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This is a grim and humorless read. If the intent of the book is to provide the feeling of being a domestique -- endless days on the pedals with no glory as a reward -- the book accomplishes it. It's a slog, like a 150 km ride on the cobbles in the rain. One would hope for the occasional wry observation, humorous anecdote, or just some behind the scenes revelations, but all you'll get is Charly pedaling away and bemoaning his lot in life. Spoiler alert: It ends with Charly looking back on what he seems to regard as a wasted life, and you looking back on the hours wasted reading this book. If you have a friend or relative who thinks the cycling life might be their calling, you might want to give them this book as a means of dissuading them from that dream. Together with books like Tyler Livingston's doping confessional, it made me glad for the first time that I'd never pursued the sport more seriously than I did.