hung(a)ry for more.

Wednesday, 4 May, 4:55 p.m. The first real summer day in Hungary. In the 25 degrees Celsius heat, I went for a walk to see the start of something big, something that had never happened before in my small country. The atmosphere, despite the excitement, was not quite festive to the eyes of the townspeople. People lined up at the horn cake stall waiting for their afternoon sweets, and in the exclusive, expensive fashion shops and the small streets that meandered alongside them, men in suits and ladies in cocktail dresses lined up, preparing for their fancy events for the rest of the week. Andrassy Avenue, at the end of which was the team presentation, is a staggeringly long road, about 2 kilometres long, but it crosses so many intersections that it feels at least twice as long. Perhaps the funniest thing, though, is that it was only until the last quarter of the way through that someone started to get the feeling that something huge was going on in Budapest. The amateur cyclists with their better and less good equipments, the tourists dressed up in pink, came in twos and threes.

Getting to the square at workdays is relatively easy. You cross at least two zebra crossings, then a third one, and you can get where you want to go with ease. Now it was ten times more difficult. On the one hand, the front of the square was already full at 17:15, this was the part that was full of real supporters and patriots, and the back was also filled with cyclists quite quickly. I don't like crowds, I hate standing in the middle of everything, because once you go there you don't move for 3 hours, which makes me extremely uncomfortable. It was a heightened atmosphere, but somehow it was comfortable. Even if it meant that neither an autograph nor a photo was possible. Do I regret it? All in all, I would say no.

At an event like this, it's important to feel myself comfortable and that the hosts make me feel that my presence there is meaningful. In a way, I am glad that the Italians have adopted this process. The Hungarian presenter was never my favorite, I could have used decades of samples to find people for this job who could have perhaps made this show a touch more bike-orientated, but honestly that was my biggest problem with the whole thing. Somewhere deep inside, it was a euphoric feeling to see the best riders of the cyclist world riding up to the podium. Some were serious, some were laughing, but they were all determined, and I could tell from far they were impressed. Surprisingly, the appreciative crowd greeted not only the stars with great affection, but also the Grand Tour rookies from the smaller teams. The whole aura of the place was brilliant, it was a big celebration. After Richard Carapaz had told his expectations for the race with a beautiful Spanish accent, I left the place feeling that my life had been completed, that I could see everyone from 40 metres away, from a premier plane, and as the pink clouds lit my way to the train, I thought that if everyone appeared here on Saturday, one by one, it could be the best day of my life.

And then Saturday came. After spending Friday from the warm comfort of my home with a bag of onion crisps and a glass of wine, being thrilled and shocked to witness how many people were out there with the peloton and how much excitement Hungarian roads brought to this race. The schedule was simple, I set off from home at noon and tried to adjust to the bottom of the climb somehow in order not to miss the best moments. This was turned on its head when, after getting on the wrong bus twice, I ended up having to take a huge detour from the original route. I was on the verge of madness, being in the city but on the wrong side of everything and having to go around a mountain to get to Canaan. Avoiding crying, I went into an amazingly shabby little shop to buy some snacks and refreshments... and of course to get some peace of mind. Luckily, I overcame it and, stunned by the smell of fine dining in the amazingly bourgeois restaurants below the castle, I made my way to the crossroads, from where the uphill climb was only two blocks away. It was a place I'd been to countless times, which was, on some level, a place of comfort for me. I cannot say exactly why. It's a pain to get up there, there's usually a lot of traffic, but at the same time you can see everything you can and should see of the city from the top. Ironically, this time I positioned myself at the bottom and found a seat next to an elderly family and a couple of young people who were fortunately knowledgeable about the broadcast/bike racing and updated me several times at the beginning about the standings. In hindsight, this was a mistake.

The time trial is a very interesting discipline. Originally, I thought I would line up opposite to the time trial point so that I could follow the results at some level. When I saw that there were only two big sponsor boards... I was a bit desperate. Somewhere in my head I was expecting that this wouldn't be the day when I could do all the calculations about the GC standings, but the Giro taught me to rely on my feelings. But at the same time, a great deal of impatience began to set in. When are they coming? Is something wrong on the road? Are they not as fast as I thought? In 3-4 minutes, a book of questions had piled up inside me. And then came the number one motorcyclist. And behind him came Vanhoucke. And the instant goosebumps came over me. As he turned on the outside curve of the corner, I had to back out to keep myself out of trouble. Lest my excessive enthusiasm cause something inexplicable. Lest I become the next OpiOmi. Everything happened so fast. 176 contestants, 176 minutes of fun, cheering, wild rides.

It was a very mixed environment, there were some real blood Hungarian fans, who cheered for their home riders at every sporting event. There were journalists who were spat out by the Hungarian propaganda and fired from public television for not following the government's instructions enough. Next to me was a Hungarian junior champion who, despite having tens of thousands of kilometres of racing experience, was just amazed. And there was me. The little man, the man who had soaked up the experience through the devices since 2007, but never had the chance to live it up. The reclusive someone I'd always been, now lived his life in the best possible way, briefly. I was stunned for the whole day. I had never imagined that a road could turn into an arena with a brutal roar, but when van der Poel, Valter, Peak, Fetter, Girmay or Nibali arrived, a mass of sound roared them to success. An elderly gentleman standing next to me summed it up best, who said, "Today is a special and great day in my life because I am unconditionally happy for everyone here, and that is rare in our world." He was absolutely spot on.

Walking back to the Chain Bridge after the time trial, a young couple were watching the last few seconds of TT on their phones. The three of us were surprised to see that Yates had won, and then they went to dinner by the Basilica. I went straightly to the bus and tried to process what had happened. I still haven't managed it. But one thing is certain. All the treasure in the world was worth that day. If the local Tour can follow suit and add a hilly Budapest stage to the race every year, it wasn't just a one-off euphoria. In either way, it has been a lasting memory that will surely define my future. Long live cycling, long live the Giro.