ne of my darkest moments as a cyclist came years ago on the slopes of the Col du Tourmalet. The struggle that ensued just a few kilometres from the summit was less noble suffering and more undignified scrum. My nemesis was a ten-year-old French boy, whose youth and cunning overwhelmed the supposed wisdom of my middle-age when we found ourselves in pursuit of a cheap plastic keyring that had just been dispensed from
Caravan of dreams
Jun 14, 2023
2 minutes
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