Look, we all know what you did in 2019. And frankly, you oughta be ashamed of yourselves. So how better to start 2020 off with a clean slate than with a firm step forward and a strict dedication to our New Year's Resolutions? Well, for those of you too weak to make--or stick to--yer own, never fear--racejunkie's got you covered!
UCI: We are gonna wave our iPads *so hard* over some guys' bike frames you'll *know* we're gonna find any hidden motor out there. Even if we're really looking at funny cat memes. Hey--that one's playing the piano!
Mikel Landa: I will stop at nothing--no rival, no teammate (got that Poels?), no !@#$wit backstabbing team manager--to win the Tour de France. Tho of course I shoulda listened to racejunkie and taken a Giro or Vuelta first!
Philippe Gilbert: If I hear one more !@#$in' word about that !@#$in' Wolfpack I am going straight up Warren Zevon on their !@#es. Seriously, you fired *me*? Paris-Roubaix 2020, beeyotches!
Eusebio Unzue: Alejandro, I want you to absolutely kick Mikel Landa in the nu--oh wait, I got rid of that kid already! Um...Edu Prades maybe?
Egan Bernal: I'm 100% all-in for the Tour de Fra--ow, !@#$, Froomey, get that flailing arachnid elbow of yours outta my eye!
Chris Froome: I'm going 100% all-in for Tour de France number fi--ow, !@#$, Egan, quit biting at my damn ankles already!
Tour de France Organizers: a full-on, three week women's Tour de France. Ha ha--in your dreams--'cause it certainly ain't in ours!
Elisa Longo Borghini: Mine. The Giro Donne is *mine*. You hear me Vos Van Vleuten and van der Breggen?
Peter Sagan: I am going to reclaim my rightful place as King of the Peloton. Wait--did that !@#$er Van der Poel just pass me again?
The Giro: I will never, ever again put in some stupid surfeit of flat stages and egregious number of time trial kilometers to seduce lesser riders with bigger names to this beautiful race. What is this, the !@#$in' Tour?
Lucy Kennedy: I will not, *not* raise my arms in victory until I'm *sure* I've stuck a bike pump in the spokes of the woman behind me first. Winning!
Matthew Van der Poel: let's see, I've already conquered cross...road? no, got that...unicycle? too easy...tricycle races? bagged those...
Julian Alaphilippe: I will prove that I *am* in fact French cycling's Next Great Hope to win the Tour de France. And this time, I *mean* it--Fleche Wallone, my !@#!
Every Freakin' Idiot Fan on the Planet: I will not flood the racecourse, let my giant lumbering mastiff out for a stroll right in front of the peloton, try to take a selfie with Sagan in the last 50 meters of a sprint, or throw water, beer, or any disgusting bodily fluids onto an innocent rider. But asking me to keep my bouncing beer gut and precariously slipping Speedo outta yer face while I'm running beside you screaming with the cameras on me in all my doughy glory--now *that*'s just a bridge too far!
Well kids, time to kick 2019 off to the roadside. Let's raise a glass to a great 2020 season--and keep those resolutions dammit!
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
Monday, December 30, 2019
It's Yer Incredibly Prestigious 2019 racejunkie Awards!
Yes, it's another marvelous, and also appalling, year o' cycling done 'n' dusted, and in this gaudy self-congratulatory awards season where reality-TV celebrities strut the red carpet wearing godawful dresses that cost more than a pro road bike fer chrissakes, and movie stars explain away yet another incriminating photograph, we all know that what's *really* important is celebrating the good, the bad, and the !@#damn ugly in the marvelous world of pro cycling! Prizes--I swear, if anyone should be so bold, so wiseass, or so desperate to claim 'em--a custom-embroidered racejunkie cycling cap to adorn your shameful head; a passel o' dashing racejunkie stickers to slap on that jackwagon Team Skineos, or yer best friend; and a handsome, genuine abandoned promotional jock statuette trophy sustainably sourced from my local second-hand store with yer name personally written on it by me in indelible, irrefutable permanent ink. So without further ado, stand up and accept your prizes with pride!
