Victory led to drinking, and before too long drinking led to singing.  Voices rose above the fire.

“There was an old man, who swallowed a bee…”

The Shark’s fist slammed down on the table.   “When he stops making fools of you, then I’ll hear your songs.”

The Shark stalked off into the night, Moreno watching his back as he departed.  He understood that nerves and tempers fray under the strain of a campaign of this nature, but even so he was unaccustomed to seeing the Shark rattled like this.  Moreno was uncomfortably aware that his own performance had been somewhat lacklustre, and not wishing to draw the ire of the Shark he dropped his gaze and concentrated on his food.

The Shark had regained some advantage on the Old Man, it was true, but victory was far from assured and the relentless rhythm of attack was even taking a toll on the fabled L’Astana man.

The man in the stripes was tired, a tired no amount of sleep would refresh, and once again, winter was coming for him.  He looked down at the livery of the champion that he had fought so hard to earn, trying to draw comfort from the display of his status amongst the sea of riders, but those coveted stripes now seemed to do nothing but highlight his failure.  Gilbert was being damned by his own success, these stripes a constant reminder of the pressure to perform.

‘They’ said the stripes were cursed; a poison chalice.  They said it with a smile on their faces, but still, in this game, where every victory could be your last, superstitions run deep.  Gilbert knew all too well how cruelly paper thin the margin between rapturous victory and crushing defeat could be.  He was nothing if not hard on himself, as only a true champion can be.  And now it had been 11 months.  The whispers had long since started, questioning his commitment, his hunger.  Last year had been bad, rescued with precious victories right at the death, but this was looking worse, ad desperation was sinking in.

With a practised eye, Gilbert surveyed the field, taking in the action all around him.  He saw Basso try a move, expertly parried by Nico, finally demonstrating the tactical nous that had defined his father.  He saw the young man Bling lost in the heat of battle marshalling his comrades to lead a charge.  And he saw the black cloak of Boasson Hagen, escaping through a gap that barely existed.

Without thinking, Gilbert hurried after the speeding figure.  Just as Boasson Hagen raced for the victory that look assured, he was brought down by a mighty blow, and the man in the stripes exploded in a roar of victory.

He was Ironborn.  The Argoans of the Iron Isles had taken many by surprise with their speed and ferocity.  Seemingly exploding out of nowhere, they had heaped victory on victory, destroying any in their path, with no concern for status or reputation.  The formidable King of the Iron Isles Kittel had sent a select party to strike at the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, headed by Barguil, still barely a boy, who despite his tender years led with the skill and determination characteristic of his House.

For the first time, the Argoans had involved themselves in the politics of the realm, electing to engage in the Game of Vuelta, and they were determined to leave their mark.

Infiltrating a select group of frontriders, Barguil let his anonymity work for him.  They’re too busy watching each other to watch me!  In a burst of speed he slipped away, almost daring them to come after him.  There was no response.  Shocked at the ease with which the group had handed this victory to him, Barguil almost laughed.

He had honoured the words of his House.

“We Do Not Slow”

Nico was suffering, wrongfooted by the harsh conditions.  The battle had moved to hostile terrain, and here it was easy to believe that winter was coming.  He wasn’t the only one caught out by the cold; few were sufficiently dressed for the conditions, save of course for the Old Man, but nothing seemed to catch him unawares.

Nico longed for the warm days of summer.  He was fighting the battle of his life, and not only were his enemies all around him, but now even the weather was turning on him.  This had felt like the longest day of his life.  He had no idea who was winning or who was losing, he only knew that the Game of Vuelta was having the same effect on everyone.

Holding his breath so as not to give away his position, he could overhear a couple of L’Astana men taking stock of the day’s heavy casualties.

“There’s a lot of men no longer with us.  And many more won’t make it to tomorrow.  Basso’s gone.  Kreder, Nuyens, Henderson.  We’ve lost Sanchez too.”

“Which one?”

“God knows. I can’t tell them apart.  The Belkin, I think.  The sellsword is still with us.”

“I expected more from the Belkins.”

“I expected more from a lot of them.  There’s plenty maintaining a careful neutrality.  I think they’re still waiting to see which way the winter wind blows.”

“Whatever we do, we mustn’t underestimate the Old Man.  He’s matching us move for move.”

“He thinks he is.  The Shark’s got a few moves in him the Old Man will have no answer to.”

