Mrs O and I are off to Belfast this evening. We're off to another bike race, the Tour of Italy this time. The organisers traditionally kick-off il giro outside Italy and get the riders to thunder into the boot, so to speak, after a day or two abroad. To be honest, though, Northern Ireland's probably pushing the tradition a little far.
Having a stage in Belgium or The Netherlands is one thing; the people there are familiar with bike racing at least. But the inhabitants of NI are about as familiar with road racing as they are with kabaddi or that Basque version of squash you play carrying what looks like a wicker bidet. Consequently some of the publicity bumf is pitched at the cycling semi-literate. No harm in that of course; they can't help it.
The problem with hosting races in countries with no sense of the sport is that the spectalcle is wasted on the herd. Road-racing is rich with intrigue, plots, bluff and bravura. That's why the Italians are good at it, and why the public there loves it so much. All these atributes are considered admirable in Italian manhood.
The one aspect of the sport that separates it from all other endurance events is the premium placed on maintaining one's aplomb and deportment whilst suffering like a dog. Athletes look fairly ragged when they're charging around the track in their vests and ill-fitting shorts. Vests, for Christ's Sake. But even the world's most medicre pro-cyclist will refuse to start a race until he looks a million dollars: bike and kit spotless, legs shaved and oiled and sunglasses in situ irrespective of the weather. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why it's the greatest sport in the world.
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