It's A Pre-Tour Showdown, Honey!

Yer Flanders Ronde-Up: okay, Nick Nuyens won and serious huzzahs to him, but damn, if Cancellara could get nut-whacked by his rivals that hard that many times and still survive for third place (much less the last place that lesser mortals would've suffered), he really is just un-freakin'-touchable and every other rider on earth should just go home. Controversy o' the race: Garmin guru Jonathan Vaughters telling his squad waaaaaaaaay early on to sit up and do nothin' the rest of the race. Fine, hindsight is 20-20, and to be fair, he had his reasons, but considering Boonen made it within seconds of the break at the line, couldn't we *have* been lookin' at a Thor-n-Tyler-friendly sprint, which one of 'em could reasonably have taken? And before I get smacked for being a dimwit know-nothing armchair quarterback--because believe you me, there are *far* better reasons to tell me I bite--I note BMC and a few other boys still didn't give up the ghost 'til the very end of the game. Also not helpful: Vaughters loyally informing the press he doesn't exactly *know* why we love Thor "Holy Crap He's the World Road Champion!" Hushovd sucks so bad this season. Who cares whether it's true (which it's not, so go to hell)--stuff it, buddy!

Euskalteeeeeeeelllllll!: meantime, over in Tour de France news, it's time for the beautiful--and exceedingly mountainous--Vuelta a Pais Vasco, with we love Euskaltel god Samuel "Holy Crap He's the Olympic Road Champion!" Sanchez, hot off his weekend win at the GP Miguel Indurain, just nipped at the line by a brilliantly riding like-I-really-care-who-the-hell-it-was, earnest prettyboy Ivan Basso looking to avenge his March, and the Schleck brothers lookin' to remind everyone "hey! we're in this squad too!". And while I've almost been seduced back into believing in Basso, since it's Euskaltel, I'm all about Sanchez. Allez allez Samu'! Since I'm a crappy sport, here's him taking the GP Indurain this weekend instead:

Drug-Doping Bad, Aero-Doping Good: speaking of Schlecks, come to think of it, Frank *has* been implicated in traditional doping scandals (allegedly!), but to me, primarily because it pissed off the Italians, who usually just whine about the Spanish, this one's far worse: Frank's under investigation for smoothin' out his concave chest with a stomach-side Camelbak to nail the GC at the Criterium International. Great, next thing you know the boys'll all be donning prosthetic aero-boobs. "Chain-drop" my !@#, Andy--*this* year Contador's gonna take you out with his honkin' new double-Ds!

WADA Load: finally, I see the noble folks at WADA have called for the scrapping of B-samples in all cycling doping controls in order to cover for the incompetent lab chimps who routinely f--I mean, to save precious time, money, and resources used in the wasteful double-checking of obvious fraud. Y'know, WADA, by that system, your holy cash-cow Lance Armstrong would've been busted. So which two Tours de France are you gonna strip him of, exactly? Thought so!

It's Flanders, Baby!

And Tom Boonen Is Ready: yep, just days after his assclown team boss Patrick Lefevere decided to "motivate" recent Gent-champ Boonen for his showdown with Cancellara by telling the press he's gonna get a whoppin' pay cut if he don't start winning more--and I'm guessing that the guy in actual charge who is personally failing to successfully guide his team ain't himself offering Quick Step any of *his* salary back--Tom's truly put down the hammer on his pre-Flanders prep in response, forcing himself into a spectacularly grueling regimen of lip-synching, air-guitar, and headbanging: Geez, Lefevere, are you *trying* to set our boy back 2 years?--stick a drinking straw in his nose and push 'im face down into a grande-sized cup o' blow, whydontcha!

Yer Handy Flanders Preview: and, while some nimrods caused a slight adjustment stealing cobbles from the course--which frankly, might've done some of the shakier Classics domestiques a favor--it's still lookin' to be a smashing route, , and while whatsisface o' the time trial is favored to win, and it's hard not to root for monster attacker Philippe Gilbert, we all know, deep down, it's gonna be Thor. Yeah, go to hell! For the women's race: look for Grace Verbeke to redeem Belgian honor again this year, and if she doesn't, and Vos doesn't beat her, Ina-Yoko Teutenberg will simply go Rock-em Sock-em Robots on them with the awesome power of her fists.Go Ina!

