ight then.
Ye've signed up. Good lad. Now ye've to pick a team off a grid of names that, if ye've never watched a bike race in yer life, reads like a phone book from a country ye cannae spell. Sit down. I'll walk ye through it.
I rode this race eleven times and never won a stage. Fetched water, blocked the wind, buried myself on the front so better men could take the glory. Which means I ken exactly what every one of these riders is worth — I've ridden behind the lot of them, or their fathers.
Before ye pick a single soul, understand the one thing that matters: the contest is no won at the top. Ye draft one Favourite, one Contender, two Dark Horses, two Long Shots. Yer favourite scores at face value. Yer dark horses, one-and-a-half times. Yer long shots, double. So the lads everyone's heard of are just yer wee anchor. The race — yer race — is won down in the weeds, with the names ye dinnae know yet. That's where I earn my keep.