Cadel Call: all right, I'll cop to it. I'm one of them. You know, the ones who've been constantly dope-smacking Cadel Evans for not attacking, downright saying he couldn't, comparing him kindly to such esteemed members of the animal world as "remoras" and "leeches." Well, I'm eatin' it now, because as you well know, Cadel is World Champion. And frankly, it was gorgeous and astonishing to watch, so except for the fact that I was actually rooting for Oscar Freire, all I especially care about is that Samuel Sanchez is fourth over his "team leader" that drug-stuffed punk Valverde, and a significant, disgustingly scumwaddy part of me was sincerely hoping for Valverde or even better Vinokorouv to win just to watch Pat "Dick" McQuaid's face when he was forced at hypocrite gunpoint to hand over the gold medal, I gotta say, it's not so bad a feeling to be that gobsmacked. Congrats to our Aussie posse--and major bonus points to Cadel for not pulling that obnoxious Contadorian "pistolero" grandstanding or Cav-ish wanker chest-thumping over a simple acknowledgement to the crowd. Class act, particularly the way you've been treated (by, um, some of us), Cadel! Today's helpful Hint from Heloise, since we're still unofficially on the Cadel Evans Find Me a Team That Won't Jack Me Over Project: right this very second, before Silence has a chance to remember the first part of your debacle season, is *the* fleeting moment to skyrocket your asking price and demand the domestique firepower you really need for the big shows. Good luck to you and your paycheck! If it all works, can I get a cut?
Et Tu, Fabian?: meantime, the recriminations among the other squads have begun, with the Italians' boss blaming everyone from his own boy Pozzato to lazy-!@# Cancellara to the useless Spaniards to damn near his own grandma for blowing it for Cunego, the squadra azzurra feeling generally screwed, the Spaniards pointing fingers at the Italians, and just about only our perfect Samu Sanchez actually giving Cadel any personal credit for the victory. And the tifosi? Absolutely on the rampage at their unbelievable loss, split between blaming Basso, Cunego, Pozzato, and the team boss, and apparently paying off the Giovanni Visconti Shrieking Teenybopper Fan Club to flood the place with the only kindness to anyone besides Cadel. Looking forward to lots of unprintable words in the Swiss, Spanish and Italian press the next few days, don't you think?
(Anti) Doping for Dummies: so after doped-up riders have been rewarded for years with massive wins, podium accolades, fan adulation and obscene sports car budgets, with only spotty punishment followed by lucrative new gigs for those whose handlers sensibly convince them to shed ostentatious amounts of crocodile tears to any camera within eyeshot, UCI has taken truly decisive action to stop doping in the new generation of eager beavers: yep, despite the merely dubious risk of actual consequences, they're gonna have to take a class on how doping is really, really, really naughty. Heck, if lessons on what is and isn't detectable under current UCI testing protocols ain't useful, I can't imagine what is--and now that you don't even need a Therapeutic Use Exemption for asthma meds, why not teach 'em exactly how many puffs you can take before the finish line without getting busted? Oh, the academic possibilities are too endless...
Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: speaking of UCI, our noble overseers, still fresh from their triumph of an entirely plausibly drug-free Tour de France, have been thwapped by the Italians over their claim that they were powerless to take any earlier action against despised cheat-weasel Alejandro Valverde and keep him out of the Worlds because it "didn't have the file in time," as the Italians call bull!@#$ and say they sent a huge wad of ironclad documentary evidence to UCI in plenty of time to keep the boy from riding anything more important than a jaunt to the local 7-Eleven for some cheez-sauced nachos and a Slurpee. Y'know, not to lay odds here, but given that the Italians are still engaged in a rabid anti-Valverdean vendetta-snit over Piti escaping Op Puerto scot-free while half their own boys went down, and the UCI's grotesque history of doper-enabling and scuzz-coddling, I'm bankin' on Italy being in the right on this one. Or am I just underestimating UCI's true commitment to genuine dirtbag-purging over gutter-wallowing rump-covering "NO CHEATS LEFT IN THE PELOTON" PR-mongering?
