Race-Leader Tantrums! Wheel-Sucker Etiquette! Bike 'Til You Barf!: Just Another Day in the Peloton

Off With 'Is 'Ead!: okay, the verdict is in on whether Sky should've stopped to wait for the red jersey to catch back up at the Vuelta after the race leader hit the pavement: Alejandro Valverde is a big !#$in' baby, and eatin' time for his crash was fair play. Sure, that same Darwinian philosophy didn't stop the Schlecks from bitchin' endlessly for two years about Chaingate when they'd just bushwhacked Contador the exact same way earlier in the race, but we can't ask for consistency from these guys, we can at least set, I submit, some ground rules: (1) you cause it, you wait for it, jack!@#!; (2) if we're talking seconds on a Grand Tour podium, suck it up and wait; (3) if there's a truly freak occurrence like some dimwit's dog, numb-nuts' race-course meander, eejit's support car, or weird psycho's small sharp object obsession, wait; and (4) if you've already !@#$ed people over at Paris-Nice, champ, ya might wanna hold the righteousness in check. Other'n that, may luck be a lady tonight, and have at, you cheap-shot mercenaries!

Slow and Steady Screws the Break: meantime, over at the USA Pro Cycling Challenge, the breakaway was more than irked yesterday at Liquigas princeling Vincenzo Nibali, who, according to his companions, sat on his butt like a lump 'til the break got munched like a bag o' Doritos just about in sight o' the line. Sure, Nibali opined he was just riding his own race (off the legs of like 20 other guys, but whatever), and the American sounded just a liiiiiiiitle bit bitter about their big-bucks press-darling Euro counterparts, but let's just look at this in practical terms--do you *really* want to kick out every wheel-suckin' weenie in the peloton, 'cause I can think of a few big names here, and you'd damn near have no-one left!

Now, *That's* the Hurly-Burly of Cycling: and, Garmin action hero Dave Zabriskie certainly gets my vote for hard-man of the race, not only busting himself for three straight days to help his teammates win the leader's jersey and the stage today, but literally throwing up with the effort by the side of the road *and* then remounting to keep putting the hammer down yesterday. Heck, I like a well-fought race as much as anyone--but aren't you guys taking this studly-masochism thing just a bit too far?

Back to the Vuelta, Baby!: finally, the Vuelta's back in the mountains tomorrow, Purito's already gunning for the win, and there's still time to enter this week's Win Free Stuff!

How Do You Spell "Implode"? R-A-D-I-O-S-H-A-C-K

And, Armstrong Sics the Pit Bulls: yes, having sworn any further investigations into his alleged career-long systemic doping would be met with a shrug, a smirk, and wholly bored silence, Lance Armstrong has apparently changed his mind: not only has he changed his snarling mantra from a carefully-worded "I never tested positive" to a definitive "I never doped", but he's gonna find the "anonymous" !@#$er former teammates who ratted on him and make sure they, like Tyler Hamilton, never take a whiz in peace in a public men's room again. Dang, just when I thought we were done hearing from him about this !@#$! Anyway, the debate over whether USADA oughta go after him rages on, with former rivals like Simeoni and Andreu raising their heads blearily from their current gigs scrubbing floors to express surprise, the usual Lance-lovin' zombies leaping to his all-caps defense on every website, and his despised haters--you know, those bitter talentless loser miscreants who prefer clean cycling--conceding that while even they're sick of this stupid crap and would enjoy watching an actual race for once, openness and catharsis can only be good for the sport, its undoped practitioners, its fans, and its aspiring greats-of-tomorrow. Me--I'd rather the lid be blown off the whole dirty scene no matter who's done it and how disappointed we'd be to hear their names, on one condition--that everyone stop acting like it wholesale stopped in 2008, acknowledge that some stunning percentage of greedy cheatbags are still gonna try it and in fact are trying it right this very minute, and quit pretending that just admiring a few sunny squads and holding 'em up as moral examples justifies stickin' our heads back in the sands like we do after every Festina/Op Puerto/CERA variant/egregiously reckless Riccardo Ricco' fades under our excitement over the newest grand tour rock star. Can we all agree to at least try that?

