Wouter Weylandt was a hero. One of many. Another, as their 206 comrades who accompanied him in the Giro d'Italia. Another one of those to people close range branded as cheaters day in and day out without knowing even remotely what it means to be mounted on a bicycle and compete.
Wouter Weylandt has died down a third port, say a normal speed. Your pedal has stumbled upon a guard rail and his head, even protected by a helmet, has gone to a wall that has reaped Wouter life and this race soul. Life has been played as everyone, a third port on the third day of competition. Imagine what's at stake down class ports, special category, on roads wet, icy, cracked, impractical. Serving the show, of course.
Serving the show will play the neck thousands of cyclists every day. Some, few, several million euros. Others, most, eating and get a decent wage, hopefully. Mighty gentleman is Don Money. Cycling exceptions, is not profitable. Except for three weeks a year, these heroes that we all recognize today are relegated to ostracism almost complete for the media communication. Unless one mate, in which case the front pages of every newspaper will a poor man full of bleeding, dying, alongside a picture of Sahin and over the last blunder of Del Nido, Valdés, Mourinho or the mother who bore them. And nothing happens here.
Eurosport, in an exemplary display of professionalism and ethics, have decided not to broadcast or publish images Weylandt dying on the asphalt. Some will criticize them, everything has to be.
Tomorrow, it seems that cyclists will neutralize the stage and did not compete. They have strength, can not have them . Same thing happened to Wouter could happen to any of the hundreds who rolled an inch of it. Last run, it's your job, but many other people no longer remember. Meanwhile, his widow will give birth to the son he could not see Wouter. He explained that his father was a hero in the service of our refined palate. I will say that his father died in exchange for a couple of naps. The majority you forget the heroics at the end of the month, his family and colleagues I'm sure not. Me neither.
Farewell, Wouter.
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