Ah, ciclismo, la dolce vita—they’d believed it would be fine out. They’d had faith. Now, when they looked outside, they were secretly filled with dread.

The group ahead began to move. Shivering from the cold and the caffeine, the boys clicked into their pedals, shifted gears, and began to weave through the enormous crowd. They tore down and out of the city. Screeching brakes and shouting—it was chaos. Within minutes, they were soaked to the bone and could hardly feel their hands. Then, they hit the mud.

It filled their noses, their ears, pasted their teeth. It covered their glasses, their beautiful clothes, their bikes. They slipped and skidded. They could hardly shift or brake. They dodged past riders and watched riders dodge past them. It went on and on. It went up. They gritted their jaws. They gasped.

Their bodies filled with acid. They climbed. They passed slower riders and tried not to get passed. It was cycling, just as they knew it. It was beautiful, but it hurt.