Paranoid Conspiracy Theory o' 2019: He fell at high speed in a training run, breaking 86 major bones 14 rather important organs and ripping off 93% of his skin from road-rash, and yet, despite the faithful testimony of an eyewitness teammate that "that !@#$ looked *bad*", Chris Froome's deliberate failure to contemporaneously post sufficiently disgusting gory selfies of his being tended to by the 20 different medical personnel who were surrounding him, plus the hospital's apparent mishigas about promptly cleaning up blood from a healing recovery room instead of leaving it looking like the freakin' elevator scene from "The Shining" for two weeks, gave joyful credence--or at least roughly 12 jillion characters of Twitter space--to the notion that Froome was in fact relaxing in a secluded castle in Montenegro having his entire bloodstream replaced by liquid HGH cocaine amphetamines EPO espresso and Red Bull while nursing, not catastrophic and potentially career-ending injury, but a vicious paper cut sustained while opening his squad's latest Amazon shipment, all in a wily elaborate fiction designed to evade the narcs, make his crappy team look even more repulsive, and increase scrutiny of an improbable arachnid superstar with the approximate credibility of Lance Armstrong. Froomey, collect yer prize--if you can!
Smack Talk Award: Giro frontrunner Simon (?) Yates' smug pre-race warning that his hopelessly outclassed opponents oughta be "!@#$ting in their pants right now." Which they were, if only in helpless laughter as they left him far, far in the dust for 21 consecutive stages. Congratulations, Simon (?)--in a field normally crowded with racists, punks, and eejits, you win for sheer audacity!
Mystery Transfer o' the Year: Nairo Quintana to Arkea. Seriously, I mean, whose wheel is he even supposed to suck in the mountains *now*?
Fan !@#$wit Award: you know, there's usually no shortage of contenders here, and with idiots wrenching bidons outta passing racers' hands, causing crashes by popping up like deranged clowns in unexpected corners of high-speed descents, and flat-out tossing random bicycles into the charging peloton, this year's been no exception. But is 2019's winner a standout: yes, that total blockhead who figured that the opening team trial of the beautiful Vuelta was the perfect time to flood his poor dehydrated garden and, naturally, a twisty section of the race course, thus wiping out almost the entirety of an unsuspecting Jumbo-Visma and UAE, and damn near making an even more confused Quick Step plow head-on into a Jumbo car that apparently didn't place a high priority on getting this !@#ses outta the way. Where's Noah and his freakin' Ark when you need 'em?
Lying Lying Liar Prize o ' the Year: if you say you remotely even predicted Mads Petersen men's World Road Race Championship victory in Yorkshire--and yes, that counts even if you *are* Mads Petersen--honey, you are *it*. Mads, get ready to prove us all wrong next year!
TMI Award: look, from "marginal gains" to personal pimped-out campers to jiffy bags to special fluffy pillows for the delicate flowers to lay their noggins on, to rampant sexism and immediate backlash for whistleblowing, to pack-fodder donkeys transforming into Triple Crown racehorses overnight, we all know British cycling as a whole, are a bunch of dirty, doping, bull!@#$ting bastards. So *why* must we sit through the unduly explicit testimony of dueling deniers/classless emasculated !@#holes Freeman and Sutton, one accusing the other of erectile dysfunction--which ought to be treated with sympathy, not derision, anyway--and the latter asserting his wife LOVES HIS STUDLY NATURALLY-NON-STOP JUNK? Jaysus, I miss omerta!
Classics Upset o' 2019: sure, your first professional win--spectacular an achievement though it is--is likely to be a minor stage in an obscure race given the UCI stamp of approval only after a truly epic night of drinking, debauchery, and serious cash payments, but for my money, if you're gonna win ever, you might as well make it a big one, as stalwart EF worker Alberto Bettiol shocks the field and bags Ronde Van Vlaanderen for his inaugural stomp on the podium. Well done, kid--now Sagan, don't get complacent!
Giro d' Netherlands Award: look, you're hard pressed to find a more beautiful race in the peloton than the Giro Rosa--and a more legendary bunch of hometown heroes, from sprint bad!@# Giorgia Bronzini to Eliza Longo Borghini to Fabiana Luperini, to dominate it. But this year, from Van Vleuten to Vos to Van der Breggen, it was nearly an all-Dutch wipeout. The exception? Exciting breakout sprinter Letizia Borghese. C'mon, azzurri--you've got this next year!
