The Giro’s new star
Petrichor is the name given to the sweet smell of rain as it bounces off dry earth. It derives from Greek with the word petra meaning stone or rock, and ichor roughly translating as the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods. So intoxicating is the scent, it seems fitting that its origins are so divine.
Right now it’s mixing with the clean, Alpine fragrance emanating from the high trees and the earthy moss of the lower foliage to create a kind of natural Vicks Vaporub that I just want to inhale deep into my lungs. The crisp air has turned my once-golden cheeks red, giving me the kind of complexion even little Prince George would envy.
The freezing rain stings my hands and plunges them into tingling numbness. As my legs get wetter they get colder and begin to sting as the chill reacts with hot legs that have worked so hard to get me to where I am. Aside from the ping of hail bouncing off my helmet and the distant ring of cowbells, I can hear only silence.
Yet despite the rain, I have longed for
