The sun shining, Girlymann washed the dye from his hair. He had been letting it grow back, not as long as it once was but long enough to give a full body of golden curls. He put on his Campagnolo jersey, his lucky Lycra bib shorts, showing off his ass to its best and popping those thunder thighs to the max. Campy looked in the mirror and smiled.
"I'm back, I'm bad and I'm mad." He said with a snarl.
In his kit he put everything he thought he might need for his greatest adventure, the return of the famous De Rosa, the release of an innocent captive and hopefully the redemption of a country village. Any one would be a tall order to take but Campy knew the stakes and was willing to risk it all.
His red Pogliaghi, beautiful and gleaming, stood near the garden gate. It seemed to be waiting for him. An old war horse ready for battle. Pierre had new tires for it that Girlymann requested. A bit heavier than most race tires but dependable and that's what Campy needed most.
It was a fine day, the serious riders had left that morning and at about this time, mid afternoon, most will have been back, resting sore muscles. Campy was just starting. He said goodbye to Pierre and opened the garden gate to mount his bike and ride away.
With the wind once again in his face, Campy had a grin from ear to ear, only now he felt himself. No more servile worker, or Aussie tourist, just Campy Girlymann: bubble butt, bad, buff and beautiful.
Once on the outskirts of town he picked up speed to relax his legs and get his mojo. He passed cars, flew by cyclists and flirted with the boys. He was heading to the Estate du Claude the long way.
To be continued....
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