In to each life some rain must fall, but too much is falling in mine.

Hello, it's stage 14 of the Giro today.

I'm very used to grand tours. I'm lucky enough to have been on lots of them.

And normally, and this is what I understand the case to be, you hold in balance all the time,

the understanding that what you have in the palm of your hand,

what you have lying ahead of you on the road every day is a balance of the good and the bad,

the light and the dark. And that's all part of the interplay that you understand

is the natural order of things on an adventure as big as this.

In to each life some rain must fall, but too much, too much is falling in mine.

I'm not sure about this Giro at the moment. I started off in a state of semi bliss

and it's become tricky. And when we descended out of Switzerland

down to the finish line in northern Italy last night, it became trickier.

And I was reminded of an amazing poem by the American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

who was a 19th century poet who wrote, I think, the greatest poem that's ever been written about rain.

The rain must fall, but too much is falling in mine.

The day is cold and dark and dreary. It rains and the wind is never weary.

The vine clings to the moldering wall, but at every gust the dead leaves fall.

And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold and dark and dreary.

It rains and the wind is never weary. My thoughts still cling to the moldering past,

but the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast and the days are dark and dreary.

Be still sad heart and cease repining behind the clouds is the sun still shining.

Thy fate is the common fate of all into each life some rain must fall.

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