Law of Obvious Unintended Consequences Prize: !@#$in' hell, Movistar. You *know* this trident team leadership at the Tour scheme never works. Couldn't you just have !@#$ed Landa over without making him schlep all over France for three weeks?
Superdomestique o' 2019: Stage 19, Vuelta a Espana. Wee youngster James Knox, a surprising Top Ten in the overall standings, goes down hard in a nasty crash, and takes, as one might expect of a cyclist, the start on Stage 20--barely. So who shepherds this kid the entire way on the hard-driving penultimate day? Damn straight, that's the legendary Classics and breakaway champion Philippe Gilbert, with the ever-intimidating Zdenek Stybar to boot, tenderly nursing this kid over mountain after mountain and right across the finish line. *Dang*, Quick Step--you *seriously* didn't give PhilGil a contract for next year?!
All Hail the Chief (For Not Calling This Off) Award: after years of grim photos of hypothermic cyclists shivering under enormous drool-icicle pornstaches, quivering like wet Chihuahuas at an ice sculpture convention, and even gnarlier reports of wizzing on their own hands to fend off frostbite and enable their numb hands to even halfway manipulate the brakes, a sympathetic, rational UCI finally institutes an Extreme Weather Protocol. What *doesn't* bother the high honchos snugged cosily in their space-heated VIP tents? *that's* right, these fragile boys being bombarded with ice balls the size of their heads, as a freak Vuelta hailstorm sends the poor battered things diving for cover under any thornbush, overhang, or big Belgian Classics man they can find. FFS UCI, you need these guys to be blitzkrieged by actual dinosaur-destroying meteors before you call it a day?
Crash o' the Year (Disc Brakes Are Better Edition): Wout van Aert vicious deli slice of a wipeout, just like the riders have been warning about for years. Never fear: happily, the boy's already back on great form at this weekend's cyclocross races, and fortunately, his full recovery seems assured. Glad you're back--now back on to rim brakes for you!
Orange You Glad I Didn't Say Banana? Prize: yes, a year that saw tender fluoro-carrots Fundacion Euskadi amass a pile o' mountain stage wins, then horribly collapse, also saw--through Mikel Landa's endless efforts, a whole lotta fundraising, and fans who were about to riot if this didn't happen--our precious Euskaltel, Orbea bikes and all, reborn as a World Tour team for 2020. Aupa Carroooooooooooooooooots--and watch out for the damage in the high passes, the rest of you saps!
I'm So Pissed Off I'm Not Even Going to Name This Award of 2019: You *suck*, Tour de France. You can't run a three week women's Tour to honor one of the most formidable all-terrain talent pools the peloton has ever seen, when you've already got a group of women riding the entire race a day ahead of the men's event dodging traffic, pre-Tour road closures, and rampant-running livestock with barely an unexpired gel and a half-patched replacement tube for support? How about just handing Van Vleuten Vos and Borghini a !@#$in' broom dustpan and garbage bag to neaten up the team bus area before the all-important boys arrive, and show 'em how you *really* feel about women athletes?
Don't Give Up Yer Day Jobs Award: god love 'em, but Astana's fearsome rap video darn near broke the cycling internet--and our eardrums--with the mellifluous stylings of founding Run-DMC member Jakob Fuglsang, a scary as hell start-off by Alexander Vinokourov, and all the crotch-grabbing, handsign-throwing bravado we've come to expect from drunken fratboys on an ill-advised YouTube spree. I love you, Astana, I do, but--come to think of it, Vino, just please don't hurt me!<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rMIv5Dsmuf8" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Snit Fit o' 2019: y'know, it takes guts--and a truly award-winning ego--to climb off your bike the day before the Tour de France time trial you're fully and fairly expected to win, all in the name of a colossal crybaby prima-donna masterclass tantrum over the fit of yer skinsuit. Next year--well, you got rid of 'im for next year, but Rohan Dennis, don't half think your new squad's gonna put up with this crap unless you win the race *first*!
