Shaun White You Ain't: yep, in the first (and surely the most moronic) accident of the nascent season, Brit sprint wunderkind Mark Cavendish damn near took himself out snowboarding on his Nintendo Wii, yanking his hamstring but fortunately not so badly he still can't hit his first objective of the year. Jeez, first we gotta worry about Paolo Bettini taking himself out in his flying machine, then we haveta cringe hoping a coke-stoked party-hearty Boonen doesn't weld himself to a telephone pole in his Lamborghini, now we gotta sweat you idiots playing video games in the safety of your own family rooms? For the kind of dough you doofuses (doofi?) get paid to stay upright on a freakin' bicycle, just...sit quietly in an armchair or something during the offseason, willya? Here, have a nice cup of tea. No, careful, it's hot--put it down! Down! Now stay...stay...good boy Cav!
The King of Wishful Thinking: meantime, as a glum Bernhard Kohl whines that half the peloton's on CERA so it's crap that he's gone down for two years especially since he at least named every name beside his actual doping doctor's, disgraced Tour de France time-trial marvel Stefan Schumacher's on the legal warpath, objecting that his samples weren't tested in accordance with the rules, threatening to sue the French narcs for defamation, and firmly proclaiming he was never even on the juice in the first place. Hmmm...well-taken anger at grotesque procedural irregularities, protestations of actual innocence, a slanderous incompetent pack of lab chimps and gloating self-serving hypocrite officials swooning over their own saintly reflections in the mirror...well, we all saw how far that got Floyd and Iban, Schumi--might as well just save the dough, slink off into obscurity, and pray some half-assed under-funded wish-they-were-even-Continental squad wants your doomed tainted carcass two years from now!
Sweet Dreams!: and, as those poor saps at least have time to become resigned to their fates, Pat "Dick" McQuaid is busily striking fear into the rest of the boys, affirming that a whole wunk of 'em have serious problems with their biological passports and are about to join their brethren and sistren in the seventh circle of hell as the cheating skankmasters of 2008. All right, doping's very, very naughty, wah, wah, wah--but oughtn't the punishment be much harsher for sheer stupidity for anyone who hadn't the obvious good sense to jack up their blood values *before* they submitted to the program?
The Curse of "the Next Lance Armstrong": finally, congrats and crossed fingers for perpetual Great Grand Tour Hope Tommy Danielson, coming back from the crushing weight of ridiculous expectations and taking the argyle leadership at the 2009 Giro and Tour. Come on Tommy, we've seen you demolish a descent like a winged Savoldelli on Red Bull...just keep your cool, leave the rest of the pressure to Zabriskie & co., and redemption may yet be yours!
The Return of the King: and double finally, no, I'm not talking about freakin' Armstrong, I'm talking about we love two-time world champ/recently-retired-thanks-to-that-cheapskate-assclown-Lefevere Paolo Bettini, who after days of can-we-please-not-completely-crush-me-spiritually-if-this-is-bull!@#$ rumors is really back, this time in the role of manager to the new Fuji squad, risen from the ashes of the Ricco'-wrecked Saunier Duval and, perhaps, taking on all or even a bit of the smashing Stefano Garzelli's Acqua e Sapone as well. Sure, it massively blows that Il Grillo's not actually returning to the saddle where he so clearly belongs--but I'll take what I can get, woo-hoo!
We've Got Ourselves A Winner!: and, really truly finally, after weeks of pretending like he gives a rat's !@#$ about the Giro or any other cyclist but himself, Lance has now announced he *is* gonna ride the Tour de France, and thus gifts us with, in an early triumph for this year's Racejunkie Awards, the Bull!@#$ Quote of 2008: "I'm committed to riding for the best guy." Anyone else feel a body-wracking coughing fit coming on? Pack up the maillot jaune, put away those matching shoe covers, and call off the special yellow paint job, Contador--you're Lance's boy now!
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