Blood, Guts, and the Giro

The Agony and the...Well, Agony: Boy, if the fact that the first two stage wins and the first two maglia rosas went to English-speakers weren't enough to make the Italian press freak out over an obviously imminent linguistic and cultural takeover, seeing national hero Petacchi admit he blew it and watching half their riders looking like extras from some sleazy teen-movie gorefest sure were. Is anyone else thinking that Alberto Contador, watchin' the carnage and thinking ahead to his own first stages at the Tour, is quivering at home like a storm-soaked Chihuahua right now?

A Gentle Plea to Vs.: WHY THE !@#$ AREN'T PHIL AND PAUL ANNOUNCING THE GIRO LIVE EVERY DAY YOU LANCE-OBSESSED GOONS? Is it really more fulfilling as a matter of sport to cover a bunch of cowboys sadistically jerking ropes around innocent bulls' fragile packages while they're being tormented by rodeo clowns for other people's entertainment? Do you realize how many windmills we've passed without an in-depth investigation into their presence in an important 15th-century painting, or the particular hoppiness of a local beer they enjoyed together back in 1963? Hell, let's talk race--in the midst of the hours of dead air that characterize the other English language coverage I can get, you think some of us might be curious as to how Caisse d'Epargne ended up fourteen hours in arrears by the finish line or how the hell Cadel's gonna survive in the mountains if his fine-yet-inexperienced young team can't hold it together in the flats? No, I'll keep watching Dutch streaming video interspersed with 8,000 hard-core porn ads per second, you just keep showing bass fishing--really, it's much better. Aiiigggghhhhhh!

Thor Hushovd is !@#$%ed!: well, Cavendish, you've maybe got your green jersey for the Tour de France, 'cause poor we love Thor's training's now been been wrecked by--as if his early-season illness weren't enough--a broken collarbone sustained running over some sweet little tot on a training ride. Now, I'm not saying you're not right in your endless, years-long whining about how you've been totally unfairly jacked out of the green jersey by someone less deserving through no actions of your own whatsoever. But what I *am* saying that, *this* year, if *I* were you and took the final jersey in Paris at the Tour after Thor's training had been so catastrophically interrupted, I'd be wondering every single day for the rest of my life if I'd really have won it if it hadn't been. Every. Single. Day. Of. My. Life. But that's just me who'd wonder. Every. Single. Day. You just run along and enjoy it, you hear?

Somewhere, Mark Cavendish and his 2,000 Teeth Are Grinning: speaking of Cav, I can give him one more reason to smile tonight: HTC set up the perfect--perfect--lead-out, and arch-nemesis/derided second-rate backup-boy Andre Greipel, indeed the only sprinter with any teammate within a kilometer of the finish line, completely and utterly blew it:
Apropos of not-the-last-kilometer, get well soon Christian Vande Velde, and anyhoo, nice job Wouter--but Patrick Lefevere still kinda thinks you suck!