Thursday, 22 March 2012

Milan San Remo 2

In which our heroine simmers down a bit, and realises she gives a shit

What was more interesting than all the armchair DS comments made by myself and others was my reaction to it all....

What Milan San Remo 2012 really taught me was that I'm in too deep.  I care.

I got all arsey and defensive of both Cav and Team Sky.  I couldn't understand how others weren't seeing what I thought I saw.  Comments on twitter made me quietly seethe.  And then it hit me.  This has become a relationship.

I've been playing it cool.  I could take it or leave it, stop any time.  Cycling and me were keeping things casual.  If we saw each other, cool.  If not, whatever.  But I've been lying to myself.  I've developed feelings.  I'm not sure I want to see other sports.  I want to define what cycling and me are to each other.

If I'm honest, the signs have been there for a while.   I've progressed from idly flicking through the cyclist's magazines (specialist publications, as I like to refer to them) when I'm bored, and I'm avoiding doing the washing up and I've run out of celebrity gossip mags telling me breathlessly who Jordan's shagging that week, to scouring them with genuine interest, sometimes before he's even got to them.  I've even caught myself scanning the Tech sections on more than one occasion.  Certain races have had me glued to twitter when the telly's been held hostage by a small child and a repeat of Scooby Doo.  I watched the entire 7 hours of the live coverage of the World Championship Road Race in 2011, and cried at the ending.  I don't cry when Bambi's mother gets shot, people.  I should've known what was happening, should've recognised the signs.

And, like a medieval queen, I appear to have chosen my champions.  I didn't realise I'd chosen them, but there they are.  And of course if they fail to please me, I might just put them to the sword.  Or pick another team (BMC are quite fit, aren't they?).  But here we are.  I have a team.  I like riders, I dislike riders. I am fan, hear me yell at the telly.

So there it is.  You got me, cycling.  You finally got me.  You'd better be bloody sure you want me.

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