Leaving Las Vegas: finally, a big shout-out to Team Ouch founder Floyd Landis, who graciously told me at a mob-scene sponsor meet-n-greet he'd actually read this muckraking on-line scandalsheet and, even more graciously, didn't even ball up his fist and deck me for it then 'n' there. Now *that's* good sportsmanship! So, you going to RadioSk--um, Shack next season or what?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
How To Dress Like a Rock (Racing) Star; and, Racejunkies for Podium-Babe Equality
Rock Around the Clock: Wanna look like a Rock Racing Team star, without the dubious, um, medical history, perpetual haunting by the narcs, and constant threat of being fired or demoted like some no-name talentless dipwad? Well, now you can, baby:
Sure, you won't ride any faster--but won't you look chic gasping by the side of the road waiting for someone to come pick you up?
We Were Sufferin'/'Til Suffrage/Whoa!: yes, with the brutal schedule, body-stomping road and mountain rides, more limited race opportunities, and squat pay, for my money clearly the most crucial issue facing the women's peloton has been: why the !@#$ do only the guys get podium babes? Well, Interbike's remedied that one, honey, and I fully expect to see the gents in lame' hot pants posing for a kiss on the cheek with the triumphant sweat-soaked champions at all future award ceremonies, just like in the Tour de France:
Way to fight the good fight, sisters!
Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Wear Lampre: want to ride your bike, but afraid of looking like (not that I have any squads in mind, here) some tarty Starburst spandex poseur? Here's some spiffy tweed duds from the incredibly cool folks at Sheila Moon (complete, as you can see, with handsome leather patch to protect those sensitive areas):
Couldn't *someone* have started making these clothes before every sausage-stuffed wannabe Lance Armstrong began assaulting our eyes in oversqueezed neon team kit?
Worlds, Worlds, Worlds: so you can quit cryin' about the Vuelta, Cadel, as formidable speedster Brad Wiggins one-ups you with The Suckiest-Timed Mechanical Ever at the World Time Trial Championships, though whether anyone can beat Fabian Cancellara without actively bashing his bike to bits with a hammer (which I do *not* recommend, you cheating vandals) is doubtful at best. Geez, Cav's down for the count, Brad's hopes are dashed--please, please don't let anything else bad happen across the pond this season, newcomer Team Sky in particular!
Bad News for the Dimmer Bulbs: okay, you can perhaps surmise who I'm thinking of here, but holy freakin' moly are some of our, well, less poindextery boys in trouble two years out, as UCI votes to bag the use of two-way race radios in the peloton. Presumably, of course, the DSes'll still be able to scream their heads off at their doltish charges--and let's face it, doesn't the occasional wayward child perhaps need it? Anyway, enjoy the radios while they last, Pro Tour--you got two years to teach the less Einsteinian to independently strategize and think!
No Sleep/ Til Brooklyn (Well, Mendrisio Anyway): finally, sweet dreams to poor Alejandro "Piti" Valverde, whose paranoid Spanish national squad is keeping him the hell out of the site of his ban in Italy where the rest of the kids are boarding during the Worlds, and stashing him, alone and forlorn, in Switzerland instead, despite the fact that he can technically step into the country so long as he stays the heck off his bike. Silly? Yes. An excess of caution? Certainly--but then again, perhaps it makes sense about now for the Spaniards to start practicing keeping him away from forbidden borders!
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
Sure, you won't ride any faster--but won't you look chic gasping by the side of the road waiting for someone to come pick you up?
We Were Sufferin'/'Til Suffrage/Whoa!: yes, with the brutal schedule, body-stomping road and mountain rides, more limited race opportunities, and squat pay, for my money clearly the most crucial issue facing the women's peloton has been: why the !@#$ do only the guys get podium babes? Well, Interbike's remedied that one, honey, and I fully expect to see the gents in lame' hot pants posing for a kiss on the cheek with the triumphant sweat-soaked champions at all future award ceremonies, just like in the Tour de France:
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
Way to fight the good fight, sisters!
Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Wear Lampre: want to ride your bike, but afraid of looking like (not that I have any squads in mind, here) some tarty Starburst spandex poseur? Here's some spiffy tweed duds from the incredibly cool folks at Sheila Moon (complete, as you can see, with handsome leather patch to protect those sensitive areas):
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
Couldn't *someone* have started making these clothes before every sausage-stuffed wannabe Lance Armstrong began assaulting our eyes in oversqueezed neon team kit?
Worlds, Worlds, Worlds: so you can quit cryin' about the Vuelta, Cadel, as formidable speedster Brad Wiggins one-ups you with The Suckiest-Timed Mechanical Ever at the World Time Trial Championships, though whether anyone can beat Fabian Cancellara without actively bashing his bike to bits with a hammer (which I do *not* recommend, you cheating vandals) is doubtful at best. Geez, Cav's down for the count, Brad's hopes are dashed--please, please don't let anything else bad happen across the pond this season, newcomer Team Sky in particular!
Bad News for the Dimmer Bulbs: okay, you can perhaps surmise who I'm thinking of here, but holy freakin' moly are some of our, well, less poindextery boys in trouble two years out, as UCI votes to bag the use of two-way race radios in the peloton. Presumably, of course, the DSes'll still be able to scream their heads off at their doltish charges--and let's face it, doesn't the occasional wayward child perhaps need it? Anyway, enjoy the radios while they last, Pro Tour--you got two years to teach the less Einsteinian to independently strategize and think!
No Sleep/ Til Brooklyn (Well, Mendrisio Anyway): finally, sweet dreams to poor Alejandro "Piti" Valverde, whose paranoid Spanish national squad is keeping him the hell out of the site of his ban in Italy where the rest of the kids are boarding during the Worlds, and stashing him, alone and forlorn, in Switzerland instead, despite the fact that he can technically step into the country so long as he stays the heck off his bike. Silly? Yes. An excess of caution? Certainly--but then again, perhaps it makes sense about now for the Spaniards to start practicing keeping him away from forbidden borders!
A Question for Dave Zabriskie, Christian Vande Velde, and Danny Summerhill; and, So Much More!
Oh Yeah, Baby!: all right, folks, you know the score: we're the fans, and they are the cycling gods. So what do they really think of us? You ask (well, I do anyway), I answer, honey! The Scene: a highly educational technical discussion of the hydration specs of the Garmin-Slipstream squad at the Camelbak booth at Interbike with team physiologist, DZ, CVV, and U23 phenom and all-around nice guy Danny Summerhill. The Opportunity: they opened it up to audience Q&A, including inspiring and intelligent queries like how to get started as a pro. The Racejunkie Question On Behalf of You, the Faithful Reader: so you're at the Tour de France, and the fans are screaming in your face, running alongside you in man-thongs or in funny hats or with their national flags painted on their beer guts--what are you thinking? I'm sure it was just a matter of efficiency that the mic was jerked out of my hand immediately afterwards like Indiana Jones' lasso on icon. The Responses (and I paraphrase a bit; what the hell am I, a tape recorder?): DZ: "nice ass," it "can get annoying," and as for the crowds generally, "you're just trying to get through it." CVV: I "don't get the male nudity" but "am in favor of female nudity," "it's pretty amazing," and you're "glad everyone is out there." Thanks, boys! Does this mean I can run alongside you shrieking in a man-thong at next year's Tour?
An Interview With 2009 World Downhill Champ Steve Peat!: okay, I'm a road freak, but really, is anything quite so cool as someone in full body armor careening down a dirt descent o' death and not only living to tell the tale, but kicking the !@# of every other speed-freak in the genre? So here's the word from the Deacon of Dirt:
--Worst day ever on a bike?: "they're all good days."
--Best day ever on a bike?: "two weeks ago when I won the World Championships."
--Advice for aspiring riders?: "have fun, go out and enjoy it, don't take yourself too seriously."
--How'd you get started?: "X-C."
--Fan question: How many broken bones do you have?: "About 15." Hardware: "Just in my collarbone." Am I the only one who wants to recklessly find a mountaintop with my ancient wholly-unsuitable road bike and pitch myself down it right now?
New Stuff I Liked: wah, wah, the economy's in the tank. Get your priorities straight, you simps!
