Evenepoel obeys, apologising to the reporters as he climbs aboard. It's already early evening at 2,600m above sea level, after all, and the sun is drooping from the cloud-flecked sky. He pokes his head out of the van and orders his young teammate in out of the cold. Yves Lampaert has an eye for these details. He gets to his feet and makes his way towards the reporters to translate his disappointment into words, but his teeth are chattering. The solidarity seems to shake him from his torpor. One by one, Evenepoel's teammates start to arrive, delivering claps on the shoulder or sympathetic grimaces as they troop past onto the team van. They have travelled 12,000km to be here, some with the express task of covering this rider's every move, but nobody dares to disturb this initial, hushed phase of the post-mortem. Now, Evenepoel stares into the middle distance as Soudal-QuickStep staff bustle about their usual post-race tasks and a group of journalists begins to assemble at a careful distance. Within a couple of minutes, the wax on his wings had melted and he was forced to relent, eventually fading to finish over a minute down on winner Miguel Angel López. Nobody did.Īs Evenepoel took flight, another solo exhibition seemed inevitable, but high altitude and early-season conditioning can make for a debilitating cocktail for a boy from the lowlands, regardless of his gifts. It's January, and Remco Evenepoel is sitting alone beneath a canopy atop the Alto Colorado, sipping on a can of Coke and silently cursing the impulsiveness that has just cost him the Vuelta a San Juan.ġ0km or so from the summit, the Belgian had burst forth from the peloton, turning a mammoth gear that seemed to dare anyone to follow. From time to time, even the man with the rainbow on his back flies too close to the sun.
0 kommentar(er)
