Читать книгу My World онлайн

7 страница из 72

There were about a hundred of us left. After a race is over, I am often asked to explain how it unfolded, especially if I’ve won, as if it were a novel I’d written, shuffling characters around, plotting the action, throwing in a few red herrings, and placing the hero in peril. It’s an attractive conceit, and I can see why they would like me to take up the invitation, but it’s not possible. They’re not wrong that there is a narrative, but it’s just my narrative. There are a hundred guys each with a story, each story different to everybody else’s. I can only tell mine. You know GoPro cameras? They’re great, eh? One fixed to the front of a bike can give you real excitement and a feel for the internal workings of a race. Now imagine that was your only view of the race. The world championships in Bergen without helicopter coverage, without motorcycle coverage, without finish-line cameras, without commentary, all six and a half hours of it. Well, that’s my story, my movie, my narrow version of the hundred versions, and I don’t think we’d find many willing viewers for that.