Social Media Master o' the Year: if you don't love Toms Skujins--whether or not you can spell it, pronounce it, or pick 'im out of a lineup--you are one warped, sorry individual. Even more warped and sorry than those of us who *do* spend 14 hours a day on Twitter!
Cry Me a River Award: Dang, what is this, 2005? Lance Armstrong. After 'winning' 7 Tours de France, bamboozling the entire US into a blindly-worshipping cult o' personality, screwing over his own friends and making dozens of millions of dollars he'll *still* never have to give back, thus reassuring a century's worth of future cheat-weasels that slime *always* pays, what's Captain Whines-a-lot cryin' about now? Right, that he's cruelly oppressed by not being able to cheat at competitive--and let's be honest, meaningless to everyone not personally doing it--Masters' ping-pong because of his voluntarily chosen and richly enjoyed treacherous dirtbaggery. FFS Lance, pick up a used table at the town dump and upload videos of you smashing it solo against the backboard if you can't live for 2 seconds without the thrill of victory and the roar of millions of admiring fans. Now either give that mansion you live in to the guys whose careers you destroyed if you *really* want some sympathy, or wipe your tears on those seven yellow jerseys in private!
Punk-!@# Move o' the Year: miraculously, this breaks Alejandro Valverde's approximately 16-year winning streak, as that pathetic !@#$wit who cheated at freakin' *e-racing* far and away takes the prizes. Cripes, have you *no* dignity?
And Last But Not Least, Slap Fight o' 2019: between Luke Rowe and Tony Martin's DQ-worthy argy-bargy (and let's be frank, outright assault) at the Tour, a mid-interview smack upside the head by a passing resentful colleague, and Nacer Bouhanni looking to sucker-punch just about anyone for anything, these angry little toothpicks can generate a surprising amount of upper-body strength, but for me, the amiable Tao Geoghan Hart and Ruben Guerrero, outrageously pissed at jointly allowing Jakob Fuglsang to take the stage on a breakaway while the two of them d!@#ed around, then devolving into actual post-race fisticuffs, perversely warms my pacifist heart. Next time, someone intervene quicker--before these flailing incompetents actually knock *themselves* out!
Well folks, them's yer quick and dirty (yep, very dirty) cycling awards for this year. So collect n to 2020--and guys, just *try* to hold your !@#$ together this season!
Paranoid Conspiracy Theory o' 2019: He fell at high speed in a training run, breaking 86 major bones 14 rather important organs and ripping off 93% of his skin from road-rash, and yet, despite the faithful testimony of an eyewitness teammate that "that !@#$ looked *bad*", Chris Froome's deliberate failure to contemporaneously post sufficiently disgusting gory selfies of his being tended to by the 20 different medical personnel who were surrounding him, plus the hospital's apparent mishigas about promptly cleaning up blood from a healing recovery room instead of leaving it looking like the freakin' elevator scene from "The Shining" for two weeks, gave joyful credence--or at least roughly 12 jillion characters of Twitter space--to the notion that Froome was in fact relaxing in a secluded castle in Montenegro having his entire bloodstream replaced by liquid HGH cocaine amphetamines EPO espresso and Red Bull while nursing, not catastrophic and potentially career-ending injury, but a vicious paper cut sustained while opening his squad's latest Amazon shipment, all in a wily elaborate fiction designed to evade the narcs, make his crappy team look even more repulsive, and increase scrutiny of an improbable arachnid superstar with the approximate credibility of Lance Armstrong. Froomey, collect yer prize--if you can!
Smack Talk Award: Giro frontrunner Simon (?) Yates' smug pre-race warning that his hopelessly outclassed opponents oughta be "!@#$ting in their pants right now." Which they were, if only in helpless laughter as they left him far, far in the dust for 21 consecutive stages. Congratulations, Simon (?)--in a field normally crowded with racists, punks, and eejits, you win for sheer audacity!
Mystery Transfer o' the Year: Nairo Quintana to Arkea. Seriously, I mean, whose wheel is he even supposed to suck in the mountains *now*?
