Yes, another hot-pink extravaganza has wrapped, and let's be frank--it was a bit of a weird one, amirite? But it's still the fabulous Giro d'Italia, it *was* still a three-week festa of travel porn, grinta, and the occasional act of derring-do, and darn it, there's lots to celebrate! Ergo, it's time for Yer annual Incredibly Prestigious Giro d'Italia racejunkie Awards! Prizes--I swear on Mikel Landa, so you *know* there's no bull!@#$ing you here--for anyone so desperate, ecstatic, or hung-over from post-race partying as to claim 'em: (1) a dashing custom-embroidered racejunkie cycling cap to impress yer pals and cover up that godawful helmet hair; (2) a passel of handsome racejunkie stickers to deface yer bike, yer helmet, or yer ungrateful smack-talking DS's face; and (3) a genuine sports-related trophy from my local tchotchke shop, either custom-engraved with yer name and award, or with same written on it in permanent Sharpie with darn near the best penmanship you'll ever find outside maybe one of those terrifying parochial-school classrooms where the teacher whacks the crap outta yer knuckles with a ruler for your transgressions til you can barely even hold a pen. Oh right, and eternal internet glory, and, if you've *really* got nothing else positive going on in yer life, bragging rights. So what's the good, the bad, and just plain embarrassing of this year's Giro d'Italia? Well slap on yer most stylin' pink partywear, try not to kill yerself uncorking the Prosecco, and let's find out!
Monty Python French Castle Guard Mockery Award: look, Richard Carapaz, besides being a Movistar backstabber *and* an all-time champion wheelsucker, is also a highly dependable, if accordingly disreputable, sandbagging punk. And who wasn't having it on stage 17, after a long, hard slog to Lavarone? *That's* right, perpetual peloton nice-guy we love Mikel Landa, who in response to Carapaz' latest horse-hockey body-rocking pain face, and totally coincidental refusal to work to protect his own damn maglia rosa, ostentatiously pulled off and played like a delicate steel-corseted Victorian lady in imminent need of smelling salts to prevent her fragile self from fainting dead away on the tarmac. Elbow flicks are for weenies--you *go*, Mikel!
Punk-!@# Move o' the Race: in a related award, while this is typically captured for a single grand gesture of d*****baggery, this one goes to near-winner Richard Carapaz of the already odious Ineos squad for clinging to every other teams' wheel, avoiding every obligation to work when his own boys finally dropped off the map, and helpfully allowing the other GC riders to superdomestique him until he was the only one left with energy to come around and attack. "Conserving energy" and "tactical prudence" my !@#--ride like a tick, get plucked off like a tick, you punk!
What the Absolute !@#$ ? Result o' the Race: Yeah, you know who it is, and no, despite like one clairvoyant cycling journalist's Nostradamusly obscure and accurate pick, neither you nor I saw this coming. Jai Hindley in the final maglia rosa. What, like this award isn't as cool as the Trofeo Senza Fine?
Gut-Wrenching Retirement o' the Race (Freakish): so you thought it was a one-off when van der Poel harmlessly whacked himself popping a Prosecco cork right after his Stage 1 victory? Hell to the no, as revelation of the season and future Winner of All Races In the Universe Biniam Girmay damn near took his own eye out with a flying celebratory bubbly cork after his thrilling Stage 10 win and, while mercifully his eye'll be fine in the long run, still hadda drop out of the race right on the heels of his own personal glory. That didn't stop him from patching up and heading right back to the hotel to thank and celebrate with his teammates, though--class, kid!
Gut-Wrenching Retirement o' the Race (GC-Impacting): sure, maybe in reality there was a 90% chance Romain Bardet was gonna crack in Yatesian proportions anyway, but my, it certainly didn't look that way til, well, Liquigas took him outta the Giro on Stage 9. Aw, rats--he really looked like a rare French final podium hope for a few days there!
Gut-Wrenching Retirement o' the Race (Sentimental Favorite): look, after his visible shock and disappointment with his nonetheless-very-fine third place in the inaugural time trial, it was perhaps inevitable that Tom Dumoulin wasn't gonna make it through to Verona. But he darn well did his best, and though I maintain he is one phenomenally unlikely high-mountains champion, he *did* still come back bravely from his temporary hiatus, and I hope he's not so psyched out he doesn't at least finish up the year. Valiant effort, Tom!