So the question is, after Travis Tygart is done dodging rotten vegetables, what happens to Lance and his record-breaking seven maillots jaune? Let's face it, why bother with a formal stripping of titles--who the hell we gonna give 'em to, Ullrich? (Of course, if we want to give, say, his 2002 edition to Joseba Beloki, I'll concede the perfect wisdom of that point.) I'd say about all we can do this late in the game with one guy personally is to put a big fat asterisk next to all his victories in the history books, affirm unapologetically that being a genuinely inspirational and life-changing spokesperson on a crucial cause doesn't entitle anybody to claim overall sainthood for something else entirely, and, if he *does* go after guys who have been nothing but loyal and subservient to him for darn near a decade if they had the gall to finally draw a line at lying under oath, make sure they're treated fairly (if not incongruously lauded, either) for coming forward. Why the hell else would anybody bother in the future? On the broader front, the only solution I can see is holding the teams and their management responsible--because besides saying no to an icon and power-broker like Lance or even any rider bigwig, it's gotta be damn intimidating for some jailbait neo-pro Tour de France dreamer to even think of objecting to systemic dope-dealing by the DS who just gave them a job and can easily tank their incipient career. You hear that, Johan--one strike, and you're out for life! So good luck now and in the future, USADA--you know how history has treated the messengers!

House of Pain: speaking of Bruyneel, who absolutely proclaims his complete purity, the all-star 70s disaster movie that is Team RadioSkank continues to steamroll onwards, with current team sponsors and their Schleck-lovin' boss already throwing Johan under the bus, the normally-quiet man-o'-experience (and as Ullrich's ex-right-hand-man, he sure is experienced) Andreas Kloden breaking his self-imposed silence to opine that teams who don't all actively hate each other tend to perform at a wee bit higher level, and Chris Horner, of all people, aggressively waiving the flag for Lance's total innocence and smacking back at Klodi for unprofessionalism for, y'know, stating the truth. Jeez, even *I* don't know whether to buy another box of popcorn or look away in horror at this point!

Uh, I'm Riding! Over Here! On My Bike! You've Heard of These Things, Like In a Race?: finally, as the Tour de France shapes up and the Olympic rosters are announced, I gotta say, Taylor Phinney is a fantastic young rider, will undoubtedly figure prominently in the history books, and has surely earned all the accolades he gets--but just as I was gonna go on a rant how Dave Zabriskie's getting completely screwed being denied the single time trial slot, comes USA Cycling's press release that Dave, along with Hincapie, Leipheimer, and Vande Velde, all former teammates of guess-who--asked to be left out of the Olympic team. Holy !@#$, Dave--I know you're riding the Tour and will be justifiably knocked out and all--but really, is that assclown Armstrong worth *this*? You *blow*, Lance--just *look* at all the havoc you've wreaked with your selfishness!

Deep Thoughts on the Giro d'Italia (Oh, And That Other Race)

1. Either Peter Sagan is the Next Lance Armstrong, or that kid is doped to the gills. Wait, wouldn't that make him the Next Lance Armstrong anyway?

2. Every time Jens Voigt talks about retiring, isn't it like the sky's suddenly turned black, the earth's opened up beneath your feet, and a giant plague o' locusts has just whacked you smack in the face?

3. If a tree falls in the forest, will the Schlecks *still* whine it's another rider's fault?

4. Dave Zabriskie. !@#damn, his upper body is absolutely motionless in a time trial. How the hell does he do it, Botox?

5. Pat "Dick" McQuaid--Alberto Contador just lies awake at night thinkin' of ways to piss you off every day, doesn't he? It's *gotta* be killin' ya!

6. If David Millar *really* felt so crappy about doping, he'd turn down his Olympic spot even though the rules now say he *can* ride.

7. The only consolations whatsoever about Robbie McEwen calling it a career are (1) he's gonna coach other sprinters in the fine art of trash-talk and (2) Roberto Ferrari's even more of a wingnut. Why head-butt a rival when you can just bring 50 of 'em down into the barriers?

8. Saturday and Sunday at the Giro. Yap, Baldy, yap--this weekend we hit the real mountains, honey, and the race of truth begins in the Alps--forza Purito!

9. I don't *what* the hell kind of painkillers Levi Leipheimer's gotta be on to ride the way he's ridin', but don't tell me you wouldn't take 'em!

