The Adventures Of Campy Girlymann Continues

Jean Claude thought for a while as he watched the lone rider disappear around a curve. He didn't remember seeing a rider that large at any time in the race and, it seemed to him, that he would have remembered someone that big.

"Pierre? I don't remember seeing him among the teams."

"He doesn't race on a team, Campy Girlymann rides for himself."

"He is not in the race?"

 "No. Not this race or any race. There is no point, he would win all of them."

"But what if he joined a team, he would be unstoppable."

"He is his own team, Jean Claude."

The Tour settled down to finish the stage, though the lead rider in the yellow jersey was upset knowing that a better rider than him was up ahead. The thought bothered him for he began to put the picture together of Campy Girlymann when he passed like the wind, those thunder thighs, the bodacious butt, a chest that sucked in air like a steam engine. Could a man like that roar pass an entire assembly of professional riders? No, it must have been a trick. A ploy to make Jean Claude feel inferior and he would not let that happen.

"I do not believe in this living legend." Jean Claude remarked to no one in particular.

The other riders said nothing, wondering why Jean Claude had not heard of Campy and his legendary feats. 'Where has Jean Claude been?' they thought and what would their lead rider do if confronted with Campy? Would he finish the race in the lead or tuck his tail between his legs?

The riders picked up speed, the top of the climb was near, there would be a long descent on the other side and a finish at a border town where Jean Claude would be victorious--again. Clenching his hold of the yellow jersey.

At the top waited a crowd to cheer them on, flashing cameras, huddled fans waiting for a glimpse of their team before the decent. Bursts of light hit the lead riders near the top. Jean Claude smiled for his fans and the cameras just before he tucked in for the decent. But just as he leaned over the bars, something caught his eye. On the side, next to a bike was the phantom rider. The yellow locks of blond hair that fell around his shoulders from the sides of his helmet, caught Jean  but it was the legs, tree trunks of corded muscle that Jean remembered most when Girlymann left him in the dust.

In a fit, Jean Claude flipped Campy the bird. Girlymann snapped a photo of Jean Claude just as he gave him the one finger salute. Campy's lips curled in a surly smile. He put his camera back in his pocket and watched the riders as they came to the peak and the relief of the decent to the finish in the distance.

When the last rider crested the top, Campy Girlymann mounted his bike and followed the riders at break-neck speed, catching up to the last rider. He tapped the rider's shoulder, a small young guy from a Belgium team.

"How would you like to win the stage?" asked Campy.

"I'm a domestic Campy, I could never win this stage or any other."

"Get on my wheel boy, and hang on like your ass depended on it. I'm going to make you famous."

With that Campy Girlyman shifted gears and felt the wind streak pass him and the Belgium rider tucked in back of his rear wheel.

To be continued....