Two Irishmen were sitting in a pub watching the Tour de France on TV.
Seamus shook his head and asked, “Why the hell do they do that?”
“Do what?” asked Mick.
“Go on them bikes for miles and miles, up and down the hills, round the bends.
Day after day, week after week. No matter if it’s icy, rainin?, snowin?, hailin? why would they torture themselves like that?”
“Tis all for the prestige and the money,” replied Mick. “You know the winner gets about a half a million Euros?”
“Yeah, I understand that,” said Seamus. “But why do all the others do it?”