They do anything just to win a salami in ridiculous races. I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching from sidewalk cafes. Non-racers. The emptiness of those lives shocks me. It was the illest of times, it was the dopest of times. And we looked damn good. Actually the autobus broke down somewhere on the Mortirolo.
I've just finished Fotheringham's Merckx book. I found it jumped about a bit in the time lines but it provided a really good backdrop to the Giro. Everyone is aware of the performance "culture" that permeated cycling during that period but the inter and more so intra national politics of the time were (and maybe still are) crazy. Thanks for bringing the books to my attention.