Читать книгу Ventoux онлайн

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‘Right.’

But that summer the seed was sown. From that moment on, cycling catered for years to my need for heroes.

The urge to sit on a racing bike again came back later. That was after I had read The Rider by Tim Krabbé. I was fifteen, read it in one sitting, and knew instantly what I had to do. True, it would have been better if I had pursued the sport from the age of six, but Merckx was a late starter, too.

I took my savings out of the bank, borrowed another two hundred guilders from my mother, and bought a Batavus from Van Spankeren’s cycle shop. Joost and André looked at me pityingly. Cycling was still a sport for thickos who shouted unintelligibly into the microphone. But I didn’t care. I joined a training group that left from the Zaadmarkt every Sunday morning for a ride of about eighty kilometres. The guys gave me some funny looks the first time. They immediately commented on my unshaven legs and my football shorts, but they accepted it for this once.

Then they started riding me into the ground. I had kept up for about ten kilometres when I saw them pulling away from me. They didn’t look back; of course they knew it would happen, it was an initiation ritual. During the following week I rode out a couple of times by myself, hoping that it would go better the next Sunday. I actually could keep up for a little longer in my new cycling shorts, but not that much longer.