It is again the days of the Tour de France. France opens up and allows herself to be seen intimately, on roads past farm house and town, past Chateau and Cathedral, forest, rivers, and for a wonderful suspended time being, we take a break from the world of professions imposed upon us and we are all living idyllically again, along with farmers rolling their hay and the grace of fine old houses in fine old towns. Yes, a break from the impositions of big egos.

A writer finally offers his book, a novel, to 'the world' through Amazon. Awkward at first, feeling rather shy about it, a little paperback proof copy of it arrives. And yes, it is a book, in fact a decent one, living by its own rules and architecture just as the human creature grasps towards the form and its arch, the golden rectangle in which to fit many many random thoughts and events and give to them shape, coherence and beauty. A novel is not a profession, but yet it is something people must do, instinctively with the essential current and flow of consciousness and mental life.

No, there was another profession that sustained the person who writes, along with a lot of true generosity and support and love and kindness from those who matter to him. There was the great obstacle of work and attending to adult matters of responsibility, such as it is, and, you know, one tries, whether or not he does a perfect job at everything, for at least, he hangs in there. There is work, and work involves recovery. Bob Roll observes that a Tour rider goes through so much in a stage, physically, mentally, emotionally, adrenaline pumping, that it's hard to wind down and get a good night's sleep. One strength of Armstrong, Roll points out, is that 'you're not going to solve anything at 3 AM, and might as well just go to bed,' which is a gift of being able to shut off all the worries and relax, an interesting insight into the Armstrong character, a certain devil may care attitude essential to his sangfroid and exploits in a scary line of work.

Chekhov was smart to line up a professional life as a doctor as he built his writing career, early on even paying for his schooling with little pieces here and there.

Come to find out, a writer feels much more like a writer when he has something to show for it, a manuscript in a form that other people can actually find their own copy of and peruse, at least to keep on the shelf. It's a huge boost of confidence, a great support to the thousand observations, insights and judgments and event the personal wishes that behoove a writer. (No, I don't want to go out tonight.)

It feels right to watch the Tour de France, even with the volume on. I suddenly feel like all that verbal stuff doesn't throw the subconscious sources of thoughts off as a writer does while in a slump, thinking the slightest tire commercial will ruin a day's effort at the notepad.

It is, as Bob Roll points out, here as a comment on Mark Cavendish, initially dry in his efforts to win the sprint stage, a sign of character when a rider can put together a win from a losing streak, when things don't seem to be going right, grasping for what's wrong, living through it, keeping at it until making it work again. "I love the sport," Cavendish tells us. "I want to win."