The second guard leaned back against the wall, enjoying the warm evening air.  “I wouldn’t bother if I were you, you’ll see nothing.  They’re all inside.  Winter schtick?  That’s the North all over.  Winter is always coming.  But the people here love a tourney.”

The first guard shifted uncomfortably, and leaned on his pike. “A tourney the realm can ill afford, if you ask me.  Story is the rebellions in the North are gathering apace.  I even heard tales of things in the woods beyond the wall…”

“It’s only money,” grins his companion. ”Tales from beyond the Wall are meant to frighten kids,” he snorts.  “And as for rebellions, what care the likes of us if the likes of them start up again with their Game of Vuelta?  They all look the same to me anyways.”

“The Shark, though.  He terrifies me.  Did you see him in there?  I mean, they said he’s not looking to draw attention to himself.”

“They say a lot of things.”

“About the Shark?  Mostly in whispers and looking over their shoulder.”

‘The L’Astana’s wanted to put on a show.  It’s the Shark’s job to make sure there is a show.  It was Brajkovic who won today anyway, not the Shark.”

“A L’Astana man.  And therefore the Shark’s man.  If Brajkovic won, it’s because the Shark told him to.  And if the Shark tells you to win, you win.”

“The old man did well though, I thought.”

“He’s been talking himself up to anyone who’ll listen.  Reckons he can shake things up.  If you ask me, he was brave to show his face here at all the way he’s been shooting his mouth.  I’m amazed the L’Astana’s allowed him to leave with his head.”

Above, cloaked in shadows, the man they call the Shark moved silently away from the open window.

How hard, to be the son of a legend?  To live in the shadow of your father, bowed by the weight of expectation.  To exist beneath the cloud of potential unfulfilled.  Nico was uncomfortably aware of all his father’s famous name had bought him.  Above all, he yearned to earn for himself the respect he had always been shown, and now it looked at last like he might get his wish.

One by one, the great Houses of the North were rising against House L’Astana buoyed by camaraderie, seeking to alter the balance of power in the realm.  A series of slights had led to grumbling.  Grumbling had led to dialogues.  Dialogues had led to allegiances.  And allegiances had brought them to open rebellion and the point of no return.  Finally, here they stood, on the edge of battle.  Nico’s father’s warning rang in his ear.  You play the Game of Vuelta, you win, or you die.  “I have no intention of dying,” he thought.  “Guess I’d better win.”

Here they were at Baiona, and Nico had volunteered to lead the charge.  An isolated outpost, poorly defended; a skirmish more than a battle. The attack was over almost before it began.  Nico led from the front, taking a couple of outriders with him, leaving them behind to race alone to the keep, accepting the surrender himself, immediately sending word of the success to those waiting in the North.  At last, the sweetness of a victory in his own name, and the message to House L’Astana had been sent.

Hidden in plain sight, visible for those who would but think to look, the old man bides his time as they battle up the coastline.  Deceptively unremarkable, his body scarred and battle-hardened, his gait misleadingly awkward, he maintains his position, ready.

The sad truth is that they aren’t taking him seriously.  He had made his intentions clear from the outset, seeing which way the wind was blowing, and fully intended to capitalise on the change he saw coming.  But the reaction to him at the tourney had proved to the old man that the L’Astana didn’t even see him as so much as a threat.  He hoped that arrogance might just prove to be their biggest mistake.

A barely perceptible nod to the captain once they reached the bridge was all it took to force the pace of the onslaught to slow just enough that critical momentum was lost.  It is all but imperceptible to the masses, grinding away, but the old man notes the effect it has on them.  He watches attack after attack after attack as they come thick and fast; all predictable, all hopeless.  The battle is all but done when the he takes the initiative, timing his own attack to perfection, and none can match the explosive pace of the old man as he breaks through the lines.

Astonished by the speed and strength of the old man, riders hurry to his banner.

“What now?” they ask.

“We ride.” he says.

