Strangely saddened in late October for heck's sake by the sudden cessation of Giro d'Italia coverage? Still mourning the magnificent vistas of the legendary Stelvio but not the fact you weren't the poor bastard who had to climb it? Do you find yourself inexplicably screaming "Vai! Vai!" at the TV during Barca matches? Yep, !#$%ed up as this year has been, it's *still* been a year which included the bangin' Giro, which means it's time for Yer Incredibly Prestigious 2020 Giro d'Italia racejunkie Awards! Prizes--I swear on my Marea Naranja history-of-Euskaltel book, so you know I'm dead-on serious--for any awardee so unlikely as to know about, much less read, this crap or so desperate as to claim 'em: (1) a dashing custom-embroidered racejunkie cycling cap; (2) a passel o' handsome racejunkie stickers to deface that !@#$er-who-made-you- crash's bike, helmet, or face; (3) eternal, or at least til blogger shuts down this farce, infamy; and (4) a genuine actual sportsy trophy either (a) crudely engraved with your name and the award you won with a nail scrounged outta the basement if I don't impale myself with it first then have to rush to the hospital to get myself a tetanus shot or (b) carefully written upon by Sharpie with your name and the award you won in very satisfactory penmanship. So without further ado, let's get this show on the road--so at least you have something to read if the Vuelta gets cancelled tomorrow!
I Call Bull!@#$ Prize: fine, numerous people, a lot less blockheaded than I, knew all about baby talent Jai Hindley and his amazing powers of domestiquecity for surging leader teammate Wilco Kelderman (not to mention I'm a !@#$wit for not taking Wilco more seriously for GC in the first place, despite being ever-dazzled by the sheer coolness of his name). But if you started out this race--or hell, got to about Stage 16 of it--thinking that this quality young cyclist was about to dang near win the !@#damn Giro d'Italia in his very first ever Grand Tour, you are a bigger liar even than that assclown testifying in the British doping inquiry that he totally accidentally destroyed 14 individual laptops with incriminating information by totally accidentally assaulting 'em with a screwdriver, a *really* sticky spilled soda, a Sherman tank, a cap gun, and a flamethrower. Chapeau to the incredible Jai Hindley on an incredible achievement!
Wonder of Wonder, Miracle of Miracles Prize: c'mon, between the weird October start, the threat of bike-blocking blizzard conditions in the mountains, the relentless increase of positives as the route went along, *you* weren't convinced this show was gonna make it to Milan either. And I still don't know how it did--and I hope it wasn't by taking unnecessary risks with the staff and riders just to get the job done--but it did. To everyone who couldn't safely stick it out, we're all glad you did what was best. To everyone else who managed to make it over the finish line--just wow!
Baby Shark, Baby Shark, Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo Statuette: honestly, I don't know *what* his nickname is, but the totally unexpected, and totally deserving, Joao Almeida in pink for one, much less for 13, stages was just one of the dearest surprises this unpredictable race had to offer. And, he fought for it every day with grinta and let it go with dignity and class. Beautiful work Joao and team!
Sharp Dressed (Well, Almost) Man Award: as anyone who's ever limped about in the blistering toe-crunching misery of high heels, or, I hear from still-grimacing sources, inadvertently zipped themselves up in the fly of their jeans, can tell you, fashion is *pain*, honey, and it damn well nearly was for newb Jai Hindley, who almost ran himself off the Stelvio and into the far valley below in a vicious fistfight with his own rainjacket trying to get the damn thing on before he froze to death. Hell, Kelderman had to give up entirely, tossing his aside right when he could've used the comfort most. Um, maybe that new sponsor gear was just a little *too* aero, Sunweb?
I Love You, Spartacu--Um, Pippo! Prize: *Who* blazed outta the start gate to take all 3, alternating pan-flat and nasty-hilly alike, time trials *and* some time well spent in the maglia rosa as well? That's right, Terror o' the Tarmac Fabian Cance--oops, that's newly-crowned reigning World Time Trial Champ, hometown hero, bearer of endless name puns, and owner of the bitchinest-painted bike this side of an orange Euskatel Orbea classic, Filippo Ganna. *And* he took kind effort in his post-stage interview to aver that he far treasured his teammate's unexpected GC triumph over any of his own. Nice work on all counts, Ganna!
Smack Talk o' the Race: perhaps it was the pressures of team leadership makin' him feisty, but it wasn't enough for Jakob Fuglsang to slag glorious Italia itself in his purportedly lighthearted news commentary, but he went after adored two-time Giro vinctore Lo Squalo himself, bashing Nibali for, y'know, not waiting by the roadside to hand him a damn lemonade after Fuglsang flatted, had to wait for his team car, and Nibali obnoxiously continued on down a tricky descent without him. Well clutch my pearls and dirty my white gloves--Nibs, you've got nothing to answer for there!
*I'm* Not Crying, *You're* Crying Stage Win o' the Giro: c'mon. You're *still* slobbering into your Kleenex over Alex Dowsett's delightful Stage 8 breakaway-from-the-breakaway victory and tearfully happy post-race interview. Now quit cryin' and hand me the tissue box, !@#dammit!
