Career Day for Floyd

Onwards and Upwards!: Well, Floyd, the results are in, and despite paying Gibson Dunn & Crutcher more money than I'll ever earn in a lifetime for them to lose this thing (though they did leave you some pretty fine grounds for appeal, to their credit), you're out of a gig for good unless and until the CAS reverses this farce and restores you to your rightful place in the peloton. Still, a man's gotta pay the bills, and so far as I can tell, unless you've already got some nice solid profession like carpentry to go home to, ex-pro cyclists aren't good for much besides stocking the shelves at Wal-Mart and being the Fastest Bike Messenger In All Of Recorded History--noble pursuits both, but unlikely to match your former salary over at Phonak. Except for one job: that's right, Team Management! Now I've thought long and hard about this thing Floyd, because I think you've been disgustingly hosed even if you were guilty, but you've gotta do this *my way.* Here then, I humbly present my Disgraced Possibly Not Even A Doper Career Restoration Plan:

1. Accept DS job from grossly hypocritical team sponsor at bargain-basement price, on the contractual understanding you're about give them more news coverage in one day than slapping their gaudy logos on tiny cyclist spandex !@#$$ has bought 'em in 15 years.

2. Call press conference surrounded by preening corporate toadies. Bonus points for bearing the smirking presence of the loathesome Pat "Dick" McQuaid or Dick "Dick" Pound in the background. Wear that nice suit of yours, and leave the bite-me-ASO yellow tie at home!

3. Confess, on camera, that you've been a filthy doping pig all along. No, I don't care that you actually weren't--you want a !@#$ing job or not?! Commence bawling, and offer drooling apologies to your friends, family, the tifosi, the cycling community, your soigneur, the guy who delivers your newspaper and especially Greg LeMond. If you can't cry convincingly on camera, Floyd, a little hot pepper rubbed on a hanky always does the trick.

4. Announce, in your first act as Directeur Sportif, a rabidly stringent anti-doping program totally at odds with your (convicted) personal history. Daily blood tests, prison-trained packs of slobbering hounds to track down escapees who deviate from their previously announced schedules, 24/7 handcuffed escorts to the men's room, a video camera strapped to the cyclist's body in perpetuity to record malfeasance, mittens worn at all times off-bike including in the shower to prevent manipulation of doping products and paraphernalia. Boy, won't it be fun to be on your team!

5. Almost done! Tear up once more, blow nose loudly, look straight into the assembled cameras, and specifically promise your Mom that henceforth you will fully revert to the good values she taught you in childhood.

6. Return to hotel room. Crack champagne with buddies, and laugh your @#$ off. Ah, the wages of (proven only in a kangaroo court) sin!

Next Lesson: How to Be Sincerely Shocked, Shocked! When One of Your Proteges Turns Up Poz. In the meantime, get crackin'!