It's Yer Incredibly Prestigious 2019 Vuelta a Espana racejunkie Awards!

Seeing red--but traumatized because it's not the leader's jersey?  Bereft with the final Grand Tour done and dusted and only the Worlds and Il Lombardia left before the bleak slow descent into winter?  Well, cheer up, Debbie Downer, because it ain't over yet--yep, it's Yer Incredibly Prestigious 2019 Vuelta a Espana racejunkie Awards!  The schwag, should anyone burst through the impenetrable fog of my meaningless obscurity to claim it--I swear, I'm good for it!--(1) eternal internet shame (or glory!) for some future cyber-archaeologist to unearth 5,000 years from now; (2) a stunning custom-embroidered racejunkie cycling cap to show off yer notoriety and adorn yer noggin; (3) a passel o' handsome racejunkie stickers to thwap on the bike of some loathed rival; and (4) a genuine indeterminate-metal-and-rocklike-base-material statute thingamajig foraged from a local second-hand shop, BUT WITH YOUR NAME AND PRIZE WRITTEN ON IT.  Suck on *that*, cheapskate Oscars goody bags!

Punk-!@# Move of the Race (Individual Edition): Valverde against his own teammate and co-captain Nairo on stage--wait, was that 3? No, 6? No, 19? No, all of 'em!  And I gotta say, I enjoyed every nasty, backstabbing pedal-stroke.  Alejandro Valverde, you wily s.o.b., you never, ever fail to disappoint!

Punk-!@# Move of the Race (Team Edition): Yeah, I *know*, Marc Soler is an upstart little snot and if far greater riders can cheerfully pull off to the side of the road to surrender a bike or wait for their team leader, then why couldn't *this* egomaniacal twerp?  Because he was right.  I don't care if Nairo managed to have the legs to win a mountain stage because he's spent the last 6 years saving energy glomming onto everybody else's wheels--it was a d#!k move to drag another team's leader up to Soler, *then* spin by just enough to take the stage but not even grab the red jersey as a consolation prize.  And no, Soler's scripted apology and his DS' public admonition of the naive wee thing doesn't fix it.  You *suck*, Movistar!

Listen All Y'all It's Sabotaaaaaage! Prize: And, in a spectacular three-fer, leave it to Movistar to only pull their !@#$ together as a cohesive squad to attack race leader Roglic when he was delayed by a giant crash that not only took out half the Vuelta field, but the Tour and Giro's just past to boot, as the entire peloton, gasping behind their hankies and pearls in horror at the unwritten etiquette breach, erupted in gestures and outrage, mostly after, of course, they went along and put down the hammer too to their benefit.   On the plus side, Valverde, who at age 346 certainly ain't stupid, totally coincidentally managed to screw over his chief teammate-rival as well.  Damn, these clowns really *did* deserve to win the Team Competition!

Ice Ice, Baby Prize: Hailstones on Stage 9, forcing these fragile stick figures to beg for cover from any team car, overhang, roadside bar, or thornbush they could find, with nary a peep from the weather narcs in charge of stopping the race.  What is this, the !@#$ing Classics? Drench 'em bake 'em or freeze 'em, sure--but *really* race organizers, letting the poor things get pummeled to death by Nature's evil golf balls?  *That's* too much to demand!

Crash o' the Race (Holy Crap!): Think the stage 1 team time trial was gonna be hard on the riders? Well, we haven't even gotten there yet, as the Euskadi-Murias team car overcooks a corner during the recon and goes screeching into a barrier then face-plants into an actual building.  Luckily, it being the recon, the crowd hadn't yet filtered in and no spectators were hurt, and the team car guys emerged with nothing worse than bruises. Whew!

Crash o' the Race (Near Miss): As if the Great Gardening Flood of 2019 didn't cause carnage enough, with Jumbo-Visma and UAE completely wiping out and throwing both their bodily integrity and race prospects into total chaos before the race even got to the Stage 1 finish line, the aftermath damn near took out a third squad too, as Jumbo Visma's team car, understandably caught up by mechanics frantically trying to get their riders and their wrecked bikes off the tarmac and replaced with rides that weren't in pieces, was still stuck on the road, unfortunately tucked invisibly at the corner right as the unknowing Quick Step boys came flying through.  Amazingly, they managed to dodge the enormous additional solid obstacle, and even further disaster was averted.  Oh, my--good reflexes, Wolfpack!

The Little Engine That Could (Until He Couldn't) Award: poor Fabio Aru.  Once hailed as Cycling's Next Great Grand Tour Winner, then ground down by the initially adoring, then ruthless, Italian press into a self-defeating insecure nub, then buoyed by the identification, treatment of, and actually quite impressive recovery from a power-sucking iliac problem, only to look on fine returning form for this year's Vuelta then ensuing exhaustion after initial hampering from Stage 1's surfin' safari.  Still, major points for grinta.  Wishing you a better 2020 Aru!