Fan !@#$wit Award: you know, there's usually no shortage of contenders here, and with idiots wrenching bidons outta passing racers' hands, causing crashes by popping up like deranged clowns in unexpected corners of high-speed descents, and flat-out tossing random bicycles into the charging peloton, this year's been no exception. But is 2019's winner a standout: yes, that total blockhead who figured that the opening team trial of the beautiful Vuelta was the perfect time to flood his poor dehydrated garden and, naturally, a twisty section of the race course, thus wiping out almost the entirety of an unsuspecting Jumbo-Visma and UAE, and damn near making an even more confused Quick Step plow head-on into a Jumbo car that apparently didn't place a high priority on getting this !@#ses outta the way. Where's Noah and his freakin' Ark when you need 'em?
Lying Lying Liar Prize o ' the Year: if you say you remotely even predicted Mads Petersen men's World Road Race Championship victory in Yorkshire--and yes, that counts even if you *are* Mads Petersen--honey, you are *it*. Mads, get ready to prove us all wrong next year!
TMI Award: look, from "marginal gains" to personal pimped-out campers to jiffy bags to special fluffy pillows for the delicate flowers to lay their noggins on, to rampant sexism and immediate backlash for whistleblowing, to pack-fodder donkeys transforming into Triple Crown racehorses overnight, we all know British cycling as a whole, are a bunch of dirty, doping, bull!@#$ting bastards. So *why* must we sit through the unduly explicit testimony of dueling deniers/classless emasculated !@#holes Freeman and Sutton, one accusing the other of erectile dysfunction--which ought to be treated with sympathy, not derision, anyway--and the latter asserting his wife LOVES HIS STUDLY NATURALLY-NON-STOP JUNK? Jaysus, I miss omerta!
Classics Upset o' 2019: sure, your first professional win--spectacular an achievement though it is--is likely to be a minor stage in an obscure race given the UCI stamp of approval only after a truly epic night of drinking, debauchery, and serious cash payments, but for my money, if you're gonna win ever, you might as well make it a big one, as stalwart EF worker Alberto Bettiol shocks the field and bags Ronde Van Vlaanderen for his inaugural stomp on the podium. Well done, kid--now Sagan, don't get complacent!
Giro d' Netherlands Award: look, you're hard pressed to find a more beautiful race in the peloton than the Giro Rosa--and a more legendary bunch of hometown heroes, from sprint bad!@# Giorgia Bronzini to Eliza Longo Borghini to Fabiana Luperini, to dominate it. But this year, from Van Vleuten to Vos to Van der Breggen, it was nearly an all-Dutch wipeout. The exception? Exciting breakout sprinter Letizia Borghese. C'mon, azzurri--you've got this next year!
Law of Obvious Unintended Consequences Prize: !@#$in' hell, Movistar. You *know* this trident team leadership at the Tour scheme never works. Couldn't you just have !@#$ed Landa over without making him schlep all over France for three weeks?
Superdomestique o' 2019: Stage 19, Vuelta a Espana. Wee youngster James Knox, a surprising Top Ten in the overall standings, goes down hard in a nasty crash, and takes, as one might expect of a cyclist, the start on Stage 20--barely. So who shepherds this kid the entire way on the hard-driving penultimate day? Damn straight, that's the legendary Classics and breakaway champion Philippe Gilbert, with the ever-intimidating Zdenek Stybar to boot, tenderly nursing this kid over mountain after mountain and right across the finish line. *Dang*, Quick Step--you *seriously* didn't give PhilGil a contract for next year?!
All Hail the Chief (For Not Calling This Off) Award: after years of grim photos of hypothermic cyclists shivering under enormous drool-icicle pornstaches, quivering like wet Chihuahuas at an ice sculpture convention, and even gnarlier reports of wizzing on their own hands to fend off frostbite and enable their numb hands to even halfway manipulate the brakes, a sympathetic, rational UCI finally institutes an Extreme Weather Protocol. What *doesn't* bother the high honchos snugged cosily in their space-heated VIP tents? *that's* right, these fragile boys being bombarded with ice balls the size of their heads, as a freak Vuelta hailstorm sends the poor battered things diving for cover under any thornbush, overhang, or big Belgian Classics man they can find. FFS UCI, you need these guys to be blitzkrieged by actual dinosaur-destroying meteors before you call it a day?
