Bicycle racing is an old sport. It’s a pre-war sport. It’s a pre-motorsports sport. It’s a pre-televised sports sport. It’s a workingman’s sport. Think boxing. A game run by old and retired former racers whose male-dominated and closed backroom culture have been in the DNA since forever. It’s a bit charming from a distance. But when I put my on enlightenment lenses and look at the big picture, my sport just seems so dated, so icky, so corrupt.
It’s so beautiful to watch. It’s so difficult to ponder. It’s been my muse since I first learned about these hard men in Europe whose stories dominate a history that’s so rich. It’s European rich as opposed to rich with lore that includes my own countrymen and in my own country. There’s something so old-school and colorful about the lot which may explain why bicycle racing speaks to me. Often, I listen. At times I ignore. The sport makes a sound that can’t be unheard.
All This By Hand