Okay, It's Over: so the sun has set on Alberto Contador's Tour de France, and while you can hardly diss the boy after he alone among the GC contenders rode (and blitzed) the Giro (in case he was banned from the Tour, but whatever), then spent days in the Pyrenees nursing a sore kneecap--tho' you can *certainly* blame Bjarne for his spectacular dumbassity in letting Alberto effectively lose the Tour on stage 1 getting caught behind that stupid crash--I gotta say, I'm rather sorry for him, and Andy Schleck's been so unbearably whiny the last week I was seriously hoping Contador--hell, even Schleck's own team--would kick his !@# on the Galibier just on principle. But whatever his troubles, as his completely gobsmacked poor face showed, Alberto, classy about it as he was,just didn't have it in the end, and by any measure--including, for sure, tactical sense--if Cadel finally gets his Tour in Paris there can be no doubt he's earned it with every excruciating pedal-stroke. If the mightily tenacious French re-phenom Voeckler nails it? Holy crap, that'd be epic, but don't tell me you won't feel slightly, well, surprised, you liar liar pants on fire! And Bjarne--if you even *think* about using that new pile of Saxo Bank dough to try to buy out we love Samuel Sanchez from under Euskaltel in exchange for say the Vuelta, you can just !@#$%^%$ *&^%$#% yer frickin' !@#$$! #$% (*&^, you !@#$ #@#$%er! Anyway, starting about 11:30 in, here's Voeckler's brilliant, almost heartbreaking, lug to the line: Beautiful!
It Ain't Easy Being Green: meantime, forget the fact that Cav's in-the-bag green jersey is now back in play due to a 20-point penalty for blowing the time cut (along with half the peloton, to be fair)--more important than Rojas squealing like a kid at Christmas over his good fortune, what the hell has gotten into the Manx Missile lately? Where even the perpetually-genteel Tyler Farrar has fallen prey to a very brief (and instantly retracted) bout of smack-talk, Cav has apparently replaced his entire personality with some hideously saccharine Smurf's, generously complimenting everyone from Thor Hushovd to the guy who takes his urine sample with nary a complaint or insult in sight. Come back to us, Mark--I cannot *take* Andy Schleck's whinging as a cheap substitute to your !@#$ed-off perfection!
Yer Lance Armstrong Question o' the Day: last but not least, for those of us subject to those nonstop Miller High Life commercials on Versus, am I the only one thinkin' the only reason they finally stopped running the ones with Lance jovially chatting and mountain-biking with a buncha other pretty folks is because he must've threatened to rip the arm off the lowly peon actor who dared touch him on the shoulder during the party scene? Oh, well, I'm sure it didn't hurt *so* much with that nice beer buzz on and all...
Showing posts with label Cadel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cadel. Show all posts
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The 2010 Racejunkie Tour de France Awards
Well cycling fans, another bloody, glorious Tour de France has hit the history books, and now it's time to reflect on those noteworthy--for better, or just plain disgusting--riders who made this race so dandy. Therefore, without further ado, I present the prestigious 2010 Racejunkie Tour de France Awards:
Class Act o' the Tour: yes, we're starting out nice, because I *am* nice, but anyway, this one, I gotta say, was tough. And no-one gave the prize winner a better run for his money than US sprint king Tyler Farrar, who not only rode for two weeks with an excruciating beeyotch of an injury, but who kindly deflected several direct invitations to call out renegade Cavendish lead-out Brutus Mark Renshaw for being a thug. But to me, this year's award goes to perpetual bridesmaid Cadel Evans, who rode up the entire damn Pyrenees with a broken elbow--quite a handy body part for cyclists, by the way--without a peep until under extreme duress from days of press-hound screeching about his inferior performance. Contrast, one might suggest, a certain Lance Armstrong's incredibly overblown disproportionate wanking over one mid-, one minor-, and one not-even-really-a-crash. Chapeau, Cadel--"World Champ" is right!
Beer Googles Award of 2010: like the unbearable frathole big man on campus who 6 or 7 Bud Lights down the line suddenly seems palatable enough to bring home, so too was the legendary--if sort of sickening--Lance Armstrong to the press. Never has so much been made of someone who in the Tour actually at hand accomplished so little. And oh, that morning-after wakeup--obsequious journalists and photographers, this one's for you!
