Well, the Tour finished a few days ago. Although the finish was not the fairytale victory for Cadel we had all anticipated and envisaged, the end of the Tour leaves a gaping hole in the hearts of so many late night owls, student procrastinators and cycling addicts.
Who could not miss the rolling farmland of France, so preciously protected by subsidies, and the charming parochial village life? Or the grandeur and spectacle of the alps, with the jagged, glaciated valleys and dizzy peaks? Who could not miss the insane grin on Riccardo Ricco's face as the gendarmerie hauled him away?
For a sport that revolves around millions of revolutions of the legs, translating into the forward motion of a bicycle, it's pretty compelling stuff. But the Tour has charmed for over a hundred years of nationalistic joy for the host nation, reverence in the cycling community, and the most extreme experiences of pain and achievement imaginable for those strong enough to compete. It certainly captures the imagination around the midnight hour, being both relaxing and compelling viewing, as well as a perfect form of procrastination for those essays.
The Tour leaves behind it a hole, one that burns slowly inside until the fervour of July 2009 when some more cold winter nights can be filled by 190 incredibly strong men wearing incredibly tight and revealing lycra.
Let's leave it at that, before Seb kills me.
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