Buon Compleanno!: finally, tho' it still crushes me he's no longer on the road, happy birthday to great champion/Azzurri Commissario Tecnico Paolo "Il Grillo" Bettini, and frankly, I was stumped as to whether to post a tribute of his greatest victories, or the hilarious 8-minute segment where he gets "punked" on Italian TV when a coupla hotties steal his personal airplane for a disastrous joyride, his equally-hot wife goes in for the kill defending her man, and Paolo gets to break up the cagefight. So unless I hear otherwise, here's the Cricket, as always, winnin' stuff. We miss you Paolo!

What the Hell *Is* a Pave', Anyway? And, The Parasite on the Podium

Classics Questions from Dear Newbies: so on the very eve of the Tour of Flanders, as I beat it into occasionally-unwilling initiates that the Final Four of something called "basketball" is lame and cycling is the king of all sporting endeavors, a few questions have arisen from those unfamiliar with aught but the Tour de France:

1) What the !@#$ Is a Pave'?: Pave' is pain, baby. Bone-rattling, tire-pinching, frame-twisting, flesh-rippin' pain. If it's dry, it's cornea-mangling stone-dust assault. If it's wet, it's a slick path to more broken bones than Lance Armstrong's got beeyotches. Basically, it's an irregular squarish or rectangularish rock that masquerades as a road surface but is in actuality a gateway to cold grey granite death. See you in Hades, sucker!

2) What's the Route?: !@#$-all if I can tell, but Flemish sure *reads* scary. Ah, here's a better map!

3) Who Am I Rooting For?: if you're me, anyone who's guaranteed to lose, but these are races for the hard men, baby--some twinkie prima-donna climber or rigid wraith time-trialist is meat before they hit the start line, if they're even stupid enough to sign up in the first place. The Belgians have a super-sweet edge because these sick freaks voluntarily ride this crap terrain all year. Even fresh out of celebrity rehab, it's all about big Tom Boonen, and it would've been all about his twice-winning defending-champ teammate Stijn Devolder if his own damn boss hadn't viciously and counterproductively emasculated him this week to anyone who would listen, which this week means every cycling journalist, fan, and rider on earth. Poor Stijn! Look for Leif Hoste, whose excuse this year is a too-close relationship of late with the men's room, to give his traditional glum post-race analysis-o'-failure. Sentimental losing picks: George Hincapie, who has the Worst Mechanical Luck Ever Every Single Freakin' Race He's In; we love Thor Hushovd, who's takin' the green jersey at the Tour de France again this year so the big-shot Classics can just stuff it; dogged Aussie Stuey O'Grady, whose entire skeleton has been replaced by a series of pins, plates and screws due to crashes and is now a certified indestructible cyborg; Philippe Gilbert, who I keep rooting for to win in every race since he's like one of two French cyclists not to bite the last few years but then I always remember he's actually Belgian. And look, he's riding a nifty pave'-print bike tomorrow!

4) So What *Is* the Forecast for Tomorrow?: Belgian beach weather: rain, wind, and hail, baby! Some of these guys have been known to dive for cover like they're under an artillery barrage, so watch the fun as the fans scatter!

5) What's the Prize?: you ain't *dead*, honey, what more do you want? Oh, and you're revered as a god by the Belgians for all time. Bonus!

The Cobra Strikes: finally, in completely unrelated news, congrats to gutless worm Riccardo Ricco' on his first win back from his doping ban, and, of course, to his ex-companion/baby mama/cyclocross champ Vania Rossi, whose own B-sample actually came back negative(or, in either the desperate or genuinely incriminating words of the narcs, "below the minimum" necessary for a confirming positive test). As expected, the narcs vowed to keep on pursuing Vania anyway in an Iban-Mayo-esque bloodlust inability to accept they'd blown it, in this case on the grounds that CERA degrades mighty quick in urine (so look forward to an excess of needle-sticks this season, peloton!), and Ricco', always a class act, deigned to vaguely have heard of her sometime after he hid crying behind her team kit like a simp during his own dope bust but before she herself turned up on the hit list and Ricco went scattering to the hills like a cockroach. Good luck Vania--between all these schmucks, you're gonna need it!