A week during which a rather odd sprinter won a mountain stage, the peloton was left plugged headsets, escaped escaped like this, where, and which ends in a howl of a hyena which mask the yelps of an old fox foundered. I did well to work as a little crazy, I missed nothing. For cons the coming week I will lose efficiency, the Alps have landed on the Tour and the Tour is not going to end them. Three stages of high mountains, against the clock and a step we will tell through to Mont Ventoux, and then the ride to Paris. Saturday if the differences are as tight now below the last rib of the Tour, it will be a beautiful pestacle. Luckily, I do not work that day. I hope the young wolves will show fangs. It makes me think all that a new Jack London, "A steak," which recounts the last stand of an old boxer who has shot down the ring why he had beaten the old man in his youth had a look so sad.
I await the final look of Armstrong with some emotion.
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