Nonetheless, I cycle a few thousand kilometres a year, the Mont Ventoux doesn’t have any secrets for me anymore, I am regularly spotted wearing tight and aesthet- ically unjustified outfits, and I spent a fortune on a celeste green Bianchi—the
My heart jumps over a beat for the long tours, like the Tour de France, the Giro and The Vuelta. The spring classics are for East-Belgian farmers, too big, rude muscled men. Like the idiots in my hometown, their merit lies in their muscular power,
Whilst reading the last paragraphs, you probably getting my concerns: I am sincerely dissatisfied with the Western context. The overwhelming stream of news about radicalisation, the beside the point excuses of our Muslim community, the blustering by an