Dope-Smack o' the Vuelta (Metaphorical): Enraged Tour de France reject Philippe Gilbert's textbook breakaway win on the vicious, and pretty unsuitable for him frankly, Stage 14.  Oh, and he grabbed Stage 17 too.  Sure, Quick Step gets some of the glory--but take *that* for screwing me in July, you b*stards!

Dope-Smack o' the Vuelta (Literal): Tao Geoghagen Hart and Ruben Guerrero, so pissed at their jointly allowing Fuglsang to take the stage on a breakaway that spindly cyclist fisticuffs ensued after the finish line.  Note: the asshat who stole Tao's Garmin off his bike *during his podium ceremony* the other day is a complete and utter tool.  Repent, jerkface, and give it back before he finds you--you've been fairly warned he can go all Bouhanni on your !@# !

Doping Bust o' the Race: no, silly, it's not some game-changing multi-squad scandalpalooza PED ring, or a huge payoff for UCI's current strategy of vaguely waving an iPad someone's using to play "Fortnite" in the general direction of a bike shop in hopes of not discovering a well-hidden high-tech motor, or finally figuring out whatever-the-hell-they're-all-on-lately that makes 'em look like they've  been sucked dry by a 40-foot deer tick--it's because some dimwit who never heard of the word "tarpaulin" didn't think to cover his substantial roof-top weed farm from the indifferent eye of the race helicopter, which gave the local non-cycling narcs all the evidence they needed for a marijuana bust.  Wow, glad we've managed to bring integrity back to pro cycling again--great job, UCI!.

Domestique o' the Race: For a guy who doesn't owe Quick Step jack for leaving him outta the Tour de France this year, he sure knows how to give back anyway.  Double stage winner Philippe Gilbert, who tenderly shepherded young Vuelta newb James Knox the entirety of Stage 20 and right across the line after the poor kid suffered an excruciating crash the day before, in the helpful company of fellow bad-!@# big name Zdenek Stybar.  Gilbert, we can always count on you to go out in style!

Fan !@#$wit Award: aw, this one's almost *too* easy.  In a race where enthusiastic-but-polite fans are most likely to try for a selfie with a beloved hero *before* the stage, or at worst frantically fly a Basque flag a considerate two meters from a dangerous date with your wheel, one astonishingly clueless--if admirably diligent--landscaper surpassed even the most idiotic, vulgar, camera-whoring Tour de France speedo-screamer by unleashing a truly Biblical deluge right on a tricky corner of the opening Team Time Trial course that managed to turn an already-technical stage into something outta the final scene in "Point Break" where Patrick Swayze surfs himself to death in the HUGEST WAVE IN ALL OF HUMAN HISTORY. The casualties?  Oh, just a surplus of stage hunters, indispensable domestiques, road captains, and 6 or 8 valid GC contenders--nothing enough gauze to shroud Buckingham palace, a few dozen gallons of alcohol, 8400 tubes of antibiotic ointment, and 35,000 meters of surgical stitching couldn't cure!

Grim Reaper Prize: to be honest, this is a sport that relies on outsize personalities to jack up the crowd and attack valuable sponsor Euros, so to expect Cipollini-like stud-muffinry or Saganesque joie de vivre outta everybody seems a little, well, unfair to the introverts in our midst.  So let's cut overall champion Primoz Roglic a little slack if he's not going all Suzie Sunshine for every interview, podium, and red jersey donned. The sole exception--his rolling cheerful last-day chat with Valverde, who since he helped shut down every threat from Movistar for 3 weeks without Roglic's boys having to break a sweat, damn well deserved one.  Go back to grumping all you want Rogla--the trophy you bagged today shines brightly enough on its own!

And Last But Not Least, Breakout Star of Vuelta 2019: 3 stages. One Young Rider's jersey.  And a tactical sense far beyond his approximate age of a nursery-school newbie.  Tadej Pogacar, this final one's for you--and enjoy it while it lasts, because you're a marked man from now on!

Well folks, that's the Vuelta.  Now let's take a deep breath, kick back the rest of the Cava, and get ready for the World Championships!

It's Yer Vuelta a Espana Jaysus *Now* What the Hell's Going On Out There Rest Day Dos Roundup!

Whew, were *those* exhausting climbing days--to watch on our end, anyway!  Luckily, we've *all* earned a good day's rest.  So now that we're down to the final push, what's the state of this crazy-!@# race?  This!

