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By Chris Brown
Here they come!
Lead cars with lights flashing, sirens and motorcycles
piercing the quiet, spring-scented country air. Spectators
line the pavement, holding a collective breath, erupting
when the riders come into view, turn the corner en masse.
The Peloton approaches like a swarm of bees, amorphous,
then sinuous, a blur of mixed-up colors flying by,
wheels turning, feet spinning. A hundred or more
jerseyed bodies hunched low over drop handlebars.
I try to focus try to pick out the Postal-blue train, the
red and white CSC kit, the teal and blue of Webcor, the
many lycra-covered muscled thighs, the faces of the famous.
The air parts in front of them, in front of me, as they surge
ahead. Cow bells, noise-makers, shouts and screams
drown out the pure sounds of the bikes, the hum
of chains flowing over cogs, the click of gears shifting,
the whir of wind generated by the pack.
I focus hard for a moment think I see Lance, Bobby, Chris
And in that moment, (a mere second or two) they are gone,
out of sight, and I am standing by the side of the road
with colors flashing in my head, camera still at my side,
nothing concrete to grab on to except an adrenaline rush
and the urgency of getting to the next vantage point
on route - where they will come by again, leaving me with
yet another blurred image and reverberations in the after silence.
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