Normally, this highly anticipated annual awards show'd be full of Mosconian asshattery, Saganesque camera antics, and classic Valverdean bushwhackery. And frankly, in this strange and tragic year, it's kinda amazing that anything cycling managed to happen at all. But happen it did, and if *anyone* needs a party to usher out this year and prepare for the new, it's the hardworking cyclists, staff, organizers, and tifosi that made this year even quasi-bearable. Prizes, for anyone so desperate for self-esteem as to stoop this low--and I swear, on my desire to seek Euskaltel kick Ineos' !@# in the mountains, I'm good for 'em: (1) a handsome custom-embroidered racejunkie cycling cap; (2) a fistful of dashing and shamelessly self-promoting racejunkie stickers to enliven yer bike, yer enemy's bike, but please for all that's holy not yer innocent kid's bike; (3) eternal infamy (thank you Internet!); and (4) a genuine, material statuary tchotchke with some sort of sports-related theme and your name and award extremely neatly written on it with genuine gold-ink paint pen (genuine ink, can't vouch for the genuine gold part). So put on yer most festive togs--or at least, I beg you, some clean underwear--grab some Prosecco, fire up yer Zoom account, and let's get this party started!
Totally !@#$in' Waste of Effort Award: wow, all that Everesting was fun! At least, in the "if I don't kit up and get my sponsor some YouTube hits they're gonna shred my contract in front of me like some pretentious poser Banksy auction-house stunt" and "man, this *sucks*" sense of the word. But with road racing on ice, and 80 million stationary kilometers to a horrible Europop playlist looming like a whack to the nuts with a sledgehammer, everyone from Alberto Contador to Lachlan Morton to cookie guru Phil Gaimon to yer mamma was hammering to the very top of Mount Everest, or at least its precise height equivalent, in a desperate bid for glory and publicity. Except you know what, champ? You *didn't*, because in early December of this very year, China and Tibet joined forces to re-measure Mount Everest and determined it's actually 86 centimeters taller than previously thought. D'oh--better bring along a tape measure next time, suckers!
Tiptoe Through the Tulips Award: in a year where everyone's race calendar went completely to !@#$, and more importantly, their meticulously-planned training regimens were blasted to bits, somehow, in the 10 weeks of racing crammed in with nary a day off from just September to Thanksgiving, records of every kind--time trial records, speed-up-the-mountains records, watts-per-come-on-even-Armstrong-couldn't-pull-off-that-!@#$ records--were shattered in nearly every kind of race there was, particularly the sport's most notorious climbs. And the peloton's reaction--and from some riders with the most freakish performances, no less? Yep, scathing indictments from "I don't understand it" to "gee whillickers!" Oh for FFS, just spit it out already people--with so many narc-friendly targets, what're the odds they're gonna start to look at *your* performance, anyway?
Age of Innocence Prize: Remember those halcyon days of January, when a dog was taking out riders at the Tour of San Juan, the Dutch antidoping authorities were expressing mild discombobulation with Jumbo-Visma's whole-hog keg-party chugging of ketones, and the only whisper of the season's disaster yet to come was the cautionary cancellation of the Tour of Hainan? Yeah, me neither, but this one's for nice guy and extremely fine cyclist Richie Porte, who took a wonderful overall victory at the Tour Down Under even after barely ceding personal playground Willunga Hill, which once and for all should've gotten everyone off his damn back about his Grand Tour performances and just given him credit for what he clearly does best. Wishing you the same for 2021, Richie--and thanks for the shred of normalcy in 2020!
Paranoid Conspiracy Theory o' the Year: forget about a mere 'cross champion's recent stealth handoff of perfectly legal ketones to his soigneur--before anyone even knew if Remco Evenepoel would ride his bike again after his horrifying plunge off a bridge at the Tour of Poland, social media was alight with speculation over what exactly was in the white container that QuickStep DS Davide Bramati slipped from Evenepoel's jersey and into his own pocket. Um, can we let him be loaded onto the litter and carried up to the ambulance before we upset his already traumatized family watching on live TV any further by instantly slagging the guy? UCI, to its sorta credit I suppose, did in fact call for an investigation into the incident--the container one, not "who the !@#$ thought this was a good idea for a descent *again*" one--and concluded, after QuickStep obliquely explained them as "supplements", there was no violation. Upside: UCI *did* nail a Juniors rider (Age 3-5 Category) for a deliberate juice-box violation, and summarily banned him from recess for four years. A job well done by all, and continued good healing wishes for Remco!
Beelzebub Has a Devil Put Aside For Me/For Meee/For Meeeeeeeeeee! Prize: no, no, no, no, no, no! Wout Van Aert to Ineos? Say it ain't so. Shove off, Team Satan--we *like* this kid!
A Spoonful of Sugar Makes the Medicine Go Down Award: in a season where the peloton's emotions--and social media accounts--veered from cheerful anticipation to mild concern to massive frustration to abject terror to just plain constant confusion, one rider's Tweets remained obstinately optimistic--yes, potato-lovin' Toms Skujins, who, with remarkable and reassuring consistency, self-deprecatingly downplayed his own fine form, lavishly complimented the performances of everyone else, and generally provided a bright light in a dark maelstrom of suck. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you Toms--the nicest Tour de France "combativity award" winner in history!
