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I’ve always enjoyed covering stages of the Tour in poetry form, and did a few last year. This isn’t the best example of the genre, but there was a few couplets that I wanted to put somewhere while I watched it back this evening, so I figured it best to finish something up. Here it is, then.


A series of sprints and smatter of dots,

With finishes close as the drawing of lots,

A lively first week, but the action not started,

Van Avermaet’s yellow both brave and half-hearted.


The Tour doesn’t start now until the big inclines,

And comfortable riders are exposed to their faultlines,

It took ‘til Stage Seven before we saw cracks,

Some big names were puffing and dropped out the back


A twenty nine man breakaway always looked doomed,

Leaving cyclists scattered and leaders marooned,

It was good for Van Avermaet keeping his yellow,

Now from Alaphilippe who was stronger than fellow


French riders who endured a mixed bag of a day,

With the only real winner being Romain Bardet.

It isn’t the hardest of climbs up the Aspin,

But Barguil misjudged it and Pinot was gasping,


For air as he slipped ever backwards and out,

Of contention and surely his race is in doubt.

It was better for Nibali, who broke and found traction,

A clarion call from the Shark into action.


Even he couldn’t catch the main man on the road,

As Steve Cummings chose Friday as his stage to explode.

A truly phenomenal solo display,

Like we’re used to from Cummings, its becoming his way.


The gloves stayed on Friday, and no punches were thrown,

As the peloton of favourites rolled eventually home,

After picking their way through a punctured Flamme Rouge;

Comedy rather than rank subterfuge.