10. The Giro d'Italia really fixed things this year. It's much, much better for the riders to have to navigate incredibly narrow 180 degree turns 300 feet from the line on every stage, than to have a bunch of those "mountain" things. Good work guys!

I Feel Love: finally, the Giro d'Italia has announced it will have a special tribute to Donna Summer tomorrow, and tifosi, let's get it started right here: Thank you Donna!

Baby Got Back (To Belgium, That Is)!

It's Kuurnage, Kuurnage I Tells Ya!: yes, the early season perma-snoozeathon of perfectly flat roads (though some pretty exciting sprint finishes) is over, the fast men are kickin' back, and it's time for the hard-men o' the cobbles to come out to play at Omloop Het Nieuwsblad and Kuurne-Brussels-Kuurne this weekend and the upcoming big-!@# Classics, which means (1) Tom Boonen is ready to !@#$-smack every wanky naysayer who dissed 'im last season (this includes you, Lefevere!); (2) Thor Hushovd's finally gonna take Roubaix (shut up! go to hell! bite me!); and (3) Philippe Gilbert's gonna leave pretty much everyone else in the peloton crying into their beers like guys when that pilot "Goose" gets killed in "Top Gun." Me, I love underdogs, so I'm rooting for Tommeke--that is, at least til he starts seriously winning again!

Well I've Had/The Time (Trial) of My Liiiiiii-iiife: and, it's exceedingly bitchin' to see smashing comic-con fan-boy/aero-king Dave Zabriskie tearin' up the tarmac at the Tour of Langkawi, which so far as I can tell means just one thing--yap, yap, one of the best riders of his generation, yap, legacy, yap, papa's gonna be gettin' himself a whoooooooooooole lot of new action figures! You go, Dave--and nice ride! >

Mario "The Chest"'s Words o' Wisdom: man, not only does one of the most legendary sprinters of all time look mighty dashing in his birthday suit (and, y'know, is one of the most legendary sprinters of all time), Cipo also generously provided some surprisingly sage advice for disgusting worm-weasel/aspiring barkeep Riccardo Ricco' on a companionable ride together: get a respectable freakin' job already! Oh my god, I didn't realize my Dad was Mario Cipollini! Anyway, no word from the boss on whether Ricco' is gonna drop his quest for revenge, redemption, and new and exciting ways to poison himself doping--but I ain't gonna let that little clown mix *me* a drink if I ever happen into his little pub, that's for sure!

Show Me the Love!: finally, let's all have a colossal contemporaneous moment of silence and general karmic flow of good wishes for poor Saxo-boss Bjarne Riis as he gets ready to go before the power-drunk blood-lusting hypocrites at UCI to grovel for his ProTour license, not because he clearly acted like a monster tool by driving away the perfect Jens Voigt to the horrid RadioSkank, but because by betting the entire farm (get the "cow" reference? what a knee-slapper!) on Contador, he's just about hosed a whole lotta awful nice domestiques, mechanics, and assorted other team minions outta the rewards, and dubious glories, o' the highest ranks of the sport. Dang, Bjarne, that kid hypnotize you with those pretty long eyelashes or what? Snap out of it!

Please, Can't They Just Start Racing Again?

The Hills Are Alive...With the Sound of Zabriskie: yes, the teams are rampin' up their official presentations for the year, and before Garmin's Dave "Muttonchop" Zabriskie heads off to a spa for some serious facial-hair management, here's his stellar rendition of "Proud JV": Tina Turner, watch yer back from now on!

Rope-a-Dope: yes, in the ongoing fight against doping, we've got three contradictory viewpoints today: CONI narc supremo Ettore Torri proudly saying that, despite the fact that amateurs are drugging themselves incoherent for a chance at "a salami", at the pro level cycling is "a lot cleaner" than it was in 2006 (tho' apparently he pulled a Sleeping Beauty for a couple years and missed, say, the even more disgusting 2008), bitter default Tour de France fair-n-square winner Oscar Pereiro claiming the whole system's mean because the soccer (sorry, football) players are even dirtier and no-one cares about that, and tennis great Yannick Noah saying the Spaniards are so high and the poor clean French so helpless against their illicit onslaught that the French oughta just quit testing entirely and give everyone a giant syringe full o' the Spaniards' chemical best. Me, I'm inclined to say we can all find a nice middle ground here and agree cheerfully that, if we weren't all raised to be ladies and gentlemen, it certainly wouldn't do the whole topic a disservice to gratuitously give, oh, Riccardo Ricco a swift steel-toed kick to the nuts. Harmony, people!

