How can you describe what was going on within a pro cyclist at the moment of the start? How can you explain this feeling? Was it as tense as a bowstring, ready to shoot an arrow at the perfect moment?

Olav loved the thrill before the start and the feeling of euphoria as soon as the energy broke loose. He loved the firm grip of the handlebars, how his legs stretched and how his upper body bent forward. The boundless power flowing into his bike with every turn of the pedals.

Soon he lay down in the first curve, felt the wind and heard the distorted cheering of the spectators who had gathered on the sides of the road. The drums of the pseudo-Vikings came to his ear muffled.

Olav's breath accelerated and a smile brightened his face.

Yes, he had missed it so much! This feeling of just being back on the big stage of cycling!

It did not take long before the finish line came into view. Olav was filled with melancholy, but once again he gave it his all. He gritted his teeth, shifted up a gear and pedaled like hell.

Now the first stage of the Tour and the time trial was over for him.

"That was way more unsatisfying than a quickie!" Olav unbuckled his helmet and drank from a sports bottle someone handed him.

Only 14 kilometres! That was just as bland as the sports drink he had been given.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at the digital scoreboard.

Max Mustermann, 1st place. 

Matti Meikäläinen, 5th place.

Olav Olsen, 12th place.

If you kept in mind that 150 other riders might in the end be behind him and only a few in front of him, it was a damn good result after his long break time. He could still take 1st place tomorrow, on a flat stage that suited him much better than a time trial.

"Olav?"

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and then threw the towel over his shoulders.

"Hello-hoo, Olav?"

Since the tension was over, he could finally go to the toilet. Not that there wasn't a quiet little place on the Viking Spades bus, but after each stage this throne was exclusively reserved for Morten's long sessions.

And if there was one thing Olav didn't like at all, it was being killed by poop clouds after a strenuous ride. So he preferred to fight his way through the crowd of riders, supporters and newsmen to seek another quiet hideaway.

Luckily there was a blue cluster of mobile toilet houses that still smelled fresh and clean.

Well, after the other 100 riders, who were still waiting at the other end of Dusseldorf, had arrived here and did their shit of relaxation...

"Olav Olsen? Do you remember me?"

Just as he was about to open the door of a still clean toilet, someone tapped his shoulder.

Another newsman? Were they even allowed to be in here?

Just keep smiling! He had to, even though he was about to poop his pants! 

"Yes, please?"

Out of the blue, he was pulled into a hug. "I've missed you so much, Olav, believe me! It was so boring without you!"

Who was that? 

Black curly hair held back by a green hairband, dark skinned, a green and white team outfit with orange highlights.

Olav was unable to react fast enough. Suddenly some slim hands put around his neck and pulled him a bit down. The curly head came closer and closer to him until finally soft brown lips landed on his own.

Olav opened his eyes and gasped for breath.

A kiss? A what? How? Why so suddenly?

He pushed the other one away and wiped his lips.

But the othe one just tilted his head and looked at him in surprise. "You must have forgotten me, dear Olav."

He winked and touched his lips as well, as if he wanted to trace the fleeting kiss once more. "In case you don't remember: It's me, your Punyaa! Punyaa Boonmee, ace sprinter of Team ShamroClovers - and your biggest fan!"