“House L’Astana is furious. They demand we help them crush this rebellion and scatter the insurgents to the winds.”  Rodriguez seems unperturbed by the call-to-arms.

“They may have a point.  It sounds like they’re more worried than they’re letting on, if our assistance is so urgently required.”  Moreno wonders how he can turn the rebellion to his advantage.  There must be an angle for him somewhere; uncertain times can have unpredictable outcomes.

“We need to look like we’re playing ball.  But we’d be fools to burn our bridges.  The old man surprised them yesterday, we shall be ready for him today.”

The wheel turns again.  Things change quickly in the Game of Vuelta.  On the hostile road to Mirador de Ezaro, the gradient forces many riders to dismount, upsetting the momentum of the old man’s progress.  Following his orders to the letter, Moreno launches a perfectly-timed assault, surprising the old man and reclaiming the initiative for House L’Astana.

The Shark watches from a distance.  Satisfied, he prepares a message.

He hadn’t appreciated how boring it was going to be.  Young and battle hungry, he had been caught up in the perceived glamour of what was unfolding, unaware of the crushing boredom that was to define the vast majority of his time.  An age of exhausting monotony, then five minutes of furious, heart-thumping adrenalin fuelled action, followed by another age of exhausting monotony.

He knew he was quick.  Quick and fearless, not afraid to get to the front and involve himself in the sharp end of the action.  And he was making a name for himself, he was sure of that.  He was where he was supposed to be when it counted; other than that, no-one really paid him much mind.  Emulating the heroes of his childhood, he found he had a natural feel for the battlefield.  When he thought about it, this was all he’d ever wanted, but he’d expected war to feel a little more exciting than this.  All he really felt right now was tired, hot and tired.

He’d had his five minutes of action today, and what action it had been! Afterwards he’d been cheered, and clapped on the back, accepting the plaudits with a laugh and a shy downwards look.  But that was then, and now he was back to exhausting monotony.

If I look back, I am lost.

There had been a time he thought he had lost them all.  He had powered away from the braying horde, falling into a rhythm they simply couldn’t match.  A couple of them had thought to bridge to him as he escaped, but fuelled by adrenalin he spurred ahead and shook them off.

There was a time he thought they might just give up, let him go.  Even then he hadn’t dared ease up, but struck out for home as hard as he could.  It had been merely hours ago, but now it felt like days.

If I look back, I am lost.

They are close enough to smell him, he can tell.  The bunch, thundering behind him, are almost upon him.  They’ve been almost upon him for what feels like forever.  “Are they playing with me,” he wonders, “or am I really holding them off?”  He’s experienced enough to know his chances are slight, and yet his mind sings with the faintest of possibilities that he might make it after all.  There could be a chance.

The only sound is the rush of the air and the hammering of his pulse in his ears.  Mere seconds away he can see the flag of home; he’s held them off for so long, just a few more metres.  I can hold them off a little longer.

If I look back, I am lost.

As he is swallowed by the bunch, their eyes glow blue.

A flash of the unmistakeable Orange livery of The Brotherhood was enough to send Nico’s heart hammering into his throat.  Soldiers of Fortune. Mercenaries.  Many names, many faces, many enemies.  He recognised their leader, Anton, riding out front, but why was he here and what did he want?  More importantly, who was paying him?

Another shock – Konig.  He had been there at Baiona.  Nico had ridden past him, barely registering him in his haste to taste victory.  Anton had crept away from the main field, with Konig following right behind, but for what purpose Nico could only guess.

Nico wasn’t the only one to notice the move by Anton and Konig.  The duo were being chased by Moreno of House Katusha, sworn to House L’Astana, and a skilled and dangerous adversary.  Barely pausing to consider his options, Nico hastened away after them, determined not to let Moreno thwart whatever it was Konig and Anton had planned; realising just too late the very real possibility that the three of them could be working together.

