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Plea of a cyclist's mother: please don't let my son's next ride be his last

It is Sunday night and my 17-year-old son Jamie is on his bike in the lounge room, riding on the rollers. A widescreen TV shows reruns of the Tour de France. Riders come towards him, flash past, two-wheeled terrestrials weaving through blocks of gold, lavender and stone.

 

He plans to have the ragged breath of a Froome, Cavendish or Quintana at his cheek one day, to feel the pure engine heat of other riders along the length of his body, to be part of the living organism of a peloton, stretching and snapping, morphing into a single cell....

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