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Like the next day, when I was second to Andre Greipel again.

And the next day, when I was second to Zdeněk Štybar.

Actually, that one really hurt. Well, it didn’t hurt me as badly as it hurt Tony Martin, who was in a crash within sight of the line. The yellow jersey has no more padding than any other, and it couldn’t prevent his collarbone from cracking, leaving his heart as broken as his clavicle. Of course, I didn’t know he was hurt at the time; there was just a mess of riders everywhere and a chance to win a stage. But first we had to catch Štybar, who’d jumped himself into a handy lead just as the Lycra hit the tarmac. Well before that day and continuing to this, whenever there’s chasing to be done, it seems everybody looks at me. Seriously? I still don’t really get it. It had already been demonstrated on a few painful occasions in this race that there were other sprinters capable of beating me, and they had powerful teams to help them. But no, let’s wait and let Sagan chase. I was beginning to get a bit fed up, so I sat up and invited somebody else to chase Štybar. There were only a few hundred meters to go: If we didn’t get together and chase together, he would win. We didn’t. He did. And guess what? Yes, I was second. I was thinking of getting a new jersey made. Most second places. The brown jersey, maybe.