I’ve been watching the Tour de Yorkshire on the terrorbox. I would have liked to have gone up to see it but had to settle for the vicarious thrill of seeing my mum see the race live on the terror box. She loves the bike racings, in fact, it’s her new favourite thing. This is only tempered slightly by the knowledge that she has a burgeoning interest in the triantelopism, which she in turn tempered by saying; “Well Alf did triathlons too you know”. I suspect she has been looking for a riposte to my deep-rooted abhorrence of all things tritardular for some time. She has found it.
Anyway, by way of preparation she asked me what hat to wear.
She has a lot of good hats which she has ‘acquired’ over the years. Every time I go there I come back with one less hat. These two things may well be linked. I advised the PC one, and sent her an interweb link regarding Macloml Letioll so that she could come across all knowledgeable on the bergs. Second up was the Raphael number, on account of Sowerby Bridge resident Brian Robinson. She went full Piers Plowman. I advised against the carrefour special, there is too much of the recent bike boom convert about it.
She then staked out her place at Haworth, I think near Oxenhope somewhere maybe, Pecket Well, and waited for her moment of glory.
Top image is native Yorkshire chap and photographer, our Ian. He is in full winter plumage, unwilling to accept that summer hath truly med it t’ top o’ moors. You can tell it’s our Ian by jizz of t’ bird.
Bottom image is our mum rollin’ with the southern power stance, PC cap at a jaunty angle, a little bit artful dodger, with a double hip-hop knee roll. Below is the photo she took.
It’s pretty goddamn meta isn’t it? I can’t stop looking. It’s a rabbit hole, mum is on TV taking a photo and I took a photo of her on TV and got the photo she took and it put it on the internet next to the photo of her through the lens of the mad eye of terror.
And you’re back in the room. The Tour De Yorkshire was amazing, right down to the ASO approved franconomenclaturated Cols. Day 4 was brutal, beyond brutal, beyond the thunderdome. As oof as it gets. The contrast with the Giro D’Israelitalia could not be more profound, where the best/only shots consisted of a lady showing her breasts at the camera as the peloton rode through a desert for 40 days in quarantine, with accompanying tweets carefully worded to avoid accusations of mysogyny. Most failed. There’s a certain irony to a Grand Tour alledgedly visiting God’s actual country only to be usurped by a Minor Tour’s visit to God’s own country.
I can’t wait to see what the Worlds brings us. I suspect it will be a whole lot of ouch and some rugged Yorkshire beauty.