Prologue

Allow me to introduce my fictional self.

I am the product of Didi “the Devil” and the Specialized Angel. My name is Gabriel.

I am their offspring – their sprog. I consider myself “Cycling’s offspring.”

If you look carefully at old footage in the 1986 Tour de France on stage 15, when papa prodded Greg LeMond on the Alp d’Huez and almost knocked the Badger over, you will notice me in my diapers on the roadside. I am the one with the dummy (hey, the dummy isn’t papa).

That doesn’t mean I am some LUK – Specialized hybrid, but I am special!

It also doesn’t mean I wear the same outfit for twenty-one days on the trot, like papa does.

With these two characters as my parents, one can’t help but be a cycling fan.

Mama and Papa are not together anymore – their brief body rubbing occurred, after too many Leffe’s, in the back of a 1973 Citroën camper van parked at the entrance to the Arenberg forest in April 1985 – the day Marc Madiot won the Paris-Roubaix.

My problem with having such different parents is the strong opposite forces that drive me. The good and evil counterweights my parents have brought to my DNA results in my slightly bipolar nature.

The definition of bipolar is not a bi-sexual with a Finnish heart rate monitor – rather I am prone to scurrilous outbursts, and these outbursts are mainly reserved for errant cyclists and all things to do with cycling – or just not to my general liking.

For example, why the hell does France 2 – the French TV station – keep on cutting away from papa when he is prancing around with his trident? But I will save this particular bugbear for another time.

And then in my lighter moments – my angelic side – I can sing mellifluous cycling ditties (my own creations) as sweet as Tom Boonen’s young girlfriends can.

But sometimes my musings are one garbled mess, where I am both sickly sweet ... and generously prickly at the same time. I hope you will understand (I don’t), so have a wonderful day and ta-ta ... well, just go away!

Till later.