Crash o' the Tour: yes, to the delight of the sadistic yet happy crowd, there were an unusually ginormous number of bone-shattering tool-outs to choose from this year, but this 'un was the star by a longshot: the massive oil-slick cobblestone skating-rink that brought half our boys down like lead balloons. Here, in an ancillary award for Entertaining Interview o' the Month, is Levi's take: Medic!
Shock o' the Race Award: holy crap, baby savant/imminent Indurain Alberto Contador is actually vulnerable. On the climbs, no less. And was I the only one to see the look of utter terror on the boy's face as he realized what was happening to a certain second-place rider in the time trial? Andy Schleck, no doubt, is already plotting for next year. Contador, whatever the hell happened to you out there this year, you got 12 months to fix it, or you're toast!
Sissy-Boy Slapfight o' the Tour: watching cyclists fist-fight is sort of like watching your sweet little old grandmas go at it, without the blue hair, sensible shoes, or superior bloodshed. But Carlos Barredo turning his enormously expensive wheel into a carbon-fiber instrument of death was truly a thing of beauty, and upped our beloved peloton's game to a glorious new low. Next year: strangulation by feed-zone musette. How Godfather!
The You Owe Thor Hushovd a Green Jersey, You Scumwads! Prize: I get why you went on strike after practically getting yourselves all killed, boys--hell, you were entirely entitled to do it. But I have yet to hear *one* valid reason why the speedmeisters, with the (badly-bruised, to be sure) group back together as usual anyway, shouldn't've been allowed to contest the sprint. Don't give me that pity-party garbage, you Petacchi apologists--Thor was spot-on right to be pissed!
Bore o' the Tour: speaking of which, yeah yeah, he's the fastest man on two wheels on earth. And however Mark Cavendish suddenly got his mojo back after a disastrous first part of the season, it worked. But is anyone else just getting bored stiff watching Cav take every sprint that doesn't involve an uphill finish or a catastrophic crash at the line? Tom Boonen, promise me you'll come back and play at the Vuelta--now, more than ever, we need you!
He's a Real Nowhere Man Prize: he won the Giro d'Italia, then sleepily tanked into oblivion at the Tour de France. Oh my goodness, maybe the comely little pin-up *is* clean--Ivan Basso, this one's yours!
Poor Performance Excuse o' the Race: no, not Lance's bullcrappian whining, this one's for real--yes, freak-injury king Oscar Freire was felled this year not by saddlesores, not by a pinched nerve, and not by a BB pellet--this time around, he was knocked flat this year by nasal polyps. What's that, Johan? Armstrong had 'em too? Well, *that* explains it!
Punk-!@# Move of 2010: yes, folks, like an Oscar, but for jerks, we have our first two-year-in-a-row winner--congratulations, Lance Armstrong! Why? Well, his outright refusal to help Levi Leipheimer on the road didn't exactly help Captain Ego, but it's in fact because he could've--and for years has--publicized his genuinely admirable Livestrong cause beautifully without his ridiculous attention-slut stunt that--100% knowingly to someone who's enjoyed the party on the Champs-Elysees 7 times--severely limited what is justifiably a day of celebration, glory, and yes, media focus to the same Tour de France winner Lance was a graceless !@# to *last* year. Typical Lance M.O., and an embarrassing end to a storied career, all because it's no longer All About Him--no class!
Tweet o' the Tour--Die, Mother!@#$er, Die! Edition: actually, tweets, and just when I thought I couldn't love Robbie "Headbutt" McEwen even more for being a press-lashing crackhead-erratic C4-explosive rage-meister, came his perfect series of rants after some dimwit photog knocked him on his already-injured !@# at the finish line. From a shocked first impression ("Un-f-believable. Got taken out at 60km/h by a podium chaperone 75m after finish. He literally jumped in front & ran into me. Nothing broken") to an increasingly-menacing desire for vengeance ("My back is so sore. I want him identified and expelled. Just too ridiculous for words what he did. I hope I can ride tmoro. I mean WTF.") to a tranquil-sounding but still imminent gangland hit ("Btw, this is how my lower back is looking thanks to the tool at finish a few days ago. Hip & leg look similar")--replete with !@#$-you photographs, no less--Robbie laid out the groundwork for a truly impressive chain of evidence in the event of the unfortunate journalist's unfortunate demise. I'd *still* be watching my back, son!