Konig raced ahead of Anton, with Moreno on his heels.  Roche spurred forwards, trying to get in between them and allow Konig to reach whatever destination he was aiming for.  Although unable to reach the two of them, Moreno however sensed Nico coming up on his shoulder, and the effect was enough that Konig was able to hold him off.

Watching Konig reach his destination, Nico turned back to the main battlefield, unsure of the role he had just played.  News brought to him cheered him immediately – Konig had been able to take an important hostage, and the victory was sealed with surrender.   Although it appeared the potentially valuable Moreno had slipped away, an unexpected victory from a surprising ally had handed Nico an opportunity he couldn’t have predicted.  And he fully intended to capitalise.

“I nearly had Konig, but young Roche got in the way.”

“You nearly had him, but you didn’t.  And we have lost Martin.”

‘These are my roads.  This is my home.  I know this place like no other.  They can’t get away from me here.”

“We’ll send Basso and Rodriguez with you.”

“As you wish.”  Moreno turned to leave.  He hated being made to feel like a naughty child.  The L’Astana’s were desperately trying to keep control.  He could sense it, and it was unsettling him.  Desperation made men unpredictable.

The rebellion was moving ever south.  Moreno was tasked to meet the advancing army on his home roads, and cut off their route.  The rebels had sent a single outrider ahead to prepare the next town for arrival, but he was quickly dispatched by Basso and Moreno, who drove forward to successfully interrupt the progress of the army.  Roche broke from the ranks to try desperately and fight a way through, but to no avail.

Roche again.  This Roche was an interesting development, thought Moreno.  Alliances are all very well, but only if you picked your allies wisely in the first place.

He’d shown them once, and yet they’d made the same mistake again – let him though again.  And once again, he’d caught them all out with his deceptive speed and strength.  Give him an inch, he’d take a mile; it was all the same anyway.  Ahead was ahead.  A second, a minute, a metre, a mile.  He’d attack them all.

He’d gone again, and none could follow.  The only response had eventually come from the Shark himself, furious that no-one else could match the old man’s speed, but even he had left it too late to chase the old man down.

This was supposed to be their arena, the battlefield where younger men played out this Game of Vuelta, but the old man was making fools of them all.  For now, anyway, he was in control.

Settling back as he contemplated his next move the old man knew one thing.  This Game of Vuelta was far from over.  It was only just beginning.

***

* * * * *

The 2012 Vuelta has been run and won. The history books will remember it as potentially being one of the finest editions in recent history. Alberto Contador was the victor, but for many cycling fans the victory will have been both entertaining as well as hollow, if only because of who ended up being the winner.

Plenty of contenders lined up for this race, and it was keenly anticipated. Chris Froome would get the opportunity to lead a team for the first time, aiming for victory. Joaquim Rodriguez would try to go one better than his Giro 2nd place, and of course Contador would make his return from a doping suspension. Alejandro Valverde would look to add more impressive results to his stage win in the Tour de France.

The beginning of the podium sorting. (Image courtesy of Cycling Weekly)

It’s worth pointing out here, before we dive in with any commentary, that the Vuelta this year was an absolute beast of a course. Far more difficult than the Tour, and the Giro also somewhat paled in comparison. With a stunning ten summit finishes, it was a course made for climbers, and one where we would normally expect to see a rider ‘bonking’ in a big way, unable to cope with the continuous demands of hard climbing with little recovery time.

In truth, what we saw was far from that, and the reality is that the climbs also saw the highest comparative wattages of all three Grand Tours this year, on a par with what we saw in 2001, an era we obviously now know to have been heavily doped. Here are the brutal figures of it, clearly in stark contrast with recent mantra of what we’d consider a ‘normal’ performance:

Rodriguez: 6.25 w/kg
Contador and Valverde: 6.15 w/kg

These figures, calculated on a French site using the averages from the five climbs over 20 minutes in this year’s race, are in stark contrast with the average wattages we saw from the victors at the other two Grand Tours this year:

Hesjedal: 5.7 w/kg
Wiggins: 5.9 w/kg

Provided those numbers are calculated consistently, there is a significant margin there that means that any of the top three would likely have won the Giro or Tour by minutes. Except we know, courtesy of Valverde, that he couldn’t produce numbers anywhere near that in France, where he finished a distant 20th, albeit with a stage victory to his name.