Crash o' the Year (Disc Brakes Are Better Edition): Wout van Aert vicious deli slice of a wipeout, just like the riders have been warning about for years. Never fear: happily, the boy's already back on great form at this weekend's cyclocross races, and fortunately, his full recovery seems assured. Glad you're back--now back on to rim brakes for you!
Orange You Glad I Didn't Say Banana? Prize: yes, a year that saw tender fluoro-carrots Fundacion Euskadi amass a pile o' mountain stage wins, then horribly collapse, also saw--through Mikel Landa's endless efforts, a whole lotta fundraising, and fans who were about to riot if this didn't happen--our precious Euskaltel, Orbea bikes and all, reborn as a World Tour team for 2020. Aupa Carroooooooooooooooooots--and watch out for the damage in the high passes, the rest of you saps!
I'm So Pissed Off I'm Not Even Going to Name This Award of 2019: You *suck*, Tour de France. You can't run a three week women's Tour to honor one of the most formidable all-terrain talent pools the peloton has ever seen, when you've already got a group of women riding the entire race a day ahead of the men's event dodging traffic, pre-Tour road closures, and rampant-running livestock with barely an unexpired gel and a half-patched replacement tube for support? How about just handing Van Vleuten Vos and Borghini a !@#$in' broom dustpan and garbage bag to neaten up the team bus area before the all-important boys arrive, and show 'em how you *really* feel about women athletes?
Don't Give Up Yer Day Jobs Award: god love 'em, but Astana's fearsome rap video darn near broke the cycling internet--and our eardrums--with the mellifluous stylings of founding Run-DMC member Jakob Fuglsang, a scary as hell start-off by Alexander Vinokourov, and all the crotch-grabbing, handsign-throwing bravado we've come to expect from drunken fratboys on an ill-advised YouTube spree. I love you, Astana, I do, but--come to think of it, Vino, just please don't hurt me!<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rMIv5Dsmuf8" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Snit Fit o' 2019: y'know, it takes guts--and a truly award-winning ego--to climb off your bike the day before the Tour de France time trial you're fully and fairly expected to win, all in the name of a colossal crybaby prima-donna masterclass tantrum over the fit of yer skinsuit. Next year--well, you got rid of 'im for next year, but Rohan Dennis, don't half think your new squad's gonna put up with this crap unless you win the race *first*!
Social Media Master o' the Year: if you don't love Toms Skujins--whether or not you can spell it, pronounce it, or pick 'im out of a lineup--you are one warped, sorry individual. Even more warped and sorry than those of us who *do* spend 14 hours a day on Twitter!
Cry Me a River Award: Dang, what is this, 2005? Lance Armstrong. After 'winning' 7 Tours de France, bamboozling the entire US into a blindly-worshipping cult o' personality, screwing over his own friends and making dozens of millions of dollars he'll *still* never have to give back, thus reassuring a century's worth of future cheat-weasels that slime *always* pays, what's Captain Whines-a-lot cryin' about now? Right, that he's cruelly oppressed by not being able to cheat at competitive--and let's be honest, meaningless to everyone not personally doing it--Masters' ping-pong because of his voluntarily chosen and richly enjoyed treacherous dirtbaggery. FFS Lance, pick up a used table at the town dump and upload videos of you smashing it solo against the backboard if you can't live for 2 seconds without the thrill of victory and the roar of millions of admiring fans. Now either give that mansion you live in to the guys whose careers you destroyed if you *really* want some sympathy, or wipe your tears on those seven yellow jerseys in private!
Punk-!@# Move o' the Year: miraculously, this breaks Alejandro Valverde's approximately 16-year winning streak, as that pathetic !@#$wit who cheated at freakin' *e-racing* far and away takes the prizes. Cripes, have you *no* dignity?
And Last But Not Least, Slap Fight o' 2019: between Luke Rowe and Tony Martin's DQ-worthy argy-bargy (and let's be frank, outright assault) at the Tour, a mid-interview smack upside the head by a passing resentful colleague, and Nacer Bouhanni looking to sucker-punch just about anyone for anything, these angry little toothpicks can generate a surprising amount of upper-body strength, but for me, the amiable Tao Geoghan Hart and Ruben Guerrero, outrageously pissed at jointly allowing Jakob Fuglsang to take the stage on a breakaway while the two of them d!@#ed around, then devolving into actual post-race fisticuffs, perversely warms my pacifist heart. Next time, someone intervene quicker--before these flailing incompetents actually knock *themselves* out!
