Bloody Minded in the Massif Centrale – Part 1

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I stood at the first feed station, my hands shivering as I opened my water bottle so I could pour the electrolyte powder in. The guy next to me was shaking so hard he couldn't get the bottle out of the cage on his bike. "Ça va?", "Non – froid...". I scanned the area for a medic, and that's when I registered the broom wagon – the coach that scoops you up if you are outside the time limit. It was parked behind the feed station and it was full of cyclists already, blowing into their hands. This was strange. There was a queue of cyclists begging to be let on, only for the driver to gesture "Complet" as he closed the doors. Clash lyrics began to roll around in my head; "Should I stay or should I go?"

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