[essay] July 13, 1967. In a wild, fever-like intoxication, Tom Simpson winds upward along the glowing gray tarmac leading to the top of the infamous Mont Ventoux. Several times his zigzag run is so uncontrolled that he is about to crash over the mountain side. Two kilometers from the summit, he pours into the ground.
The martyr. Professional cyclists are not the type to give of themselves. . .
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