Remember – because this needs emphasis – this was by far the hardest race of the year, with the steepest climbs, and yet some of the power rates we observe here are made in the third week, a period where fatigue would certainly have been present.

I’ll go into why those factors are worthy of attention in a moment, but first, it’s worth having a look at those who made such a large effort, and their year in the sport.

Contador, of course, was freshly returned from what amounted to a six-month suspension – with his results of the 18 months prior to that annulled – after testing positive for clenbuterol in the 2010 Tour de France. That Contador’s case went to CAS in the first place was because of a somewhat intriguing process of investigation by Spanish authorities. Initially recommending a one-year ban, they then cleared Contador, a process both WADA and the UCI found disturbing enough to convince them to appeal the decision to CAS themselves. The process was seen as indicative of a Spanish unwillingness to investigate or prosecute doping cases involving Spanish athletes.

The suspension consequently had two effects. Contador obviously lost his results, but of more relevance was that his Vuelta preparation was enormously hampered by a lack of racing time. Contador’s only race post-suspension – and prior to the Vuelta – was the seven-stage ENECO tour in which he finished fourth. So he came into the race high on training time, but significantly under-prepared in races completed during 2012. It’s therefore fair to suggest that Contador would not have been at his peak, but would have been very familiar with the route.

Joaquim Rodriguez, in contrast, is the Spaniard upon whom the most accolades have been lauded in 2012. Second in the Giro d’Italia (winning the points jersey and two stages), first in La Flèche Wallone, and with multiple other top-ten finishes dating back to the Tour of Oman, his has been a very long season, but also his most successful. It meant he came to the Vuelta as a polar opposite of Contador: over 40 racing days completed, and for the second year in succession he was to attempt the last of two Grand Tours in a year. At 33 years of age, that’s no mean feat, and few at his age have managed to complete two Grand Tours on the podium in a calendar year.

Alejandro Valverde came to the Vuelta after an even more exhausting schedule, starting his season eight months earlier at the Tour Down Under, where he finished second. Valverde went on to ride at least 50 more days prior to the Vuelta, including the Tour de France and Olympic Games, and yet still put in one of the best performances of his career by finishing second. Had he not been involved in that famous crash during echelons in the first week, who knows if he would have been able to take the top step instead?

Chris Froome rode having completed months of exhausting racing in peak condition, as the right-hand man to Bradley Wiggins, and then on his way to collecting a bronze medal at the Olympic Games. It was probably expecting too much of him to be able to compete at the Vuelta, but after his strong showing last year – and at times looking stronger than Wiggins at the Tour – Froome’s name was right at the head of the list of contenders for the Vuelta. Of all the contenders, his performance probably best showed what should be expected of his schedule. He was promising in the first week, but ultimately his program caught up with him, and he faded, exhausted in the final week, to finish a distant fourth.

So our leading four contenders (and as it turned out, also the top four finishers) all came into the race either under-prepared, or after long and difficult goals had already been undertaken during the course of the season.

So how, then, are the year’s most extraordinary climbing numbers produced? Put into perspective, if Rodriguez had managed to do the wattages in the Giro that he displayed in Spain, Hesjedal would have been so far out of sight that his time trial would have been for cementing second place, and not remotely competing for first.

This was an outstanding race by any measure. Contador’s victory in Fuente Dé will live long in the memory for its sheer audacity, its plot hatched and executed long before the final climb, to almost universal acclaim. The three weeks had all the drama, entertainment, and panache the world longs to see at the Tour de France.

