsten, the Climber Almighty,
the Creator of heavenly tours,
and in the Landshark of steel, on which he rode:
Who was conceived of the skinny legs,
born of the massive lungs,
suffered on the Passo Gavia,
was frozen, yet not buried by snow.
He ascended into hell.
The fourth day He arose again in the mountains.
He ascended onto Vetriolo Terme
and crushed the mighty Dutchman,
in the manner of the Cannibal Merckx.
I believe in the Big Ring, the holy cycling church,
the communion of riders,
the forgiveness of admitted dopers,
the resurrection of the clean riders,
and road racing everlasting.
Born in this world Sit you sit down
You got to suffer Breathe when you breathe
Everything changes Lie Down you lie down
You got no soul Walk where you walk
Try to be gay Talk when you talk
Ignorant happy Cry when you cry
You get the blues Lie down you lie down
You eat jellyroll Die when you die
There is one Way Look when you look
You take the high road Hear what you hear
In your big Wheel Taste what you taste here
8 steps you fly Smell what you smell
Look at the View Touch what you touch
Right to horizon Think what you think
Talk to the sky Let go let it go slow
Act like you talk Earth Heaven & Hell
Work like the sun Die when you die
Shine in your heaven Die when you die
See what you done Lie down you lie down
Come down & walk Die when you die
This is why events unnerve me,
Define it all, a different story,
Notice whom for wheels are turning,
Turn again and turn towards this time,
All she asks, the strength to hold me,
Then again the same old story,
Word will travel, oh so quickly,
Travel first and lean towards this time.
Oh, I’ll break them down, no mercy shown,
Heaven knows, it’s got to be this time,
What she heard, these things she said,
The times she cried,
Too frail to wake this time.
I break them down, no mercy shown,
Heaven knows, it’s got to be this time,
Avenues all lined with trees,
Picture me and then you start watching,
Watching forever, forever,
Watching love grow, forever,
Letting me know, forever.
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Like my fathers come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Ring out the bells again
Like we did when Spring began
Wake me up when September ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Like my fathers come to pass
Twenty years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends
Wake me up when September ends
Wake me up when September ends
» by flahute in: Word Play on November 28th, 2006 at 03:21:15 UTC |
THE SNOW STORM
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every wayward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of snow.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), American author, poet, and philosopher.
Over the past couple of weeks, there has been an excellent series of articles celebrating the 20th anniversary of Andy Hampsten’s win in the 1988 Giro d’Italia, starting with the grueling stage over the Passo Gavia, in which Hampsten finished second on the day (behind the Netherlands’ Erik Breukink), but with the maglia rosa of the overall leader, which he held until the conclusion of the Giro several days later.
