Читать книгу My World онлайн

9 страница из 72

I’d got used to wearing that jersey myself over the past 24 months and realized that I was now without the life and energy that it brings to a rider. I was another cyclist in unfamiliar national colors in the middle of a big pack as it surged past, neither Peter Sagan nor the UCI World Champion, just another feather in the eagle’s flapping wings. I didn’t hear the “Peter!” or “Sagan!” shouts that the rainbow stripes bring, especially being this far from the head of the race. It suited me to be anonymous, but if I thought that perception of anonymity stretched from the crowd to my rivals, then I was kidding myself. They knew I was still there and not warming my toes in the pits or in a nice hot bath at the hotel.

Two climbs of Salmon Hill remained. As we hit it for the penultimate time, the Netherlands injected an acceleration in the race as Tom Dumoulin smashed it up the road in true long-levered Dutch time-trialist style. The bunch was suddenly in a long line and halved in size. That was the last bus stop on the route for many, and they coasted in, their races run. But I was still there against all my expectations. With a lap to go. That guy started clanging that bell to tell us what we already knew. I’m wearing No. 1, but my last half hour as world champion was at hand.