But, after the bitterly-public Armstrong events played out over the last few months, it also failed to dispel lingering questions about the sport. Make no mistake: The top two riders from the Vuelta have both been suspended for involvement in doping. The third has been around teams clearly associated with it in the past, although never sanctioned himself.

The world has just watched a man found guilty of (and suspended for) doping come back and win a Grand Tour just weeks after that suspension finished. They’re entitled to wonder if it’s genuine.

These three riders on the podium are not strangers to the sport’s ills. Fans have seen too many false dawns over the last twenty years to not raise an eyebrow when something very extraordinary occurs, and in one of the hardest races in recent memory, we have a reminder that the past is very much still here with us in the present, simply as a result of observing the identities of those undertaking such feats.

I’m not suggesting or implying that anybody is doping now. There could be a reason why they’ve struck super-human form at their home event. But over the last few months we’ve been told to put our faith in the numbers, to take into account the climbs when viewing those numbers, and the reality is that what we’ve witnessed here fails the most basic test – that of human instinct. We may have been witness to the show of a lifetime, but we must consider – was this simply the same show we’ve seen before? If the identities of those at the front haven’t changed, and the numbers aren’t lying, how can we know the culture has shifted?

Of that we can only be sure of one thing, and that is that time will be the best judge. Until then, we’ll have to wait and see if these numbers translate to equivalent gains at next year’s major events. If so, what will be the world’s determination then? Are we going backwards, or forwards?

Degenkolb puts his Jagger-like moves on one of the podium pretties for Stage 7 of the Vuelta. Word is he “scored the digits.” (Photo courtesy AP/Alvaro Barrientos)

Sources close to Degenkolb have admitted he’s been serenading podium girls with his rendition of Maroon 5′ s hit song, “Moves Like Jagger,” that includes full choreography, a wink, and a smile. Degenkolb has been seen handing off his “digits” to the smitten podium contingent staffing this year’s Vuelta.

“Not only is the lad killing it on his Felt bike, but he’s really smoking the dance moves behind the scenes before the podium presentations. I’m majorly impressed with his leg work. Mick Jagger should worry about his shake-n-bake dance title,” admired an anonymous team mechanic.

Degenkolb’s teammates are also enjoying his performances on and off the bike. Simon Geschke, in particular, has marveled at the sprinter’s fancy footwork.

“I thought I’d seen it all with Bert’s massive hairdo, but John’s dance steps and vocals at the hotel and on the podium certainly top the best de Backer has mustered at races this year,” commented Geschke.

It seems, however, the downside of the Argos-Shimano stage winner’s exploits has been a hassle for his roommate, Koen de Kort. While de Kort himself wouldn’t directly discuss the German’s habits at the hotel, he did admit Degenkolb’s constant phone calls, Skype chats, and yelling out the window was “disruptive to my resting habits.”

“I’m very happy for John. He’s quite a talented teammate, and I’ve enjoyed shepherding and protecting him for his wins. His enthusiasm for our teammwork is awesome. I just hope his status with the ladies dies down just a little. I can only handle hearing ‘Moves Like Jagger’ so many times while he’s on the phone. Not to mention it’s his ringtone now,” relayed de Kort.

Degenkolb, while enjoying the spotlight, was a little embarrassed by this “playa” status bestowed upon him by Liquigas sprinter Elia Vivani.

“Playa? Wow. I’m not sure I deserve the title, but I wouldn’t mind exploring the definition of the term over a nice candlelight dinner with Eurosport’s Laura Meseguer. I’m not sure if that means I’m a “playa,” but I’m certainly enjoying the scenery here in Spain, if you know what I mean,” declared Degenkolb.

The Vuelta hits the high mountains for Stage 14, which will give Degenkolb  plenty of time to work on his karaoke skills during the gruppetto singalong. The podium ladies are anticipating quite a show after Saturday’s stage, which promises to be just another stop on the Argos-Shimano sprint clinic in Spain.