I have a love ri­val: Scott

F1 Racing - - INSIDER -

I am Adri­ana Oliveira, in fact I don’t even have to use my sur­name, I am known through­out the world as just Adri­ana. How many women can say that? Al­though quite frankly that should be enough, I am one of the long­est stand­ing Vic­to­ria’s Se­cret An­gels (I started when I was ex­tremely young) and have been voted the World’s Sex­i­est Woman four times. FOUR times. So tell me, how the hell did I, in­ter­na­tional sex god­dess, end up in com­pe­ti­tion with a bloody bike?

His man­ager al­ways says to me, “Adri­ana, we [he says that when he means me] have to try to keep his en­vi­ron­ment as tran­quil as pos­si­ble over a race weekend.” That’s Bri­tish for “Leave him alone and don’t stress him out.” So I do as I’m told, I’m not a to­tal ego­tis­ti­cal bitch, but af­ter the race weekend, that means it’s all about me and ONLY me.

But still I’m sup­posed to share him with his man­ager, physio, trainer and press of­fi­cer; with the team boss, en­gi­neers, me­chan­ics, mar­ket­ing; with spon­sors, me­dia and fans. And that was in life B.S. (Be­fore Scott). Scott is worse than all the oth­ers put to­gether be­cause he’s tak­ing over his soul.

What about me? I have needs too. What’s the point of hav­ing this face and this body if no­body’s look­ing?

To him I am ‘Adri’ whereas the bike is ‘My Scott’. “Have you seen the new aero bars on my Scott, Adri?” “I can’t go out now, I have to in­stall the ce­ramic bear­ings on my Scott.” No one is al­lowed in our apart­ment with­out re­mov­ing their shoes and be­ing forcibly en­cour­aged to wash their hands. But the bloody mud-spat­tered bike is wheeled into the sit­ting room, where it is lov­ingly cleaned with baby wipes. I swear I hear it taunt­ing me: We’ve scaled moun­tains to­gether: don’t even try to un­der­stand.

So some­how I found my­self pulling out all my best moves to com­pete against a piece of metal (“Oh, it’s car­bon fi­bre, Adri baby”). I lit some can­dles, put on the ul­tra-sexy baby­doll I bor­rowed from the last shoot and struck a pose on the bed. Forty-five min­utes I waited like that un­til I got a stiff back and a sore throat from sigh­ing. I stomped around the ap­part­ment, fi­nally track­ing him down in the bath­room, where he’s naked on the scales hold­ing the bloody bike. “Look, Adri, it’s 300 grams lighter with the car­bon rims!”

The next morn­ing when I wake up yet again to an empty bed, I de­cide enough is enough. Apart from ev­ery­thing else, no man should be so proud of dis­play­ing his as­sets in skin-tight ly­cra.

So to all of you early ris­ers in Monaco, sneak­ing out in rain­bow-coloured leo­tards, I’m on to your two-wheeled cult and I’m stag­ing an Adri-in­ter­ven­tion. I’ve got a Vuit­ton hold-all full of tacks and I will use it. God bless you (un­less you are a cy­clist).

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