Things That Make You Go "Hmmmmm....." Award: okay, I don't know much about numbers, but what I *do* know is that an awful lotta people who do were seriously shocked by what heretofore-talented-but-not-rocket-fueled Jai Hindley was putting out when he finally cracked Richard Carapaz like a walnut and absolutely obliterated previous records set on the fearsome Fedaia on Stage 20. Not that I wasn't delighted about it--but geez, it's amazing how much of a difference fluffy new pillows and carefully calibrated sock heights can make these days!
Weird-!@# Meme o' the Giro: look, we're all accustomed to wisenheimers in syringe suits or butt-flashing exhibitionists in Speedos running alongside the riders either taunting or encouraging them. Hell, even the constant waving of one's own flag into the face of a passing rider who isn't even from there don't raise an eyebrow. But this !@#$ with people dressed up in chef's outfits and fist-pumping pineapples right at riders who weren't even involved in the whole bizarre van der Poel pineapple-pizza abomination? That's a whole new level of odd. Next year, can we tifosi all agree we're gonna *honor* a local Italian dish, not make a hideous mockery of one?
Corollary Abomination Against God Award: yep, pineapple pizza. I mean, that $%^&'s barely tolerable in the culinarily classless United States. Aren't you guys just supposed to be carbo-loading, anyway?
Shark Week (Three Weeks, Whatever) Prize: he's won the Giro d'Italia twice, bagged countless stages, and made some of the toughest men in cycling flat-out wet themselves on his flying descents. Vincenzo Nibali, despite a few cracks in the armor, you honored your final (waaaaaaah!) Giro, in your hometown and everywhere else you went, with every single pedal stroke. Addio, lo Squalo, we'll miss you next year!
Fan !@#$wit Award: Miraculously, no dumb#$% with an errant child, wandering dog, protruding selfie stick, or massive highway billboard managed to take out anyone in the peloton this year. But for sheer "Oh !@#!-ness", not to mention chutzpah, this year's award goes to the gentleman who *actually joined the race on his bike alongside the riders* on the decisive stage 20. Can you imagine the bloody carnage, and history-making total disaster, if this uncontrolled eejit had touched wheels with someone on GC. Yeah, we all wanna win on the Fedaia--keep your wannabe fantasies in your head, and off the damn road while the big boys are riding, you clown!
Social Media Star o' the Race: now, normally this'd go to some bored superdomestique looking to release the tension with some daily Twitter wiseassery, but this year, the Giro d'Italia itself just nailed the prize. From amusing photo captions to direct engagement with swooning fans to actually offering to eat a "pizza" disaster after Van der Poel single-handedly horridly disgraced hundreds of years of Italian culinary tradition, the race organizers stepped out of the pedestrian swamp of overwhelming if necessary details that go into such a massive production, and had a little fun to boot. Way to go Giro!
What the Stupid Sexist !@#$ Was This? Prize: look, you can like or dislike the various' feeds' commentary, and let's be real, there's lots of compliments and justifiable approbation to go along on both sides. And certainly, personal presentation is understandably part of the show. But while the occasional Twitter wag tried to suss out a source for Robbie McEwen's t-shirt or questioned Brad Wiggins' swinging sartorial cred, none of this remotely approached the constant crap Orla Chennaoui got for what she was or wasn't wearing *every* *single* *day*. Do you !@#$wits even *hear* what she's saying about the race while you're obsessing over ruffles or shorts length? No? Then shut yer damn outraged eyes, you pigs!
Last But Not Least, the Movistar Memorial Impenetrable Team Tactics Award: look, you can't really fault Bahrain Victorious *too* much, in a way: even after losing Tratnik's phenomenal engine just a coupla stages in, they got some impressive stage wins from unexpected quarters, only let Mikel hit the deck once, *and* got we love Landa on the final podium by an extremely satisfactory margin. But what boggled my !@#$in' mind *every* *day* was how, even after Carapaz' robotic Ineos squad finally burned out their circuits and, worse, lost Richie Porte to illness when Carapaz needed him most, Bahrain relentlessly set the pace for Carapaz up every crucial race-deciding climb and cocooned him like a robin's egg so the little rugrat could conserve his energy to drop Mikel in the last few hundred meters of *every* !@#damn finish. You guys maybe wanna hit up Ineos for the money they owe you for working for them so beautifully? Jaysus!
Well, that's yer Giro d'Italia 2022. So claim yer prizes, slink home in ignominy, and remember, only 11 1/2 months left til Giro 2023!
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