Riders I Like: Okay, it still really creeps me out that Chris Horner started being nice to Lance Armstrong. But you gotta love a guy who, long after most denizens of hte peloton have returned to their original training as carpenters or school-weens or joined the DS ranks, is more impassioned about the sport than he was as a youngster. And that, after that reckless selfish !@#hole Johan Bruyneel didn't even pull his bloodied head-whacked wreck of a bod from the Tour when he rode a bike for 2 hours without even realizing it! Chris, may you and Jens ride forever--but in one piece from now on, y'hear?

Pay Attention, Contatwerp!: righty-o, Alberto, remember how Alex Rasmussen accidentally evaded the doping vampires and asked to be punished for his shameful, if inadvertent, mistake? Well, you got one week to make a play for no mercy, honey, because the child just got off his "zero tolerance" punishment for his humility. You want to ride the Tour next season? Moo like a cow for the tribunal, Alberto, and beg for it!

Three Weeks In July: look, Eddy !@#$in' Merckx told the Schlecks what to do--essentially, you can't time trial for !@#$ so the Tour is fruitless, but if you work your !@#es off, you might be able to overcome Basso at the Giro. And though I bristle at (yes, everything, but also) any suggestion that winning the beautiful perfect Giro is any less a vicious masterwork than is the Tour--'cause it sure as hell wasn't this year, despite Contador's dominating performance throughout--I'll admit that the Giro tends to be rather, well, kinder on time-trial miles for its Italian homeboys than the Tour. Still, the Schlecks remain defiant, convinced that the loving attentions of Johan Bruyneel can nuzzle 'em up that final step of the podium and, mercifully, sparing us three solid weeks of whinging (did I get that right, dear Brit readers?) about Chaingate in March. Enjoy the Tour, boys--I'll sure as hell be enjoying the Giro a little more this year!

Lance Armstrong's Oh, !@#$! Moment

Okay, *This* One's Gotta Hurt: all right, forget bitter-Betty Landis and his "Fairness Fund" and even Tyler exorcising--and I hope it helps--his demons saying he had a bird's eye view of Armstrong injecting EPO: now, it appears, permanent Lance loyalist big George Hincapie has told the feds he saw Lance using PEDs. Look, even if you can't accept the premise that Floyd and Tyler just finally wanted out from under, you can argue all day that, besides being pissed over being busted to boot, Floyd and Hamilton had their own agendas--they dared to want and have their own careers, and Lance never stopped punishing 'em for it. And as it happens, disgusted as I was by Hamilton in particular at the time because I'd been so enamored of his brave uphill Grand Tour slog through a snapped collarbone, I don't think Tyler actually has anything to gain at this point, unless you count being ruthlessly ripped by the entire American Lance-worshipping cycling-ignoring public as an obvious liar, self-promoter, and general scumbag--which would seem to go against Tyler's self-imposed quiet couple of years off the radar and on to a respectable day-job. But Hincapie, who willingly stuck with Lance through most of his Tours at his own legacy's expense and for one lousy stage win at that, has none of that baggage. So let's hear it--how's Lance gonna smack down this one?

A Note From the Completely Immaterial Arguments Department: And while we're at it, and before Lance's Tour de France army comes at all us doubters with surface-to-air missiles, can we please stop with the dimwit self-serving "never tested positive" bull!@#$ already? Neither did Bjarne, Basso, Valverde, or half a dozen other heroes for the most part, until they either 'fessed up in annoyance or finally screwed up just enough. Neither did pretty well the entire cheating lowlife dope-sucking passel of Lance's PostalDiscovery minions, either--at least 'til after they left him. But apparently, they're all lyin' when they say they did dope when they didn't test positive, and all got nailed the very very very first time they ever did dope. So can we lay to rest the idiot argument that there's obviously no doping in the peloton because no-one got caught today with a giant needle in their !@#? Thanks, everybody!

