He was mighty quick on the downhill and on the flats, but lost a lot of time over the climbs. At each climb, his face turned to pain and his eyes glazed as he seemed to look inwards, his face drawn and mouth gulping as he suffered silently.

He inspired everone he rode near; his huge changes in speed made him nearly impossible to ride with. The race, nearly a hundred miles, climbed mountains in first snow, then rain and hail.

Mountains that broke Tour de France riders. Perilous, hairpinned descents at eighty kilometres an hour. For hour upon hour he rode.

A Brit was just about to quit. It was too hard, he said. The rain was no fun. Then the man rolled past, and the Brit's eyes and mouth hung wide. He remounted and tried to chase him down, soul lighter.

The man reached the final climb of the day, several hours ahead of the last rider. He pedalled and struggled, in a world of his own as he climbed.

He hauled over the mountain, one pedal stroke at a time, as the rest of the field rode past him.

By hell, he finished, the cyclist with one leg.