1. I don't care *how* many stages they win or who they smack around on GC--Movistar is still one !@#$ed-up squad.  Valverde continues to attack Quintana like antibiotics on sinus infection.  Soler's washed his hands of the whole lot of you bastards, with a brief pause to do Bala a solid, after his public rebuke from his DS.  And your general strategy appears to be Every Man for Himself Because There's a Zombie Apocolypse, with a frisson of Chased By Screaming Human Steroids in Bondage Gear In A Mad Max Movie and a subtle whiff of Holy !@#$ How Many Times Are They Gonna Remake "Halloween" Before They Run Outta Bodies?  Geez, maybe it *is* better Unzue sent Landa over to the Tour of Britain to brush up on gardening tips! Still, with Valverde firmly in second on the podium, and claiming fatigue which you know means he's waiting to bushwhack anyone in his way by this weekend, you can hardly write Movistar's whatever-the-hell-they-call-it off as totally ineffective--and with the commentators uniformly confounded by every half kilometer, you sure can't say it isn't entertaining!

2. (Minor) Celebrity Deathmatch: Ineos' Tao Geoghegan Hart and Katusha's Ruben Guerrero. Okay, so they blew the break and Fuglsang took the day--but what was *that* nasty little slap-fight after the line about?

3. Wolfpack My !@#--yes, that dashing breakaway victory was textbook PhilGil, but as a giant "!@#$ you for screwing me in July!"

4. It's All a Giant Slovenian Conspiracy.  Didn't you see--gasp!--that wily fist-bump between Roglic and Pogacar?  And the only reason everyone's clutching their pearls in horror is because no one *they* want to win has actually gotten their !@#$ together first.  Just because our guys are busy eating their own young doesn't mean those two can't make some sense!

5. Anyone else a little weirded out that Jumbo-Visma is suddenly a GC squad?  'Cause I'm about to start betting on Euskadi-Murias for the sprints!

6. It's Deja-Vu All Over Again: Come on.  I can't be the *only* one who thought Jakob Fuglsang already bagged a bucket o' Grand Tour stage wins!

7. !@#$in' Hell, Froome! Yep, *another* hospital photo op, this one proving that peeling a potato is apparently a slaughterhouse compared to crashing down a descent at rocket speed.  Either go away or get popped once and for all, we can't stand this crap any more!

8. If You're Lookin' To Score...I think the race helicopter guys are gonna be doing a *lot* more random buzzing of rooftops from now on, whether they're on the race course or not!

9. Vinokourov Isn't Done With You Mother!@#$ers Yet.  He's just bagged the Ironman World Championships in France in his age group--you think he doesn't still have a few scores to settle with the *cyclists* who got in his way?

Well, that's yer quickie review.  Tomorrow, it's an officially-classified "flat" stage, which means the sprinters are gonna let the break dangle to the very last millimeter before they decide if they're gonna cause chaos right to the line.  Onwards and (sorry, sprinters) upwards!

It's Yer Vuelta a Espana What the !#$! Just Happened Out There Rest Day Uno Roundup!

Look, so far this Vuelta's begun in chaos, and it's probably gonna !@#damn well *end* in chaos.  But there's a whole lot to keep in mind as we head into what's sure to be a mind-boggling Week 2, so to set us up right, what'd we learn--and what were we forced to unlearn--so far?  This!

1. Movistar is One Completely !@#$ed Up Squad.  Carapaz crashes out on an easy-money crit before the race even begins. Quintana wins on a sprint stage.  Valverde spends the next few stages attacking him.  Nairo's the team leader. Valverde's the team leader. They're both the team leader. Soler makes one freakin' move on his own behalf looks set to win the stage Unzue dope-smacks him over the radio and everyone's pissed at Soler for being pissed when Nairo drags another team's guy up to him to screw him then takes second place and the red jersey.  Nairo celebrates Unzue anointing him King of the Vuelta by formally announcing his three-year deal with Arkea-Samsic taking half the squad with him.  They've got an entire full-time paid soigneur solely dedicated to make sure Nairo Alejandro and Soler don't (1) spike each other's drinks with easy-to-catch doping substances (2) pulverize each other's primary and backup bike frames with a sledgehammer when nobody's looking or (3) inflict the mother of all nut-crunching race-ending wedgies by swapping the other guy's bib shorts out with a toddler's extra-small diaper chamois. And somehow, this pack of infighting freaks is *still* atop the Best Team rankings.  Kumbaya--now !@#$ you! No, !@#$ *you*! No...

