I’ve heard rumours about a man.
A man with knowledge, who knows stuff.
I’ve never met this man, and it seems hard to believe he actually understands what the rumours claim he understands, but I have reliable sources.
I’m told, by a friend of a friend, that they met him in a pub one night – sounds plausible so far. They instinctively knew, at first sight, that he was a cyclist.
He was tucked, aerodynamically, atop a bar stool, hands with dappled mesh sun-tan resting on the bar. He was clearly in mid-flow. Surrounding him were fellow cyclists; mouths agog, brows furrowed in attempted comprehension.
My friend of a friend leaned in, he claimed, hutching his t-shirt arms up as he did so to display the markings that identified him as a friend, a fellow cyclist – the tan lines were met with accepting nods and invites to join the sermon.
“And…” I asked my friend of a friend, “is it true? What did you learn?”
“Pfffssshhht…” he replied, “I’m buggered if I know, didn’t make a right lot of sense to me. He was trying his best to explain it and we were all nodding along, but I could tell no-one had the foggiest idea.”
“Do the riders even know?” I wondered, “I mean…when they’re actually competing?”
“Don’t think so. They just ride around the track all week and at the end someone decides one of the teams has won. That’s Six Day racing for you…”
“Aye, I suppose so. Bloody great, isn’t it!”