Also, you completely missed my point. I don't mind someone waiting for a sprint. It's being so incredibly indifferent about winning that begins to be grating.
This is the night mail crossing the Border,Least possible effort. Trademark celebration. A mailman does not celebrate when he delivers the mail
It's alsmost as if race selection matters.The difference is that Roglic has spent about five minutes on the attack this season. Pogacar had managed more with an hour to go in the first race of his season.
The people here must have loved how he won Itzulia and Dauphiné this year.It's alsmost as if race selection matters.
But then I seem to recall Vingegaard being called megaboring in the Tour when he was making multiple long range attacks in the first week. Totally no bias there
Yet you're arguing...I’m a huge Roglic fan, but I don’t love his trend toward increasingly boring, defensive riding. Especially because he is no longer the best ITTer among GC riders. One mediocre day like in his last couple GTs and his small gains evaporate. I hope he is more aggressive in the Vuelta. He was more aggressive last year and in the Giro before he crashed. It seems to be when he is hurt/recovering or when he is in a weeklong stage race that is most defensive. But you can’t argue with his results this year.
Another postman here, and a cynical, modern version of this could be;This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?