Tweet o' the Tour--Oh My God You Made Me Agree With UCI! Edition: yes, in 4 years of blogging about pro cycling, no-one has made me feel quite so slimy as none other than the machiavellian Johan Bruyneel, who, after idiotically failing to ask simple, inevitably-granted permission for Lance & Co. to wear non-conforming team kit--because even prissy bureaucratic bean-counters like the French don't want to look like they don't admire the Livestrong cause--responded to UCI's quite logical suggestion that he ought to have done so with the pissy tweet “Ok people! Now it’s official! To be a race commissar you don’t need brains but only know the rules! Their motto: ‘c’est le reglement!’” No thanks to you Johan for making me sympathetic to those enabling hypocrites at UCI--ick, and you can just go to hell for it!
Turn That Crap Down! Prize of 2010: yes, not only is it the parental siren song to every teenager's music-blasting, it's also the absolutely undisputed award to the lovebirds of the Tour de France, Alberto Contador and Andy Schleck. After 60 kilometers of smiling, chatting, hand-holding, and downright snuggling on the final stage into Paris, these two declared their previous imbroglios over in a matter almost, frankly, unseemly. Okay, okay, we get it--can the cameras at least go soft-focus to protect the young 'uns?
And Finally, the Jens Voigt Is a God Award: no, no reason in particular, and the winner is obvious, but then again, Jens Voigt is a god. Why? Duh!
Alas, folks, that's about it for the Tour til next year, at least until the narcs finally catch and the race organizers sweep under the rug the inevitable doping dopuses. Lookin' forward to 2011, baby!
Class Act o' the Tour: yes, we're starting out nice, because I *am* nice, but anyway, this one, I gotta say, was tough. And no-one gave the prize winner a better run for his money than US sprint king Tyler Farrar, who not only rode for two weeks with an excruciating beeyotch of an injury, but who kindly deflected several direct invitations to call out renegade Cavendish lead-out Brutus Mark Renshaw for being a thug. But to me, this year's award goes to perpetual bridesmaid Cadel Evans, who rode up the entire damn Pyrenees with a broken elbow--quite a handy body part for cyclists, by the way--without a peep until under extreme duress from days of press-hound screeching about his inferior performance. Contrast, one might suggest, a certain Lance Armstrong's incredibly overblown disproportionate wanking over one mid-, one minor-, and one not-even-really-a-crash. Chapeau, Cadel--"World Champ" is right!
Beer Googles Award of 2010: like the unbearable frathole big man on campus who 6 or 7 Bud Lights down the line suddenly seems palatable enough to bring home, so too was the legendary--if sort of sickening--Lance Armstrong to the press. Never has so much been made of someone who in the Tour actually at hand accomplished so little. And oh, that morning-after wakeup--obsequious journalists and photographers, this one's for you!
Crash o' the Tour: yes, to the delight of the sadistic yet happy crowd, there were an unusually ginormous number of bone-shattering tool-outs to choose from this year, but this 'un was the star by a longshot: the massive oil-slick cobblestone skating-rink that brought half our boys down like lead balloons. Here, in an ancillary award for Entertaining Interview o' the Month, is Levi's take: Medic!
Shock o' the Race Award: holy crap, baby savant/imminent Indurain Alberto Contador is actually vulnerable. On the climbs, no less. And was I the only one to see the look of utter terror on the boy's face as he realized what was happening to a certain second-place rider in the time trial? Andy Schleck, no doubt, is already plotting for next year. Contador, whatever the hell happened to you out there this year, you got 12 months to fix it, or you're toast!
Sissy-Boy Slapfight o' the Tour: watching cyclists fist-fight is sort of like watching your sweet little old grandmas go at it, without the blue hair, sensible shoes, or superior bloodshed. But Carlos Barredo turning his enormously expensive wheel into a carbon-fiber instrument of death was truly a thing of beauty, and upped our beloved peloton's game to a glorious new low. Next year: strangulation by feed-zone musette. How Godfather!
The You Owe Thor Hushovd a Green Jersey, You Scumwads! Prize: I get why you went on strike after practically getting yourselves all killed, boys--hell, you were entirely entitled to do it. But I have yet to hear *one* valid reason why the speedmeisters, with the (badly-bruised, to be sure) group back together as usual anyway, shouldn't've been allowed to contest the sprint. Don't give me that pity-party garbage, you Petacchi apologists--Thor was spot-on right to be pissed!