“And Nico?”

“Nico.  The Shark or the Old Man will deal with Nico.  And if they don’t do for him the weather will.”

They’re probably right, thought Nico shivering.  I’d better get used to being cold, and fast.

He liked an adversary he could have some respect for, and now he had two.  Watching Nico, the Shark was impressed by the dogged determination and tactical nous demonstrated by the young man.  He could see that the conditions were taking their toll on him, as they were with everyone, but despite the setbacks and struggles he was facing the young man was clearly comfortable with the leadership role he had taken on, reading the battlefield like a veteran – prepared to scrap for every last advantage.

The Old Man, flanked by his faithful lieutenant Kiserlovsky, he was another story all together.  While the Shark undoubtedly respected Nico, he was an open book to him, so straightforward.  But the Old Man, he was full of surprises.  Catching up with Rodriguez, the Shark walked across the battlefield to see who was the hero of the day.

The Shark and Rodriguez approached the young victor, surrounded by his supporters.  In fairness, the boy had taken some impressive scalps, especially considering the conditions, but the Shark wasn’t in a mood to be generous.

“Which one are you again?”

“Geniez, sir.” The young man stammered.  “I ride under the banner of House De Jeux, sworn to the L’Astana’s, sir.”

The Shark said nothing as turned to walk away.  “House what?  It’s just so Goddamn hard to keep track of them all…”

“That was cruel,” Rodriguez said, looking back to see the young man’s face fall.  “You could at least have let him have his moment.”

“Let him have his moment.  This is all this is to them.  There is more to this than moments.  There’s far more at stake than a moment.”

Surely, it couldn’t work twice?  The first time he had had the unquestionable advantage of anonymity, but after a display as audacious as the one he had put on, surely he wouldn’t get away with it twice?

Caught up in his youthful enthusiasm, Barguil ignored the advice from his bloodrider to hang back, not draw attention to himself.  He knew he felt good, he knew he could take them all again, and yet again had infiltrated a group of outriders scouting ahead of the main group.  Biding his time, he could feel the adrenalin start to pump throughout his body.  They had no idea what was about to happen!  They were exhausted, their concentration waning after a full day in the saddle, and Barguil was determined to capitalize.

As before, Barguil judged his moment and raced away from the group.  Opening a gap, he eased into his rhythm, sensing the victory ahead.  But unlike before, someone had been watching for him.  A black shape appeared from nowhere, and Barguil had to dig deep to maintain contact as the shape threatened to pass him.  Uran!  The man of House Sky was no fool.  Barguil had one last trick.  He feigned exhaustion (God knows that wasn’t hard), and allowed the rider to pass, hiding in his shadow then bursting forward once more, catching Uran unawares, snatching the victory the other man had thought he had won.

Surprise had worked once, deceit had worked once; he was going to need more tricks.

We Do Not Slow!

“Sworn enemies, working together.”  Rodriguez looked perturbed.  It seemed that the Shark and the Old Man had in some way worked together to control Valverde of House Movistar.

“Eliminate the opposition together, ‘til it’s just them left then finally they turn on each other?  To the winner, the spoils.”  Moreno was finding it all but impossible to keep up with the shifting sands of alliance and betrayal.

“And take us all with them.”  Moreno could see the wheels turning behind Rodriguez’s eyes.  “And this is the second time the dependable House Sky have snatched defeat from the jaws of victory,” sneered Rodriguez. “Maybe they’re losing their touch?”

Maybe they’re not fully committed to a campaign that could see them dead or worse, thought Moreno.  He supressed a shudder as the vivid image of the glowing blue eyes in the cold dead face of Martin jumped in to his mind.  “Possibly,” he conceded.  “Many of the Great Houses have not, uh, performed as might have been expected.  And now it appears that even the Shark can have an off day.”  It was possible that the Shark had enlisted the help of the Old Man to subdue Valverde because he wasn’t up to doing so alone.  He had demonstrably reduced his advantage.

“Yes.  That was unexpected.  An interesting development.  We shall have to watch the Shark and the Old Man closely.  Things can turn on a sixpence out here, there’s a lot still uncertain.  It’s up to us to secure the best possible outcome for House Katusha.  That might be behind the L’Astana’s, and it might not.”

