Christoph Roodhooft stood by the team bus, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the misty morning horizon. The riders were stretching, sipping espresso, or adjusting their sunglasses, but something was off. He could feel it in his throat. That tickle. That slow, creeping irritation that hinted at what was coming.
Cough.
Just once, but it echoed like a shotgun in the stillness of the team parking zone.
“Bless you,” quipped one of the mechanics without looking up.
“It was a cough, not a sneeze,” Christoph replied, voice slightly hoarse.
“Still sounded dramatic,” the mechanic mumbled, returning to tuning the derailleur.
It wasn’t the cough itself that bothered Christoph. It was the pattern. Every morning for the last six days, without fail, the cough had come. At the same time. Same intensity. Same scratch in the same spot in his throat. Like clockwork. He was a man of routines, yes — spreadsheets, schedules, recovery meals — but this was absurd.
“Coach,” said one of the young riders, approaching him cautiously. “You okay?”
Cough.
He gave a thumbs up. No need to alarm the squad before a mountain stage.
Still, it gnawed at him. Was it the cold air? Was it the post-race espresso ritual? The late-night planning sessions with no humidifier in sight? Whatever it was, the cough had become a fixture — an invisible but audible presence, always arriving on cue.
In a team like Alpecin–Deceuninck, where every gram mattered, every detail was scrutinized, Christoph’s recurring cough began to feel… symbolic. Riders began joking about it.
“Don’t start the team briefing until Christoph coughs.”
“Is it even 7 a.m. if he hasn’t coughed?”
“He coughs, and then the peloton trembles.”
Cough.
There it was again.
He tried lozenges. Tea with honey. Silent meditation. He even had a brief phone consultation with a Belgian throat specialist, who politely suggested it might just be “seasonal” or “stress-induced.” Christoph almost laughed. Of course it was stress. He was juggling egos, tactics, travel logistics, and occasionally reminding his sprinters to wear sunscreen.
Still, it felt strange to be so consistent. Riders fluctuated. Weather shifted. Tires punctured. But his cough? That thing was as reliable as Wout van Aert showing up to a race he probably shouldn’t dominate.
By day ten of the race, it had become a superstition. If Christoph didn’t cough before the team meeting, the soigneurs grew uneasy. The riders stared at him with nervous eyes. One even asked if he was “saving it” for the summit finish.
Eventually, Christoph embraced it. He began each day with the same ritual: coffee, weather check, race strategy — and then, right before the team meeting…
Cough.
The room relaxed.
Whatever mysterious force had bestowed this involuntary ritual upon him, it had become part of the team’s rhythm. A strange kind of glue. The cough that bound them.
And Christoph? He simply cleared his throat and got on with the day.
—
Want it mo
re serious or want me to remix it into a different style?