Smackdown at Sanremo

The King's New Queen: as the clock ticks down to Milano-Sanremo, and the Italian press breathlessly sets up a showdown between we love Oscar Freire and Petacchi over Freire's uncertain comments on Ale-Jet's form, gazzetta's now going wild this morning over rumors that the on-again-off-again romance between the Lion King and Michael Ball is off again as Mario Cipollini is asking to be let out of his contract with Rock Racing so he can ride Sanremo. His new amore? Yep, none other than Team Tinkoff, famed last season for hiring the exact same dope freaks now residing at Rock then jettisoning them the second Oleg Tinkov had milked that PR cow for all it was worth. The tifosi, meantime, are already weighing in, excited to see him back but still mocking the old guy for pimping himself solely for cash. Man, one third place at the Tour of California and a few armfuls of swooning babes and this suave boy seems to really be getting serious! Don't test positive, don't test positive...

Random Rumor o' the Week: surprisingly, courtesy of Anthony McCrossen over at cycling.tv, who reported that the Astana team car had apparently been sighted along the curb on the last climb of the last stage of Paris-Nice, seemingly reproving the race organizers for leaving baby defending champ/I-promised-not-to-keep-mentioning-he-was-on-Liberty-Seguros Alberto Contador out in the cold. Mysteriously, the car had disappeared by the time the cycling.tv cameras caught up to the climb, leaving open the question whether Johan--since he can't get his boys into any races before August--ultimately took the more pragmatic course of action, which would be sticking a Domino's pizza sign on the roof in place of the bikes and at least letting Levi Chris and Klodi earn a few extra bucks shilling 30-minute pizzas to the expectant roadside fans. Either get these loyal guys a decent gig or let 'em loose, Bruyneel!

It's Your Favorite Schoolhouse, Schoolhouse Rock!: and, as Landis' closed-door-so-we-can't-see-him-get-hosed CAS hearing fast and furiously approaches, I urge you both to turn for serious updates to the dedicated dexters over at trustbutverify, who not only know all there is to know about the Landis affair (save perhaps an on-the-scene play-by-play of what actually did or didn't occur that night in the hotel room after the boy's ill-fated breakaway to victory), but also genuinely understand what the hell is being discussed scientifically, which is way beyond the doofus-level analysis you'll get from me on this issue (and on many others, but that's beside the point). Allez allez trustbut--and good luck Floyd you're gonna need it!

Now That's Just Weak: grinding up Mont Ventoux? For wussies. Taking out Tom Boonen in a sprint? A weakling could do it. But standing around in a pair of khakis and a dress shirt with a scotch-and-soda and intermittently tapping a small ball with a long stick? Now *that's* athleticism my friends! And in honor of said superhuman efforts, I bring you the latest in upper-class inbred doping scandals. Can you imagine what intravenous hijinks these astonishing athletes are up to post-match just to survive the next day's travails?

I'm Not Worthy: okay, so links it is folks, many humble thanks for the feedback, and, lacking a good cyclist sissyfest slap-fight to post this week, and in recognition of the fact that I can and will hold a grudge for all eternity over poor we love Joseba Beloki's ignominious and untimely retirement from the peloton, I provide you with yet another reminder of why we hate Pat "Dick" McQuaid and his loathesome death-by-innuendo hit squads, to wit, Joseba's announcement of retirement:



Fortunately, or more precisely un- due to Joseba's miserable suffering body language, you needn't understand much Spanish to get the general message. !@#$ you, McQuaid!