Gilbert doing Gilbert things, timing it to the second, outsmarting the specialists and the pursuers alike. Quintana doing Quintana things, going for broke come hell or high water, standing up to winds of fate with that stoic panache of a rider who can't help but ride to win. Quickstep being Quickstep, forcing the move, attacking in droves, getting it right just about often enough. Movistar being Movistar, a cunning plan dutifully executed, only to be outsmarted by an on-the-run strategical masterstroke of its own devising. Astana being Astana, unyieldingly punishing its riders by unapologetically punishing the race.
As much as I enjoy the high-mountain track stands, the cobbled slugfests, and those Gordian knots stage elegantly sliced open by a whirlwind sprint; cycling is truly at it's best on days like these. When there's everything to play for and nothing is certain but a renewed if often ephemeral faith in the uncertainty of a sport that so often mirrors life; where the grand narratives of our minds have no hold on a reality that has not yet been shaped to reaffirm them.