Grossglockner Is Right: meantime, that was almost agonizing to watch the Giro today, particularly as I wouldn't mind seeing Nibali--hell, anyone--take a bite outta Contador just for variety's sake, but I gotta admit, baffled as I was when Alberto first took off gratuitously on the final climb considering the challenges still ahead for tomorrow and Sunday, that boy is growing some tactical *brains*. All he's gotta do now is hold on tight, and he's even, not to curse him or nothin', got room for a little mechanical problem or careless hunger bonk. On the other hand, is anyone else disconcertingly reminded of Ivan Basso's blistering win in 2006? Nope, nope, he couldn't be that stupid, it's just his natural superiority...or at least it !@#damn well better be!

Change in Plans: meantime, I see the Giro has just announced it's ditching the nasty ascent, and, more to the point, hairy descent of Monte Crostis tomorrow, which, depending on how they reroute the stage, could give the remaining GC boys some hope that they'll still have some life in their legs before Contador bashes it out of 'em, or, if Alberto's feeling particularly generous (speaking of which, it *was* worth the 8-second loss in time bonus to be a respectable human being and let Rujano take the stage win), even a little bit of actual leeway. Well, the day will tell--just be careful out there on the rest of it, guys, and well and wisely done by the Giro to sacrifice drama for safety!

Daaaaaaaavvve! Jeeeeeeeeennnnnns!: finally, besides the bummin' realization that we love Jens Voigt had to bail out of the TOC after riding with a broken wrist all day, that was really one kick-butt win for Dave Zabriskie today and an exceedingly fine performance from Chris Horner to hold onto the jersey. See, you *can* win without the porn-stache--now on to the Tour de France!

Dave Zabriskie: the Racejunkie Rider Profile o' the Week

Okay, it's a rest day at the fabulous Vuelta, and if there's anything less entertaining to cover than Pippo Pozzato whining that he's really not trying to evade Italian taxes by spending weekends crashing in Monaco, I've yet to hear of it. So today, a new and exciting feature at racejunkie: yer Rider Profile o' the Week! Our inaugural victim: Dave Zabriskie. Enjoy!

The Man: He was born in '79. He's got a gorgeous family. He started a cool nonprofit to smooth the ruffled feathers twixt bikes and motorists 'cause he was tired of getting whacked by cars. And best of all, despite a vicious theft of his stuff aways back, he's still got a truly bitchin' collection of action figures. Oh, right, and he's one of the best cyclists of his generation. Sweet!

The Palmares: geez, I could barely count the wins. Suffice it to say that if it's him, you, or damn near anyone else on earth against the clock, the one going down ain't him. 2000 Under-23 time trial national champ. Individual time trials at all three Grand Tours, and, not coincidentally, the first American to win stages in all three of 'em. Hear that, Armstrong? I thought not! Plus, he's busted at Sea Otter, the Dauphine, the Toura Missoura, the Bahamas, and for Postal, CSC, and Garmin. Is there anything this man can't do?

The Pundit: sure, he's been known to ask Alessandro Petacchi about his penchant for Star Wars, query Charly Wegelius as to whether he's ever had Liquigas, inquire of Stuey O'Grady if he's ever done kangaroo boxing, and comment on his bathroom habits on Twitter, but for my money, the man is truly on his game this year--he responded to the news Landis had popped in at the Tour of California with a cheerful "tell him I said hi," and, best of all, quoth in this year's Tour de France that "Jens for sure is one bad ass mofo." Right on, Dave!

The Entrepreneur: cyclist by day, purveyor of nut- and petal-protecting chamois creams by night--the boy is just unstoppable. What's it do? See here--heck, it even makes you sing!



The Moustache: finally, not perhaps since Franco of the Euromullet Pellizotti's golden-highlighted Samsonian tresses has the peloton seen such a sartorial, as well as cycling, dedication to furry perfection. Why should you care? Because somewhere, in this man's wholesome clean-shavenness, Van Dykes, Grizzly Adamses, and flat-out 70s Porn Stars, is the key, you can be sure, to the roadie, the time trialist, and to his sheer Zabriskian genius. Armchair shrinks--get to work!