Well folks, them's yer quick and dirty (yep, very dirty) cycling awards for this year. So collect n to 2020--and guys, just *try* to hold your !@#$ together this season!
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
It's Yer 2019 racejunkie Merry Festivus Gift List for the Peloton!
Yes, it's that heartwarming, giving time of year, when we all throw parties, send cards, give each other carefully chosen gifts, and give ourselves severe acid reflux when we view our January credit card bills. So in this season of love and generosity towards our fellows, what do we wish for our beloved members o' the peloton (and beyond) in the glorious world o' cycling this year? This!
1. EF Education First: a top-flight pair of Oakley sunglasses for everyone. 'Cause either they *were* trippin' when they designed that psychedelic 2020 kit, or they're gonna *be* trippin' when they're wearin' it!
2. Andre Greipel: one last (or heck, several last!) Grand Tour sprint victories. You give those whippersnappers what-for, Andre--we know you you've still got it in you, ya big lug!
3. Rohan Dennis: a spankin' new, perfectly fitted Team Skineos bike and time trial skinsuit. OR ELSE HE'S GONNA BLOW A GASKET MID-RACE AND DISGRACE THE WHOLE TEAM (LIKE THAT CAN GET ANY WORSE), YOU HEAR ME BRAILSFORD?
4. Team Sky: if the latest (and ickiest) British Cycling testimony is gonna be believed, a case of empty Coke cans to fill with clean urine to outwit the narcs, and a bucketload o' Viagra tablets. Not that those big studs need 'em or nothin'!
5. Mikel Landa: a break. The kid needs a freakin' break. What *is* this !@#$ with Poels or whoever yammering on about pursuing his own chances at the Tour. Get that twerp in *line*, Bahrain, and give Mikel some unqualified leadership for once! Wait...isn't this basically what I wish for Mikel *every* year?
6. Alejandro Valverde: an Olympic gold medal, and the 2020 men's world road championship. Because I basically have no soul. You go, Bala--heck knows time won't stop you!
7. Lucy Kennedy: Stage 3, Giro Rosa. An exhausted Kennedy raises her arms in victory--but just a moment too soon, as the indefatigable Marianne Vos speeds up and *just* pips her at the line. Lesson learned--now you're ready Lucy, so take that GT victory in 2020 you've so hard-earned!
8. Matthew van der Poel: To see the press-hype--and his actual palmares--this kid's the second coming of Peter Sagan. Honestly, besides maybe a camera-friendly wheelie trick, what the hell *else* could he possibly need?
9. Bella Italia: A World Tour team. I mean, this is *Italy*, home of Coppi, Bartali, Pantani, Simoni, Bronzini, Petacchi--for over 100 years, the perfect and beautiful Giro. Seriously, WTF?
10. Amgen: Bring back the EPO Tour of California! Where *else* do you get a fun, exciting stage race primarily sponsored by a popular PED? The "Hal's Illicit Blood Bags" Tour of California just doesn't have the same ring to it...
11. Tejay Van Garderen: look, everybody loves Tejay. How 'bout a nice big fat solo GT stage win to shut the doubters on this guy?
12. Sam Bennett: some !@#damn credit. A guy with his huge pile of wins this season, and he can hardly get a contract for 2020? I call bull!@#$!
13. The Climbers: great legs. 'Cause with Euskadi back at full World Tour status, their poor rivals are gonna need 'em!
14. Primoz Roglic: He can have second at the Tour, after Mikel. And next person who mentions his prior sporting career, Rogla gets to kick in the nuts!
15. Toms Skujins: Baked potatoes. Mashed potatoes. Scalloped potatoes. Fried potatoes. Hash-browned potatoes. Au gratin potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Latkes. All hail the King of the Perfect Carb!
16. The Wolfpack: a new nickname, 'cause let's face it, right now no-one can take another second of this self-promoting !@#$. "Basket o' kittens", maybe? "Six-pack o' Brewskis?" Naw, doesn't sound tough enough...
