After the finish line in Troyes, Tom Pidcock sat on a shaded kerb, staring at the floor. His face told the story of the day. Dry and dusty, the skin on his nose looked as if it might flake off in small pieces, his facial hair powdered with dirt from the gravel tracks.
The minutes after the stage were for his own introspection. As the crowd of press around him swelled in size, Pidcock chose not to utter a word. Instead, he moved slowly, swigging a dark purple liquid from a plastic bottle, and trying to avoid eye contact. A team soigneur crouched on the tarmac beside him, respecting his wish for stillness.