--Vanderkitten. Bad-!@# riders, bitchin' kit, and advocates for women and girls hitting the road. Right on sisters!
--Pashley Bikes: British, hand-built, meltingly sexy, ineffably dashing. Yap, road racing, yap. Bring these babies *on*!
--Dogs Rule, Cats Drool: naturally, from the smashing Italians, the slinkiest yet most functional dog/cycling gear anywhere anytime ever. Emanuele Bianchi Design. Bike with Fido, and you don't even face-plant entangling her leash with your drivetrain!
--Oooh, Ladies First/Ladies First: tired of hearing about DZ's Nuts and whatever else the guys have to slap on their works? Here's one for the women--Hoo Ha Ride Glide! Even better: their Reflect H2O Swim Shampoo and Conditioner. The problem: my hair turns into the Centurion Helmet of Congealed Hideousity after a dip in the pool. After using this stuff, not only did it smell so deliciously tropical I started singing "The Pina Colada Song" in the shower (shut up! you would too!), but it left me feeling like one of those chicks in the hair-conditioner commercials who look like they're about to...um, tell their friends about it. Nice!
And, the Gratuitous Alberto Contador Dope-Slap o' the Day: first, there's a giant Alberto Contador banner celebrating his 2009 Tour de France triumph. Next, there's a jersey with the beautiful colors of Astana. And all I could think was, you poor bastid. Alberto, what were you *thinking*!
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
An Interview With 2009 World Downhill Champ Steve Peat!: okay, I'm a road freak, but really, is anything quite so cool as someone in full body armor careening down a dirt descent o' death and not only living to tell the tale, but kicking the !@# of every other speed-freak in the genre? So here's the word from the Deacon of Dirt:
--Worst day ever on a bike?: "they're all good days."
--Best day ever on a bike?: "two weeks ago when I won the World Championships."
--Advice for aspiring riders?: "have fun, go out and enjoy it, don't take yourself too seriously."
--How'd you get started?: "X-C."
--Fan question: How many broken bones do you have?: "About 15." Hardware: "Just in my collarbone." Am I the only one who wants to recklessly find a mountaintop with my ancient wholly-unsuitable road bike and pitch myself down it right now?
New Stuff I Liked: wah, wah, the economy's in the tank. Get your priorities straight, you simps!
--Vanderkitten. Bad-!@# riders, bitchin' kit, and advocates for women and girls hitting the road. Right on sisters!
--Pashley Bikes: British, hand-built, meltingly sexy, ineffably dashing. Yap, road racing, yap. Bring these babies *on*!
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
--Dogs Rule, Cats Drool: naturally, from the smashing Italians, the slinkiest yet most functional dog/cycling gear anywhere anytime ever. Emanuele Bianchi Design. Bike with Fido, and you don't even face-plant entangling her leash with your drivetrain!
--Oooh, Ladies First/Ladies First: tired of hearing about DZ's Nuts and whatever else the guys have to slap on their works? Here's one for the women--Hoo Ha Ride Glide! Even better: their Reflect H2O Swim Shampoo and Conditioner. The problem: my hair turns into the Centurion Helmet of Congealed Hideousity after a dip in the pool. After using this stuff, not only did it smell so deliciously tropical I started singing "The Pina Colada Song" in the shower (shut up! you would too!), but it left me feeling like one of those chicks in the hair-conditioner commercials who look like they're about to...um, tell their friends about it. Nice!
And, the Gratuitous Alberto Contador Dope-Slap o' the Day: first, there's a giant Alberto Contador banner celebrating his 2009 Tour de France triumph. Next, there's a jersey with the beautiful colors of Astana. And all I could think was, you poor bastid. Alberto, what were you *thinking*!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Live, From Vegas, Baby--It's Bike Lust 2009!; and, Good News for Alessandro Petacchi
Yes, folks, we're at fabulous Interbike 2009, and already it's total sensory overload as we engage in a hard-core effort to score schwag, stalk yer fave cyclists, and find what's new and hot for both my faithful gearhead readers. Today's notes:
Schwag o' the Day: okay, castigate me for my endless lameness if you will, but aside my excitement over a single stylin' merino sock that seductively promises you its mate tomorrow morning at its manufacturer's booth, and despite the truly impressive array of power drinks and energy snacks I've snarfed today, my top freebie so far is undoubtedly the bitchin', pretty dice from bebop, makers of exceedingly spiffy pedals (and not, sad to say, even freakin' paying me to pimp 'em):
Thanks, bebop!
