Talk to me and all you’ll hear from me is stages and sprints and peloton and maillot jaune, and Phil said and Paul said, and Lance maybe and Cancellara still, and Thor, Millar, and Kirchen, Contador, Levi, and Voeckler, poor Gesink. Italics and exclamation points to the third decimal place, the hundredth of a second, just when the race gets better than best. Every morning up early for the five hour live stage, rapid-fire calls with Stephen when he wants to be spoiled and strict phone silence when he doesn’t, eating Cheerios and blueberries for the taste that always sticks to these twenty-one days in July.

Tomorrow, the Pyrenees. Teeth biting nails as we speak.