Moreno knew Rodriguez was right.  An off day might be just that; or it might be a sign of a greater shift in the fortunes of House L’Astana.  While all around were dropping like flies the Old Man was steadfastly refusing to die.  He was certainly showing himself as more formidable a foe than anyone had expected.

Follow along  with the crew on twitter: @rippfinklemann, @thejonnygunn, @Bridie_OD, @CyclismasMercer, @saddleblaze. Follow show updates on Twitter @CCNN_TV.

This is my throne. This is my sport.

All the efforts, all the planning, all the crumbs for the dirty little masses to fight over, culminating in one life-changing event that occurred this past Sunday when I was a VIP guest – the grand poobah of cycling, the ultimate authority of everything two-wheeled – at the Olympic Test Event won by the home side.

I was booed.

Booed. Repeatedly.

But that wasn’t what shook me to the core. No, it was the fact that one of the little urchins scuffed my favourite pair of Hugo Boss black leather loafers. The 20-something punter had obviously had one too many pints of some cheap, sleazy lager and chose to “accidentally” back into me, and with the heel of his filthy Adidas hightops scuffed a large white mark across the side of MY loafer. Fooking twat.

It is events like this that make me blood boil red hot red. Red. Hot. Blood. It’s part of my motivation to close the circuits and eliminate these ridiculous drunken arseholes from the equation. This also led me to make my decision to head across the puddle and take in the USA-Pro-Cycling-Challenge-in-spite-of-the-fact-that-it-really-isn’t-a-challenge-and-has-even-less-to-do-with-the-entire-country-but-we-had-nothing-else-to-name-it-race for a little R&R before I have to deal with the unwashed masses again in Spain for that Vuelta business.

You see, the Americans really have the formula correct. Sure, they spend so much fooking time in their cars and really just think of bicycles like they think of that Frogger game that my oldest boy used to play back in the day – bicycles and riders are for squishing, bumping and rubbing, and ridiculing. However, they are brilliant at marketing a truly NOTHING event into the greatest thing since sliced bread.  They also recognize that it is important to separate the commoners from the millionaire money-grubbing elite that have lunched on the 300 or so million poor souls in that country since around 1981. However that’s politics, and I really don’t give two shites (or three) about that.

Take, for instance, the tripe that they blew on this very fancy and spectacular website which they probably paid way too much for:

The #1 Most Influential Athlete? Really?

“128 of the Gutsiest Riders.” “The #1 Most Influential Athlete.” “The most demanding race on American Soil.”  Testimonials from Ryder Hesjedal and George Hincapie. I’m waiting for the stereotypical used car salesperson to come out and do the hard sell on me.  After looking at this blatant attempt to try to sway the general public by basically saying “Like me! Really! Please! Like me! I had to buy my friends to put on this show!” This isn’t the best way to try to capture the imagination of the hardcore cycling fan, who really doesn’t have time to even attend the race, since according to the ever knowledgeable Chris Carmichael and TrainRight, the American yuppie/semi-professional athlete is too time crunched to train and is forced to do yoga and workouts in their hotel room in order to gain a chance to dominate that next Category 5 race that they pulled up to in their Audi A6, while riding on the latest $10,000 Pinarello Dogma.

No, the reason why I made the decision to check out this ridiculous race that will probably die a slow and painful death between October of this year and January of next year, was my lovely assistant, Bhon Mhat, showing me their foresight to take care of “uber riche” individuals like me. It’s a lovely acronym. Fooking brilliant little play on their part.

VIP.

Oh yes, you can entertain your business associates in private rooms, and mingle with the stars of the event at the event and enjoy a complimentary continental breakfast with juice and coffee for your thousands of dollars you just shelled out for an exclusive experience. That was a bonus for me. No more cruddy little nose pickers hanging around unattended and touching their heroes like we do in Europe. No sir, only the exclusives get to socialize with cycling’s elite.

Ah, the Thug Life of the Elite.

No more punters scuffing my Hugo Boss Loafers.

Needless to say, I’m quite excited about heading over to the wrong side of the pond. In fact, I feel so safe attending this cute little six-stage romp in Colorado, I plan on pulling my Ferragamo Derbys out. That’ll make Bhon’s day; he hates having to polish the damn buckles, but I have to have the silver parts shiny and sparkly.