Product Test Review o' the Day: this one's for smashing localistas (for me, anyway) Parlee for their dandy new Z-5:
"It's like riding a column of air!"--John Anon., 9/22/09 Want specs? Let me know!
Your Aw, !@#$in' Hell! Bike God Near-Miss o' the Afternoon: The Quarry: Dave Zabriskie. The Place: Bootleg Canyon, 1:25 pm. The Problem: I've been in the desert 4 1/2 sun-pounding hours, I'm High Pasty Irish for Chrissakes, I'm deep into screaming-pain Honeybaked Ham sunburn territory, Dave Z won't be around for another 35 minutes, and I'll be shrieking in my hotel room like Cad...well, why piss anyone in particular off?...if I don't get inside, for good, in the next 15 seconds. !@#$!
Dream Ride o' the Day: no, it's not some $10,000 sell-your-organs-on-the-black-market-to-get-it carbon-fiber pro-or-poseur bike: it's
electra bikes' peace-n-love construction o' today, throwback to idyllic childhood spiffy new ride. Y'know, all this genuine sweetness on my part is making me sick. Would someone pay me to kiss their !@# already?
Air! I Need Air!: finally, back in the real world, it's a fantastic gimme to both legit user Alessandro "How Many Puffs Does It Take To Stun a Rhino" Petacchi and faux wheeze-gaspers everywhere, as WADA, in its endless quest to limit the supply of troublesome and PR-unfriendly doping pozes, I mean, refine its quality-control system and ensure only the truly guilty get caught, takes everyone's go-to crap-malady treatment salbutamol off the Therapeutic Use Exemption list--not so you can't use it at all, you faithless child, but so you *can* use it without even the annoyance of a bull!@#$ gyno-to-the-stars doctor's note. Thanks, WADA--with CERA so easily detectable nowadays, what else was an enterprising skankball supposed to do?
All right folks, that's it for today--check in tomorrow for the Phil 'n' Paul Stalker Report, Gratuitous Alberto Contador Dope-Slap, Humiliatin' Celebrity-Hunt Moment o' the Day, and whatever stuff I like and hate! Note to energy-drink makers: I really, really hope your products don't make me yack. Til then!
Schwag o' the Day: okay, castigate me for my endless lameness if you will, but aside my excitement over a single stylin' merino sock that seductively promises you its mate tomorrow morning at its manufacturer's booth, and despite the truly impressive array of power drinks and energy snacks I've snarfed today, my top freebie so far is undoubtedly the bitchin', pretty dice from bebop, makers of exceedingly spiffy pedals (and not, sad to say, even freakin' paying me to pimp 'em):
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
Product Test Review o' the Day: this one's for smashing localistas (for me, anyway) Parlee for their dandy new Z-5:
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
"It's like riding a column of air!"--John Anon., 9/22/09 Want specs? Let me know!
Your Aw, !@#$in' Hell! Bike God Near-Miss o' the Afternoon: The Quarry: Dave Zabriskie. The Place: Bootleg Canyon, 1:25 pm. The Problem: I've been in the desert 4 1/2 sun-pounding hours, I'm High Pasty Irish for Chrissakes, I'm deep into screaming-pain Honeybaked Ham sunburn territory, Dave Z won't be around for another 35 minutes, and I'll be shrieking in my hotel room like Cad...well, why piss anyone in particular off?...if I don't get inside, for good, in the next 15 seconds. !@#$!
