"Hit" is Right: yep, it's been a traditionally beautifully balmy couple o' days in Belgium, as Het Omloop Neiuwsbladt and Kuurne-Brussels-Kuurne start off the smashing Classics season, as the boys whack the rocks like dominoes, beloved strongman Boonen gets thwapped with mechanicals with almost Hincapian regularity, zonked'n'filthy Tommeke, Nuyens, Posthuma and Pozzato head for the showers early, Robbie "Head-Butt" McEwen crunches his knee before he can whomp anyone upside the head with his helmet, and poor Stijn Devolder even gets smacked over by a flying garbage can in the monsoon. Anyone want to take bets on how long it'll take Contador to flee screaming rather'n take on the pave' with the big boys? Anyhoo, here's Juan Antonio Flecha attacking the field and humiliating the Belgians in the slop at Het Omloop:
A Gentle Reminder to the Fans: okay, fellow tifosi, we've sliced Thor Hushovd's arm off with a promotional cardboard tchotcke, let our dogs crumple the bikes of Tour de France like drooly tissues, thought the direct path of the surging peloton a lovely place to take a meandering summer stroll, and now we've decided that the best and most thoughtful way to get an action shot of Alessandro Petacchi winning a sprint is to clock him right off his bike and capture his bloody writhing form right in front of us instead: Now, can we try not to actually *kill* anyone at least 'til they've gotten their primary objectives for the season under their belts? Most appreciated, I'm sure!
Grey's Anatomy: in early-season body-count news, Rinaldo Nocentini's already out for the season with a couple of snapped leg-bones, Cunego's still in a full-body cast recovering from his traumatic boo-boos, and, even worse, Mark "Jaws" Cavendish's lost the first sprint of his life after an agonizing infection rots out a good dozen of his 8,000 razor-sharp teeth. Oh well, at least we know Stuey O'Grady and Oscar Freire are impermeable enough to survive even nuclear explosions like cochroaches, much less some toddler toothache or silly severed collarbone...that gives us *two* boys who'll make through 'til the end of the season, at least!
Woo-hoo!: all right, as you've surely heard and don't give a rat's tail-end about by now, the world of cycling has finally heeded my four-year-old plea and given we love Joseba Beloki, last heard sighing dejectedly over his hideous dissing, a new gig as a DS at Basque breeding ground Cafe Baque', where he'll presumably nurture the next generation of perfect tiny climbers. For those of you too new, or inexcusably oblivious, to the sport to remember dear Joseba, here's his monstrous Tour de France leg-snap, accompanied incidentally by the single greatest instance of bike handling in all human history at the hands of--yep, I'm givin' credit where it's due--Lance Armstrong: Now can anyone get we still love Roberto Heras another gig besides tottering around embarrassingly in clown-bike races, for heck's sake!?
Miss Manners He Ain't: meantime, as if the Vania Rossi/Riccardo Ricco' saga could get any more sordid with cowardly hightailing and accusations of baby doping,Ricco' manages to take the noble knightship of "wussmaster" to a whole 'nother level as his outraged big bro-in-law shouts that not only has the officious little geek been using training as an excuse to bail on his own son since the scandal broke ('cause we all know that it don't take Ricco' long to "train" a needle into his !@#), but he also had the remarkably fourth-grade lack of class to ditch poor Vania by a text telling her "I'm no longer in love with you, it's over." Am I the only one surmising there's going to be a good two dozen riders looking to shove this crybaby simp off the nearest mountainside on the grounds that he's not only a thieving cheat but a pathetic excuse for a pimply junior-high dork-boy? Damn, I'd rather watch Armstrong coverage than this stupid !@#$! Okay, maybe not Armstrong. Maybe the perpetually whiny St. David Millar could take up some airtime sobbing for the cameras instead?
Tweet O' The Week: finally, welcome to a new feature here on racejunkie, as this week's prize goes to we love Frank Schleck for this pearl in which he remonstrates Jakob Fuglsang for whining about his !@# and suggests a cure as well . Fascinating, but just perhaps a little *too* intimate to send out to even the less gossipmongering amongst the general public?
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