He was collared by a press man and asked a question. He opened his mouth and the lip trembled. He hid his face beneath team issue baseball cap (should be a casquette, really, but whatever…) and sobbed, squeezing out a manly “aww jeez…I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” and then he sobbed a bit more.
Alaphilippe descends like the devil. Yates would’ve known the Frenchman was on his tail. Often hindsight is the post-stage blog writers best friend, but something was surely going to happen. I could feel in real time in my twitching left leg and white-knuckle grip on the settee.