Edward Murphy was the first Irishman to complete the Tour de France.
In 1938, he finished 55th.
In the overall classification he left 4 cyclists behind him.
He retired soon afterwards, following the birth of his first son
Edward junior.
Uncle Edward.

For his 18th Birthday, Uncle Edward was given a record player and the bicycle his father had used in the Tour de France. Although the bike was still in good condition, Uncle Edward replaced the handle bars, the pedals, and he fitted the bike with a luggage rack and a set of lights.

At the age of 47 Uncle Edward went to live in Glasgow. He took three suitcases, his record collection and his bike, and moved into a hotel.
Temporarily, he thought.

Every Thursday night he went, with a friend from work, 
to a pub in the centre of town.
On his bicycle.
They'd have a few pints and leave after last orders.

Normally the pub stopped serving at 12 o' clock, but one night Uncle Edward and his friend stayed a little after closing time. 
With the Landlord they discussed that day's stage in the Tour de France.
Uncle Edward told stories about his father and his bike and they got one last round on the house.

They left the pub at about a quarter to one.
Uncle Edward unlocked his bike, put on his cap and said goodbye.
His friend told him that he looked like a professional cyclist, 
with his bike and his cap.
'Go for the Yellow Jersey Eddie!', he shouted as he cycled off.
'Give it your best shot!'

He had four miles to cover to get to his room and today's stage was an individual time trial.
He realized he was lucky to be high up in the individual ranking.
It meant he was one of the last to start the trial.

He decided to pace himself. No fading in the last few miles.
But not too slow either. He couldn't afford to lose time 
in the opening stages.
A clear strategy.
After a calm start he'd speed up.
And towards the end of the race, when his opponents would be worn out, he'd give it that little bit extra.
He'd win the time trial. 
And he'd be wearing the Yellow Jersey the next day.
Whether he'd still be wearing it after the mountain stages 
wasn't relevant now.

He was half way through the race when he reached the park.
He raised his tempo.
There were no street lamps anymore.
The light on his bike illuminated the path ahead.
His team manager was signalling. He was on schedule. He could do it.

As he left the park, he shifted gear and raised his tempo again.
In the distance he could vaguely see the tunnel under the main road, next to the hotel.
The tunnel marked the end of his race.

He was sweating now, trying to keep up his pace.
If he could maintain this speed, he'd definitely win the time trial.
And the Yellow Jersey.
And possibly even the Tour de France.

The finish was only a few hundred yards away now.
He stood up on the pedals and started his final sprint.
As he approached the tunnel his vision suddenly faded.
He tried to stop the bike as he crossed the finish line.
He'd won.

He stopped the bike and was still seated as it fell over.
He crawled away and tried to sit up against the tunnel wall.
There was blood running out of his nose.
Uncle Edward vomited, fell sideways and lost consciousness.

About three hours later a boy walked through the tunnel.
He saw Uncle Edward and thought he was asleep.
Or drunk.
He tried to wake him up.

When the boy saw the blood he went home to phone the police.
And an ambulance.

They kept Uncle Edward alive for a few hours before switching the machines off.

A great champion died that morning.