Domestique o' the Year: honestly, between Tao Geoghegan Hart becoming the impromptu king of Ineos--and victor of the Giro d'Italia--after Geraint Thomas' fractured-pelvis crashout, and Sepp Kuss' pull-over-for-an-espresso-and-pastry butt-saving performance for a suffering Primoz Roglic at the Vuelta, there were some pretty amazing performances even in this truncated, bizarro year. But no-one quite superdomestiques like Team Movistar, which, in lieu of eating its own like it usually does, ganged up--to the benefit of another team entirely--to actually help the Murder Hornets' Rogla hunt down a surging Richard Carapaz and secure, in perhaps the most nail-biting 20 seconds in recent Grand Tour history, his overall triumph on the penultimate day. *Damn*, Movistar, your trademark self-destructiveness really pays off--for other squads, that is!
Fan !@#$wit Award: from pee-tossing moralists to garden-variety eejits-in-a-speedo to dimwits who think a bike race with a speeding peloton is a perfect place to bring your unleashed herding dog, there's usually no shortage of brutish contenders for this shameful award. But with fans largely banned from the roadsides for COVID safety purposes and piles of races cancelled outright, competition is actually pretty slim this year, and for the life of me, I cannot remember where I saw a single, solitary dumb!@# wielding a single, solitary colored smoke flare in the riders' gasping faces. Don't you people *know* that inhaling that toxic !@#$ can interfere with the good stuff sinking in?
Shock Transfer o' 2020: no, not alleged multiple Grand Tour victor/donkey-to-racehorse changeling Chris Froome being unceremoniously dumped by Skineos then joining we love Andre Greipel over at Israel Start-Up Nation--though that was diverting--but reigning Former or Current Everything Champion (including a 2018 Giro Rosa!) and overall bad-!@# Annemiek Van Vleuten, who turned down a lucrative and other-superstar-stuffed gig with Trek-Segafredo while out the door of longtime home Michelton-Scott to sign with Movistar, to "keep women's cycling interesting." Well that it should be--Movistar, *don't* screw this rider up!
Corollary Bad-!@# Of the Peloton Award: speaking of whom, which rider was that who, having busted her wrist and had a metal plate surgically implanted mere days before the World Championships, managed to come in second in the road race to the incredible Anna van der Breggen's victories in both the road and time trial stripes? Yep, Annemiek van Vleuten, whose feat stood out even in a sport where riders routinely get run over by motos, stomped by livestock, and generally bone-broken and road-rashed to hell. Hard-men of the peloton, you've got competition--and you lost!
Transfer o' 2020 (Sorta Sweet but Sorta Sad Edition): record-blasting sprinter Mark Cavendish, home after a disappointing 2020 to his old stomping grounds at Quick Step for a farewell season. I mean, not to underestimate Cav, but remember that scene in "Call of the Wild" where Buck opens up a can of serious dog whup-!@# on the reigning pack leader and the rest of 'em tear the poor sod to pieces? Yeah, that!
Breakout Star o' the Year: yap, Van Aert Van der Poel Evenepoel, yap. For me, while everyone was changing their minds by the day about which of those boys was the year's anointed, another rider stood out--time trial World Champion, and winner of damn near any other kind of race he tried this year, Filippo Ganna. I mean, we knew he was *good*--he was a record-breaking trackie, after all--but with bagging all three ITTs in the 2020 Giro d'Italia, cycling (thank you folks, I'll be here all week) through a passel of classification jerseys, and another stage to boot, he crossed the line (literally) to greatness. Swap teams from Ineos, Pippo, and you'll be even *better* next year!
Goodbye, Yellow Bri--Uh, Cobblestone Award: yes, it had to be done, but boy, this *bit*. A year without Paris-Roubaix, the first, if I've got this right, since World War II. Forget the eagerly-anticipated yet typically-elusive forecast for rain, rushing hope into the hearts of armchair warriors everywhere--the flowing tears and sorrow-drowning beer-slop of the tifosi alone could've made those cobbles a soaking-wet skating rink. *Please*, everyone, let's try to get our !@#$ together for 2021!
It Ain't Me, Babe Prize: as a monthslong doping inquiry into British Cycling and Team Sky threatened to implode the entire disgusting show, the testifying witnesses, rather than addressing the issues at hand, instead gave a Master Class on diversionary tactics as they attacked each others', well, manly potency, leading to a serious and much-needed doping reckoning devolving into a juvenile "American Pie" !@#$-joke slapstick. Just--ew, can we get back to nice wholesome discussions about IV lines testosterone patches and drug-stuffed Jiffy bags, already?
Nothing Rhymes With 'Orange' (Except "!@#$ You, Grand Tour Organizers") Plaque: yes, this may be getting a bit tiresome to both my faithful readers, but it's even worse for our dear Carrots over at Euskaltel, who were cruelly left out of every single Grand Tour--even in their own home Basque mountains--this year. Wah, pandemic logistics, wah--you folks *suck*. Never do this to us, or them, again!
Heartbreak Hotel Prize: oh, Rogla. *So* close to winning the gaudy brass ring of the road-race merry-go-round, the prestigious Tour de France. But then, on the penultimate day of the Tour, upstart countryman Tadej Pogacar slaughtered poor Roglic in the individual time trial. And yes, Rogla was gracious about it. Quit cryin' everybody, and just hand me a Kleenex, willya?
And Last But Not Least, The That Just About Sums It Up Award of 2020: Mikel Landa, we felt for you when you were so bored on your indoor trainer that you gave us an accordion concert while you spun. But we even felt *more* for you--and you captured the entire year for everybody, perfectly--when you actually took a hatchet to the damn thing after too many days stuck inside in front of your TV instead of climbing an actual Basque mountain where you belong. Sing it, sister, and let's hope we're giving you a "Grand Tour Victory of the Year" prize in 2021--you know which one you should be riding--instead!
All right everybody (well, the two of you), no doubt there's more, but this already is more than my cycling-heartbroken soul can take covering. So goodbye and good riddance to 2020, and please, bring on a more normal 2021, for all our sakes!
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