How Do You Say "Oy, Gevult" in Luxembourgish, Again?: dang, not only has ever-presumptive Tour de France darling Andy Schleck had a crap start to his season, he's having a disturbingly crap run-up to the Ardennes Classics he's supposed to wow everyone in, as he bails outta the Brabantse Pijl after a crash and inexplicably lousy recovery. Johan, what the hell are you *doing* this boy? We *know* he can't time trial, now you're not even getting the poor kid to *climb* like he can? And don't give us some desperate smarmy bull!@#$ like you're just "making him save it all for July!" In good news, though, last year's Tour de France late-career revelation Thomas Voeckler blasted the course, Philippe Gilbert is marginally confident he'll get his form back someday, and, obviously, all-round strong-man Cadel Evans' chances of retaining his maillot jaune in Paris are looking better by the day. Hope that's some comfort to you Andy--sure is to me! Here's Voeckler's bold breakaway victory, with bonus irritating techno-!#$! too:
Pop, Pop Goes the Weasel, the Weasel: and, that tiresome doping rodent Riccardo Ricco' still just can't let go of his glory days, with his legal squad asking for yet more time from the narcs for the public to dwell on his essential skankiness. Look, the kid's still even doing training rides in hope for a comeback: Give it *up* already, you miscreant!
Nyuck Nyuck Nyuck!: finally, ya gotta love how discredited banned clen-snorter Alberto Contador keeps stickin' it to impotent nemesis Pat "Dick" McQuaid on twitter. Here--look what a fan just sent 'im!: Who else rode that year again?
Why do I love pro cycling? Because it's a chess game at 50 kilometers an hour. Because the last broken man in the peloton makes the best athlete from every other sport look like a 98-pound weakling. Because the women do it without multimillion-euro contracts, tv coverage, podium babes or homage. Because they can climb like they're being lifted by angels and descend like they're being pursued by devils. Because the tifosi will freeze on a mountaintop for six hours just to hand them newspapers to protect them on the downhill. Because a sprint is the cork shooting out of the champagne bottle. Because the exquisite reach of a time trial position is suffering and beauty personified. Because it gives the perfect sense of power and movement to those who can never achieve either. Because I must.
Come and see.
Give it *up* already, you miscreant!
Who else rode that year again?
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