Like the pages of a book - A postcard from the 1996 Worlds

I can't breathe. I can't lift my eyes from the ground, and I can't hear anything but the clicks of the camera. It's as though the operator is so close he's inside my head. Click, click, click. All I want is for the noise to stop, the space to clear and for the race to start. But, to be honest, I don't really want to race. I just want to lose the television crew and photographer who have come all this way just to watch me take part in a junior provincial race. They're here for me. They're here for my name. They're here because I'm Eddy Merckx's son and the embarrassment from the attention is so intense that I want the ground to swallow me.

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