Three Irishmen, Paddy, Mick, and Seamus, found themselves utterly baffled at the Tour de France. They’d stumbled upon it during their lads’ holiday, a break from their usual sheep-herding routine. “Now, what in the name of St. Patrick is this all about?” Paddy asked, scratching his head as a blur of Lycra whizzed past.
Mick, squinting, replied, “Looks like a load of lads on bicycles, Paddy. But why are they all wearing such…tight trousers?”
Seamus, the self-proclaimed expert on everything, declared, “They’re racing, lads! For… for glory! And maybe a voucher for free Guinness!”
They watched as the cyclists disappeared over a hill. A support vehicle, laden with bikes, followed. Then another. And another.
“They must have forgotten their bikes an awful lot,” Mick commented drily.
Hours later, the cyclists returned, even more exhausted and even more Lycra-clad. Paddy leaned over to Seamus. “So, who won, Seamus?”
Seamus puffed out his chest. “Well, I haven’t a clue. But I saw one fella stop and ask for directions. Now, that’s just foolish. Doesn’t he know the Tour de France is a bicycle race and not a lost person’s convention?”
Mick, ever the pragmatist, added, “Aye, and I saw another one stop to fix his tyre with bubble gum! Bubble gum, Seamus! A proper cyclist would have used duct tape!”
Suddenly, a small, elderly woman in a floral dress wobbled past on a rusty bicycle, her shopping bags overflowing with baguettes and cheese. She rang her little bell cheerfully.
“Look at that,” Paddy said, nudging Mick. “Now that’s a proper cyclist! Not these lads in their fancy outfits.”
Mick nodded. “Aye, probably on her way to win the ‘Local Shopping Marathon’ category.”
Seamus shook his head in disbelief. “She’s going the wrong way! She’ll never win the Tour de France like that!” Then, after a thoughtful pause, he added, “Unless… unless everyone else is going the wrong way too, and she knows something we don’t.” He squinted at the tiny cyclist until she vanished down the road. “She must be using the satellite navigation.”
