ahead of them and had only the one in the yellow jersey left to overtake. But there was the finishing line! And the guy in the yellow jersey had only a few metres to go.
“Give it all you got, Nilly!” Eddy yelled, steering the bike as best he could so they wouldn’t run right off the side of the mountain. “Full fart steam ahead! Otherwise it’s noogie-time for you!”
“I’m trying,” groaned Nilly, who was very red in the face.
“Faster, Nilly, we’re not going to make it! Think about those soooooft lips!”
And Nilly thought. He thought that if they didn’t manage this, he would probably never get to see Lisa or Doctor Proctor again. This thought made his intestines give one final effort and he pressed out a little more wind so they shot ahead with a little more speed. The spectators watching would talk about it for years afterwards – that they had been witness to the fantastic sprint in the Provence mountains at the 1969 Tour de France, when the legendary Eddy and his strange red-haired passenger, whose name no one could remember, had flown towards the finishing line as if they had a jet engine on their bike. Some even claimed that the bicycle had lifted off from the ground. Yes, a few even imagined that a strange white smoke had trailed from the seat of the trousers of the little boy on the bike seat. Even so, it had appeared hopeless, up until the final metres when they had managed to increase their speed a tiny bit more and at the finishing line they had beaten the yellow jersey by a gumillionth of a millimetre. It was the first victory for Eddy, who would go on to became the world-famous Eddy who would win bike races around the world, but who in his memoirs would say that it had been that win in Provence that had made him believe in himself and stick with cycling.
But all that was in the future (or the past, depending on how you looked at it). Right now (or then) Eddy and Nilly were revelling in their win. They were both lifted off the bike and carried by the cheering crowd over to the winner’s platform, where they were given a medal and each given a teddy bear and kissed on the cheek by soooft lips. Then someone thrust a microphone in their faces and Nilly immediately pushed his way forward.
“Hello,” he said. “Is this TV?”
“Yes,” said the woman behind the microphone. “Can you tell the French people who you actually are?”
“Certainly,” Nilly said. “Where’s the camera?”
“Over there,” the woman said, and pointed towards an enormous camera set up in the back of a nearby truck behind her.
Nilly looked directly into the camera and stood up straight.
“Hi there, people of France,” he said. “I’m Nilly, and I think you should make a note of that name. Especially if there’s anyone out there named Lisa or Doctor Proctor, I think they should pay attention now. I – Nilly, that is – am coming to you live from the top of a mountain named—”
“We know the name of the mountain,” the woman with the microphone said impatiently. “You entered the world of cycle racing like a comet, Muhsyuh Nilly, but have you come to stay?”
“No,” Nilly said. “Actually, I would like to get out of here as soon as possible, so if Lisa and Doctor Proctor could come and pick me up, I’ll be waiting at the top of . . . What mountain is this, actually?”
“Moe Bla,” Eddy whispered into his ear.
“Moe Bla!” Nilly shouted. “To be precise, I’ll be at the . . .”
“Hôtel Moe Bla,” Eddy whispered.
“Hôtel Moe Bla!” Nilly yelled.
“My buddy and I will be staying in the tower suite,” Eddy told the camera. “The winner always gets the tower suite. Hurry, Lisa and Doctor Proctor!”
WHEN THE INTERVIEW was over, they were whisked off for massages and a wonderful hot bath in the tower suite. A tailor came up to the room, took Nilly’s measurements, and shook his head, laughing, before disappearing again. When he returned a few hours later, he brought a
“Give it all you got, Nilly!” Eddy yelled, steering the bike as best he could so they wouldn’t run right off the side of the mountain. “Full fart steam ahead! Otherwise it’s noogie-time for you!”
“I’m trying,” groaned Nilly, who was very red in the face.
“Faster, Nilly, we’re not going to make it! Think about those soooooft lips!”
And Nilly thought. He thought that if they didn’t manage this, he would probably never get to see Lisa or Doctor Proctor again. This thought made his intestines give one final effort and he pressed out a little more wind so they shot ahead with a little more speed. The spectators watching would talk about it for years afterwards – that they had been witness to the fantastic sprint in the Provence mountains at the 1969 Tour de France, when the legendary Eddy and his strange red-haired passenger, whose name no one could remember, had flown towards the finishing line as if they had a jet engine on their bike. Some even claimed that the bicycle had lifted off from the ground. Yes, a few even imagined that a strange white smoke had trailed from the seat of the trousers of the little boy on the bike seat. Even so, it had appeared hopeless, up until the final metres when they had managed to increase their speed a tiny bit more and at the finishing line they had beaten the yellow jersey by a gumillionth of a millimetre. It was the first victory for Eddy, who would go on to became the world-famous Eddy who would win bike races around the world, but who in his memoirs would say that it had been that win in Provence that had made him believe in himself and stick with cycling.
But all that was in the future (or the past, depending on how you looked at it). Right now (or then) Eddy and Nilly were revelling in their win. They were both lifted off the bike and carried by the cheering crowd over to the winner’s platform, where they were given a medal and each given a teddy bear and kissed on the cheek by soooft lips. Then someone thrust a microphone in their faces and Nilly immediately pushed his way forward.
“Hello,” he said. “Is this TV?”
“Yes,” said the woman behind the microphone. “Can you tell the French people who you actually are?”
“Certainly,” Nilly said. “Where’s the camera?”
“Over there,” the woman said, and pointed towards an enormous camera set up in the back of a nearby truck behind her.
Nilly looked directly into the camera and stood up straight.
“Hi there, people of France,” he said. “I’m Nilly, and I think you should make a note of that name. Especially if there’s anyone out there named Lisa or Doctor Proctor, I think they should pay attention now. I – Nilly, that is – am coming to you live from the top of a mountain named—”
“We know the name of the mountain,” the woman with the microphone said impatiently. “You entered the world of cycle racing like a comet, Muhsyuh Nilly, but have you come to stay?”
“No,” Nilly said. “Actually, I would like to get out of here as soon as possible, so if Lisa and Doctor Proctor could come and pick me up, I’ll be waiting at the top of . . . What mountain is this, actually?”
“Moe Bla,” Eddy whispered into his ear.
“Moe Bla!” Nilly shouted. “To be precise, I’ll be at the . . .”
“Hôtel Moe Bla,” Eddy whispered.
“Hôtel Moe Bla!” Nilly yelled.
“My buddy and I will be staying in the tower suite,” Eddy told the camera. “The winner always gets the tower suite. Hurry, Lisa and Doctor Proctor!”
WHEN THE INTERVIEW was over, they were whisked off for massages and a wonderful hot bath in the tower suite. A tailor came up to the room, took Nilly’s measurements, and shook his head, laughing, before disappearing again. When he returned a few hours later, he brought a
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