And finally, My Beloved Reader(s): may your cycling days be filled with warmth and sunshine--or, if you're Belgian, miserable, freezing rain and mud. May the cobbles not flatten your tires, may your chain never break, and may your stem never spontaneously shatter. May your bidons be full, your power gels delicious, and your apres-ride beer be crisp and cold. So kick back, enjoy your presents, and on to (holy crap!) 2020!
1. EF Education First: a top-flight pair of Oakley sunglasses for everyone. 'Cause either they *were* trippin' when they designed that psychedelic 2020 kit, or they're gonna *be* trippin' when they're wearin' it!
2. Andre Greipel: one last (or heck, several last!) Grand Tour sprint victories. You give those whippersnappers what-for, Andre--we know you you've still got it in you, ya big lug!
3. Rohan Dennis: a spankin' new, perfectly fitted Team Skineos bike and time trial skinsuit. OR ELSE HE'S GONNA BLOW A GASKET MID-RACE AND DISGRACE THE WHOLE TEAM (LIKE THAT CAN GET ANY WORSE), YOU HEAR ME BRAILSFORD?
4. Team Sky: if the latest (and ickiest) British Cycling testimony is gonna be believed, a case of empty Coke cans to fill with clean urine to outwit the narcs, and a bucketload o' Viagra tablets. Not that those big studs need 'em or nothin'!
5. Mikel Landa: a break. The kid needs a freakin' break. What *is* this !@#$ with Poels or whoever yammering on about pursuing his own chances at the Tour. Get that twerp in *line*, Bahrain, and give Mikel some unqualified leadership for once! Wait...isn't this basically what I wish for Mikel *every* year?
6. Alejandro Valverde: an Olympic gold medal, and the 2020 men's world road championship. Because I basically have no soul. You go, Bala--heck knows time won't stop you!
7. Lucy Kennedy: Stage 3, Giro Rosa. An exhausted Kennedy raises her arms in victory--but just a moment too soon, as the indefatigable Marianne Vos speeds up and *just* pips her at the line. Lesson learned--now you're ready Lucy, so take that GT victory in 2020 you've so hard-earned!
8. Matthew van der Poel: To see the press-hype--and his actual palmares--this kid's the second coming of Peter Sagan. Honestly, besides maybe a camera-friendly wheelie trick, what the hell *else* could he possibly need?
9. Bella Italia: A World Tour team. I mean, this is *Italy*, home of Coppi, Bartali, Pantani, Simoni, Bronzini, Petacchi--for over 100 years, the perfect and beautiful Giro. Seriously, WTF?
10. Amgen: Bring back the EPO Tour of California! Where *else* do you get a fun, exciting stage race primarily sponsored by a popular PED? The "Hal's Illicit Blood Bags" Tour of California just doesn't have the same ring to it...
11. Tejay Van Garderen: look, everybody loves Tejay. How 'bout a nice big fat solo GT stage win to shut the doubters on this guy?
12. Sam Bennett: some !@#damn credit. A guy with his huge pile of wins this season, and he can hardly get a contract for 2020? I call bull!@#$!
13. The Climbers: great legs. 'Cause with Euskadi back at full World Tour status, their poor rivals are gonna need 'em!
14. Primoz Roglic: He can have second at the Tour, after Mikel. And next person who mentions his prior sporting career, Rogla gets to kick in the nuts!
15. Toms Skujins: Baked potatoes. Mashed potatoes. Scalloped potatoes. Fried potatoes. Hash-browned potatoes. Au gratin potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Latkes. All hail the King of the Perfect Carb!
16. The Wolfpack: a new nickname, 'cause let's face it, right now no-one can take another second of this self-promoting !@#$. "Basket o' kittens", maybe? "Six-pack o' Brewskis?" Naw, doesn't sound tough enough...
And finally, My Beloved Reader(s): may your cycling days be filled with warmth and sunshine--or, if you're Belgian, miserable, freezing rain and mud. May the cobbles not flatten your tires, may your chain never break, and may your stem never spontaneously shatter. May your bidons be full, your power gels delicious, and your apres-ride beer be crisp and cold. So kick back, enjoy your presents, and on to (holy crap!) 2020!
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