Oh !@#$ Oh !@#$ Oh !@#$ News o' the Race: Simon Yates' dreaded COVID positive, upending the expected GC of the race and scaring the hell out of a peloton already spooked by willy-nilly mingling with tourists over the salad bars at the hotels, increasing positive tests in nearly every European country, and overenthusiastic fans who apparently still couldn't correlate "yelling an inch from his face" and "plague-spewing." Most crucially, of course, was the news that Yates' symptoms, as well as those of the other riders and staff who came up positive, appeared to be mercifully relatively mild. Wishing a speedy, safe recovery, and a tranquil, healthy off-season, to all!
Crap Crash o' the Race: y'know, I'm *not* a giant fan, particularly because he announced his impending participation in the Giro with all the enthusiasm of a kid being forced to eat limp week-old boiled-to-death ice-cold broccoli, but what a suck thing to happen to poor Geraint Thomas, who was taken out early in the race by a ridiculous--and ridiculously heavy--race-ending crash in the start zone. Worse, he reported he could barely stand to watch the Giro at all after that, even with his own teammate shockingly taking the overall win. Get well soon Thomas, and next time, remember to be *enthusiastic* about being sent here!
The Tao of...Well, Tao Award: he came in expecting to be a worker bee for a surprisingly vulnerable Grand Tour powerhouse, he knocked himself completely out for whoever on the squad ever needed it the whole three weeks, *and*, after a gorgeous time trial in the final few minutes of the race, he came out lofting the Trofeo Senza Fine over his brilliant, winning head. It's not like me to root for a Skybot, but dang, Mr. Geoghegan Hart, that was pretty fine indeed!
Back In the High Life Again Prize: after a miserable Tour in which even his near-inevitable green jersey ultimately eluded him, and a pretty major bummer of a Giro that saw the maglia ciclamino meet the same fate and his sprints come ever-second, a disconsolate fan- and sponsor- favorite Peter Sagan shocked and delighted everyone (and didn't shock, but did delight, himself) with a swashbucklingly redemptive performance on an utterly un-Saganlike loooong solo breakaway to Stage 10 victory. Take that, Demare you whippersnapper--and watch out for me again next year!
Controversy o' Giro 2020: sure, it started off with shock and horror over EF's special acid-trip rave-gear team kit, proceeded with concern and confusion over their terrifying bug-eyed-cartoon-duck time trial helmets, escalated to Jakob Fuglsang's cheerfully insulting assessment of the host country and its residents, and hit a fever pitch over entire squads having to bail out due to rider and staff COVID positives and the concurrent expressed terror of every rider left as to whether they should all be even continuing to race. But *nothing* beat the absolute hoo-ha of a bunch of tired, wet, cold, potentially-immuno-compromised riders starting a night-time revolution by Telegram then unilaterally refusing to start the 2000-k Stage 19 until a good half of it had been chopped off a day ahead of the decisive day to Sestriere. Too bad some of the riders didn't know about it until after everyone else had clambered into their nice warm team buses! Naturally, reaction swung wildly from smugly retired hard-man pros and fleece-swaddled Prosecco-swigging couchpeloton denizens screeching for the spindly crybabies to nut up and literally make themselves sick over a nothing stage, to current riders and less sadistic fans who conceded that *some* mercy might be in order after the stress, chaos, and bone-deep exhaustion of a surprise autumn Grand Tour. Aw, Demare'd just've gotten it again anyway, let it go people!
Corollary Empty Threat Award: Giro head honcho Mauro Vegni, who apopleptically swore that the riders were gonna *pay* when they made it to Milan after their outrageous stage 19 kilometer-slashing strike. Apparently, that meant everyone was gonna "pay" with a series of adoring photographs and glowing social media media posts straight from the race itself. Ouch!
Class Act o' the Race: Vincenzo Nibali, who reacted to Jakob Fuglsang's public slagging with polite disinterest, the controversial Stage 19 rider strike with a mildly disconsolate shrug, and, most importantly, his sturdy-but-undazzling riding and GC spot by calmly analyzing his training and in-race power data, finding it to his satisfaction, then figuring he just couldn't keep up with the speedier youngsters this time. Still, I think there's something to be said for a nuts-to-the wall total lack of self-control in an unfiltered post-race-interview smackdown. Something rude, but something!
Moto !@#$wit Award: surprisingly, because you'd think a few catastrophic takedowns of potential stage winners and their post-stage bat-wielding DSes would be all it would take for this to sink in to the race motos, this is becoming a thing. To the guy who completely ruined Elia Viviani's dearest dream of truncated-season redemption by a joyous sprint victory in front of his countrypeople, I don't know where you are now, but if Elia's mood is any indication, buddy, keep runnin'!
Fan !@#$wit Award: last, but never least, this coveted prize, which usually comes from some butt-nekkid eejit in a clown wig screaming into a rider's face, dipwad with a murderous selfie stick, or doofus who thinks a charging GC-frantic peloton is the ideal place to let his dog off the leash to teach how to play fetch, is an aggregate award for every clueless tifoso who never learned from playing recorder in second grade that the holes in any given object also correlate to *air being able to come out of them* unless you're in a freakin' vacuum for chrissakes, so, ergo, the mask you're using to protect the terrified riders from your pestilence-laden exhalations goes OVER YOUR DAMN NOSE, YOU CARELESS FREAKS! Please, can we just get back to the space cadets who always decide to hop the barriers 250 meters from the line in a raging sprint finish next time?
All right, them's my awards, and congratulations--and sincerest apologies--to all the worthy winners. Now grab yer prizes, pull on yer jackets in peace, and let's hope this unparalleled show goes forward in *May* of next year!
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