2. EF Needs Divine Intervention. I dearly love EF for many reasons, not least because their team kit gives me all the happy Lampre Barbie Sparkle Rainbow Dream Unicorn Princess feels.  Nonetheless, even I didn't, it'd take a stone cold killer not to feel any sympathy for these guys after they first almost lost Rigoberto Uran to a crash, then lost not just him but everybody else to an entirely different gigantic crash, *then* took poor remaining GC-savior Tejay Van Garderen out with a busted finger, and now, apparently, their team bus has been commandeered by Satan and is careening around Spain without even a visible driver at the wheel.  So I'm not a religious person, but I implore me, you, and all people, plants, meme-friendly piano-playing housecats, and weird single-cell indeterminate life forms on this planet to invoke whatever gods, goddesses, spirits, ghosts, tree fairies, mermaids, selkies, gargoyles and garden gnomes you may worship to just *please*, *please* help the few remaining guys left upright on this squad to (1) make it outta here in one piece and (2) for just mercy's sake, somehow end up with a nice bonus stage win.  By Grabthar's Hammer, by the suns of Worvan, you shall be avenged!

3. In the Annals of Fan !@#$wittery, This Guy's Got the Guinness World Record. Smoke bombs? Cry me a river. Flags in my face? Wah, wah. Knock my actual head off my body with a selfie stick? Yap, yap. But deciding that "hey, *right* as the team trial is going by on incredibly unstable bikes with incredibly nervous riders on an incredibly twisty course is the *exact* right time to flood my garden *and* the course dicking around filling some kiddie pool" is a *whole* 'nother level of assclown.  Honesty, do you any of you dimwits even *know* there's a race on in your town?

4. By Comparison, a Race Moto Crashing Seems Pretty Tame, Right? Forget the riders staying upright: now we got the ground-level camera guys spinning out like some drunken dumb!@# inbred teenager with a rustbucket '67 Mustang doing donuts in a 7-11 parking lot.  Or hey, why not decide to outright drive into the line of a GC contender on a tricky descent?  Um, you do *know* it's not the *motos* trying to win the Vuelta a Espana, don't you?

5. Weather Protocol My !@#!: Sure, you can't *see* the race because a freakin' Sharknado has descended on the Basque Country and Jaws has taken out the race helicopter, but trust me, it's windy out there.  And rainy.  And would you enjoy the ride any *more* than you are if there's an entire Biblical plague's worth of hailstones dropped on six square meters of the course? Oh, hail no!

6. Geez, We've Barely Gotten Into the GC Discussion Yet! Yeah, that's because there isn't any, at least not any that makes any sense because half of them were wiped out in off-camera pileups, and the rest of 'em are so damn confused by what's going on we're lucky they're not riding the entire Vuelta course backwards at this point. Dumoulin Froomey whichever Yates that was and Carapaz are out before the start line.  Rogla gets nicked by a moto.  Lopez goes down on a gravel section.  Roche gone. Uran--well, which mishap do you want me to start with? Chaves is forced to switch to a big-boy bike, *twice*, right as he's wrangling a massive climb, gets promptly sucked up into Grmay's humongous seatpost, and they *still* haven't been able to pry him out of it.  Quintana's about to be crushed by his own ego, Valverde's still waiting for the key moment to implode, and hell, once the race organizers realize Pogacar's only six months old and can't even qualify for the Junior circuit, even the Vuelta honchos'll be honor-bound to take him outta the race. I'm telling you Landa sneak in here, they're so busy trying to figure out who's still on the start list they won't even question you when you try to sign in tomorrow!

7. I Can't Wait Until the Queen Stage on Day Twent--uh, on Day Nine!  Y'know, it's entirely possible this entire Vuelta has already been decided, but to be absolutely sure, the race organizers are gonna make you sit through approximately 18 more sprints and 39 breakaway stages o' suffering before they let these body-bandaged, rain-soaked, sun-baked, road-rashed wraiths climb off the saddle for a much-deserved rest. What the--what fresh hell is *this*?!  !@#dammit, I *told* you I wanted to ride the freakin' Tour de France!

8. The Gesticulating On This Vuelta Is Out of Control.  Between Gilbert nearly taking Henao's eyeball out with his elbow for resisting taking a turn in the breakaway, to Soler's extravagant screw-you to the cameras when ordered to sit up for Quintana, to Nacer Bouhanni punching a spectator in the face when he's not even in the country, it's clear that a looooooong season has taken its emotional toll on our beloved peloton.  Next thing you know, they'll be rolling on the floor like a pack of drama-queen cry-baby footballers because their shoelace has been air-swiped by a dung beetle.   Boys in the break, do your share--or don't complain I didn't warn you!

Well, that's your Rest Day Part Uno in Review.  Tomorrow, it's the ITT, which given how the race has played out so far, pretty much guarantees that Tony Martin's gonna be wearing the red jersey in Madrid.  Congratulations Tony!--or is it still too soon to pop the champagne?