Tom’s brother opened up the garage door and started dismantling his bike, so I went straight to it like a magnet. It was an Aladdin’s cave of cycling shit, every bike rider’s dream – the other person’s shed.
This was only a tiny section of one wall. The whole garage was just full of stuff like that. In Tom’s bedroom, the world ‘cross champion’s jersey was hanging up, with the number on, still muddy. And you don’t really notice it straight away, because there is all sorts of other stuff hanging up, then you spot it and think: holy shit!
He is young, not trying too hard to be correct, you get the real McCoy. A year down the road, when he’s had 12 months of PR training, it might be different. But his character makes it. He’s a like a mini Sagan.
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