Do I care who wins? Not really. Maybe I’ll even stop by and see what Aspen’s finest eating establishments have to offer, rather than ride the stupid bike that USA Cycling has “built” to my specifications. Whatever. For those of you with short attention spans, and who lack of depth in your cranial capacity, you can now move onto your gossipy tabloids or return to your ridiculous twatter about how tight Tom Danielson’s bottom looks in his PRPS jeans.

Right.

Our media experts say that market research shows we need to include a JV photo... *eyeroll*

According to “market research” done by the “wonderful” pinheads at this website locale, apparently the feedback has been that once I approach 1000 words the vast majority of you fall asleep. The other part is that sometimes my diatribes are so in-depth, and so mind bogglingly complex that your simple brains can’t comprehend exactly what the hell I’m getting at. So here’s some Cliff Notes for you stupid gits who can’t seem to get out of your own way long enough to figure out the plot. Alright then, let’s summarize the finer points from the past few weeks:

• Global Cycling Promotion SA is a company that was founded using UCI money in order to directly profit five individuals who are associated with the UCI, including yours truly.
• Global Cycling Promotions will receive direct profits from the Tour of Beijing, as they are the umbrella organization that is in charge of this event.
• Alan Rushton, one of my close associates, has been hired to provide technical support for the Tour of Beijing.
• Gerard Vroomen (he founded Cervélo) was correct in his assessment that Biological Passport test numbers are significantly down in 2010 and also in 2011.
• There is a disparity between which teams are tested, and how frequently they are tested.
• Some riders have significant gaps in between their tests (some riders have had six months between tests)
• Riders are not told if they are being tested for the Biological Passport Programme or if they are being subjected to a random test.
• Teams were supposed to receive the biological passport results every quarter according to Anne Gripper, but according to four separate teams, they only receive them once a year.

There’s your short recap of the last two Dispatches you twats. Now I can get those damned editorial people off my back. For those of you outside Europe (or located in the United States), you have now exceeded your attention span limit. Go stuff your faces with some Twinkies.

So, an actually important race starts this Saturday for the rest of the world outside of the United States. We know that Catherine Wiggins’ husband has spent oodles of time preparing for this event, after his disastrous turn at the Tour de France. In fact, Catherine was complaining on twitter earlier this week about how her husband’s preparation would fuse the electrics in the main house (for those of you curious, there has been a restraining order issued by the authorities on behalf of Catherine Wiggins’ husband. I am no longer allowed to directly reference him in my Dispatches under threat of imprisonment or a light slap on the wrist with a silk handkerchief).

Heat Chamber preparation?

His preparation? A heat chamber. Yes, in order to deal more effectively with that sultry Spanish weather, the ever-industrious husband of Catherine Wiggins constructed a Temperature Acclimation Chamber to prevent the lowering of his socks at any point during the race.

In fact, neighbours state that they were concerned when he started to wheelbarrow mud, sand, and lumber into the TAC, and began working around the clock, building some sort of scale model of something.

Angliru.

In a scene straight out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Catherine Wiggins’ husband, whilst listening to a steady stream of Oasis (driving any sane human mad), constructed a scale model of Angliru right there in his glorious TAC.

After two weeks and numerous neighbourhood complaints, Mr. Catherine Wiggins strolled out of the TAC, tranquillo.

Greg Henderson, brought in to survey the situation after many desparate phone calls from the queen of the manor, met his team leader in the back yard.

They paused.

Their eyes locked.

No one moved for several minutes. You could hear a bottle cage hex nut hit the grass it was so quiet.

Catherine Wiggins’ husband finally spoke. “I will win on Angliru.” He walked around Henderson, touched him briefly on the shoulder, and went to the corner pub for a pint.

Mr. Catherine Wiggins crafting his Angliru.

Henderson walked into the shed, and after being overwhelmed initially by the darkness, the smell, and the whirring sound of the heating apparatus, he focused on the architecturally scaled, authentic reproduction of the hallowed mountain. And on top, was a single solitary rouleur figure, arms aloft, painted intricately in Sky team colours. Yes, Mr. Catherine Wiggins is going to win the Vuelta.

Now, Bhon, story time is done. I’ve wrapped up the Vuelta Dispatch, have my notes for the Hotstove, and I’m ready for bed. Have you finished packing my suitcases for the puddle jump?  Yes, yes, I know you think that four bags is excessive for a few days, but the last thing I want to do is show up to VIP tent only to find that Kevin Costner is wearing the same blazer that I am.