Bore o' the Tour: speaking of which, yeah yeah, he's the fastest man on two wheels on earth. And however Mark Cavendish suddenly got his mojo back after a disastrous first part of the season, it worked. But is anyone else just getting bored stiff watching Cav take every sprint that doesn't involve an uphill finish or a catastrophic crash at the line? Tom Boonen, promise me you'll come back and play at the Vuelta--now, more than ever, we need you!
He's a Real Nowhere Man Prize: he won the Giro d'Italia, then sleepily tanked into oblivion at the Tour de France. Oh my goodness, maybe the comely little pin-up *is* clean--Ivan Basso, this one's yours!
Poor Performance Excuse o' the Race: no, not Lance's bullcrappian whining, this one's for real--yes, freak-injury king Oscar Freire was felled this year not by saddlesores, not by a pinched nerve, and not by a BB pellet--this time around, he was knocked flat this year by nasal polyps. What's that, Johan? Armstrong had 'em too? Well, *that* explains it!
Punk-!@# Move of 2010: yes, folks, like an Oscar, but for jerks, we have our first two-year-in-a-row winner--congratulations, Lance Armstrong! Why? Well, his outright refusal to help Levi Leipheimer on the road didn't exactly help Captain Ego, but it's in fact because he could've--and for years has--publicized his genuinely admirable Livestrong cause beautifully without his ridiculous attention-slut stunt that--100% knowingly to someone who's enjoyed the party on the Champs-Elysees 7 times--severely limited what is justifiably a day of celebration, glory, and yes, media focus to the same Tour de France winner Lance was a graceless !@# to *last* year. Typical Lance M.O., and an embarrassing end to a storied career, all because it's no longer All About Him--no class!
Tweet o' the Tour--Die, Mother!@#$er, Die! Edition: actually, tweets, and just when I thought I couldn't love Robbie "Headbutt" McEwen even more for being a press-lashing crackhead-erratic C4-explosive rage-meister, came his perfect series of rants after some dimwit photog knocked him on his already-injured !@# at the finish line. From a shocked first impression ("Un-f-believable. Got taken out at 60km/h by a podium chaperone 75m after finish. He literally jumped in front & ran into me. Nothing broken") to an increasingly-menacing desire for vengeance ("My back is so sore. I want him identified and expelled. Just too ridiculous for words what he did. I hope I can ride tmoro. I mean WTF.") to a tranquil-sounding but still imminent gangland hit ("Btw, this is how my lower back is looking thanks to the tool at finish a few days ago. Hip & leg look similar")--replete with !@#$-you photographs, no less--Robbie laid out the groundwork for a truly impressive chain of evidence in the event of the unfortunate journalist's unfortunate demise. I'd *still* be watching my back, son!
Tweet o' the Tour--Oh My God You Made Me Agree With UCI! Edition: yes, in 4 years of blogging about pro cycling, no-one has made me feel quite so slimy as none other than the machiavellian Johan Bruyneel, who, after idiotically failing to ask simple, inevitably-granted permission for Lance & Co. to wear non-conforming team kit--because even prissy bureaucratic bean-counters like the French don't want to look like they don't admire the Livestrong cause--responded to UCI's quite logical suggestion that he ought to have done so with the pissy tweet “Ok people! Now it’s official! To be a race commissar you don’t need brains but only know the rules! Their motto: ‘c’est le reglement!’” No thanks to you Johan for making me sympathetic to those enabling hypocrites at UCI--ick, and you can just go to hell for it!
Turn That Crap Down! Prize of 2010: yes, not only is it the parental siren song to every teenager's music-blasting, it's also the absolutely undisputed award to the lovebirds of the Tour de France, Alberto Contador and Andy Schleck. After 60 kilometers of smiling, chatting, hand-holding, and downright snuggling on the final stage into Paris, these two declared their previous imbroglios over in a matter almost, frankly, unseemly. Okay, okay, we get it--can the cameras at least go soft-focus to protect the young 'uns?
And Finally, the Jens Voigt Is a God Award: no, no reason in particular, and the winner is obvious, but then again, Jens Voigt is a god. Why? Duh!
Alas, folks, that's about it for the Tour til next year, at least until the narcs finally catch and the race organizers sweep under the rug the inevitable doping dopuses. Lookin' forward to 2011, baby!
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