My dearest Fabian,

This summer, I write for a Dutch magazine about life in the women’s peloton and the Tour de France. A couple of days ago, I wrote an … errrm … letter to Fabian Cancellara. Thanks, José, for checking this translation.

O, how I wish it could have been me in your ear in last night’s Belgian tv show, Vive le Vélo. I would have whispered soft sweet words to you, or at least translated the other guests’ quotes as sultry as possible.

Even though your mighty thighs and beautiful buttocks were hidden under the table, you still looked delicious, your hair all wet and just-out-of-bed-like and your eyes twinkling. And the way you listen! Normally we never get to see you listening, because in interviews it’s always you talking. Now we finally had the opportunity to study you with your mouth closed. The look on your face was so dreamy. That translator in your ear must have been a woman, I’m sure of it – and I’m damn jealous of her.

It’s probably for the best Karl Vannieuwkerke didn’t interview you in German, with that incredibly sexy accent of yours. I love the Swiss anyway – I think that’s because I lived in your country for a while – but when I hear you speak in your native tongue, I need smelling salts.

Sorry, I’m getting a little sexist here. It’s not about your thighs, it’s about cyling. And my o my, how well you cycle. The way you ride your time trial bike. Perfectly still. You just wag your beautiful ass and rotate your gorgeous legs. Truly something to feast your eyes on. And the way you talk about it. Time trialing is the worst form of torture since people were hung, drawn and quartered in the Middle Ages, but coming from your mouth it sounds like pure poetry. You’re in your own tunnel, you say, you forget about the world around you: it’s just you, your bike and the road ahead.

Do you know I touched your bike? The one that made you World Champion in Mendrisio. I worked for a tv show called Holland Sport, and – once again – I didn’t succeed in getting you to come to our tv studio. Instead of you, your bike came over. I touched the shiny red varnish respectfully and even stroked your saddle. And after that… I know it’s sacrilegious, but I just couldn’t resist. I climbed on your bike. My legs are almost as long as yours. Yes, I have long legs. My saddle height is 77 cm, that should tell you enough. Your upper body is much taller though, I really had to stretch out to reach into the handle bars.

I called your press officers countless times as I worked for that tv show to ask if we could – please – do a feature with you. But no, we couldn’t. At least, not while I was working there. That’s the way things go: just after I quit my job to become a full time cyclist, Wilfried de Jong was invited over to do an interview with you for his Paris-Roubaix documentary. He sent me a photo of you on the massage table, just to tease me, with him sitting next to your bare legs.

I guess by now you understand it’s inevitable: everything that happened up until today was just foreplay. Our paths will cross, sooner or later. So let’s not beat around the bush. If you ever need someone to whisper in your ear, in whatever language you can think of: you know where to find me.

Uf widerluege, Marijn

Foto: Ticino Turismo