Dream Ride o' the Day: no, it's not some $10,000 sell-your-organs-on-the-black-market-to-get-it carbon-fiber pro-or-poseur bike: it's
 |
| From Interbike 2009 |
Air! I Need Air!: finally, back in the real world, it's a fantastic gimme to both legit user Alessandro "How Many Puffs Does It Take To Stun a Rhino" Petacchi and faux wheeze-gaspers everywhere, as WADA, in its endless quest to limit the supply of troublesome and PR-unfriendly doping pozes, I mean, refine its quality-control system and ensure only the truly guilty get caught, takes everyone's go-to crap-malady treatment salbutamol off the Therapeutic Use Exemption list--not so you can't use it at all, you faithless child, but so you *can* use it without even the annoyance of a bull!@#$ gyno-to-the-stars doctor's note. Thanks, WADA--with CERA so easily detectable nowadays, what else was an enterprising skankball supposed to do?
All right folks, that's it for today--check in tomorrow for the Phil 'n' Paul Stalker Report, Gratuitous Alberto Contador Dope-Slap, Humiliatin' Celebrity-Hunt Moment o' the Day, and whatever stuff I like and hate! Note to energy-drink makers: I really, really hope your products don't make me yack. Til then!
Friday, September 18, 2009
Fire Your Handlers, Contador!
Didn't We Go *Over* This Already?: all right, Alberto, we've all just about accustomed ourselves to the fact that you're not quite the brightest candle in the chandelier, but now you officially confirm you didn't even have the sense to negotiate a buyout clause out of your long-term contract with !@#$up-when-you-got-there Astana? Child, who the hell is *handling* you? Okay, I suppose you can't exactly fire your brother Fran, and to be fair, on the blood-is-thicker-than-your-head scale you'd be completely a tool if you did, but who the hell told you moving into Alexander Vinokorouv's burning kerosene-fueled balsa-wood hell-hole of a mansion without a ladder was a good idea in the first place? Get this, twerp: even if your current man-crush Garmin-Slipstream is losing the not-cheap Brad Wiggins to Team Sky (and they're damn well set for next season if they did, incidentally), Jonathan Vaughters likely *still* doesn't have the dough to buy you out of this debacle, so get set to trade in your bitchin' sports-car and luxury vacations for a third-hand lawn-mower-motored dinged-up scooter and a flybitten motel where you don't wanna know what's been on those sheets if you really wanna hang with Dave Z next season. Oh, man. Sure you wouldn't be better off taking a couple years off the bike to take some university classes?--you'd still be in your prime when you got back, right? 
Samu, Samu, Samu!: and, right on Samu Sanchez for a spectacular ride without the benefits of the last-climb help Ivan and Alejandro enjoyed from their teammates, and once you'd dropped poor crushed Gesink and couldn't shake Valverde on the final descent (does that make anyone else, well, sorta queasy but me?), you were right to take it conservatively--just *please* don't lose too much to Cadel and Ivan in the time trial! Y'know, not to suggest you won't win entirely on your own next year--but if someone suggested to the race organizers that the Vuelta take a scenic one-day detour into, ooooohhhh, saaaaaay, Italy next year, that'd be totally coincidentally awfully pleasant, wouldn't it?
Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean: meantime, holy moly, maybe St. Ivan of Varese really *is* as reformed as he's thankfully stopped constantly trumpeting he is, as he gamely holds his own but doesn't disconcertingly bash the heck out the competition and still has a shot at (now don't get too ambitious, Ivan) third tomorrow after a season of highly respectable, but not freakishly, oh, Rabobankian, results. Oh my, am I feeling twinges of sympathy after that ridiculous "attempted doping" excuse that's still !@#$ing me off from two years ago, or am I just getting bedazzled by those pretty, pretty eyes and pretty, pretty pout and pretty, pretty tweets to his wife on her birthday? Focus, Racejunkie, focus! The tifosi, of course, are duly proud, but if there seems to be a soupcon of disappointment in their comments that he's not back on the juice, I mean, not quite yet able to beat the undoubtedly doped-up pigs ahead of him in every race, well, perhaps my translation skills are just off. Anyway, forza Ivan--and I doubt you'll have to worry about Alejandro at any rate next season!
Samu, Samu, Samu!: and, right on Samu Sanchez for a spectacular ride without the benefits of the last-climb help Ivan and Alejandro enjoyed from their teammates, and once you'd dropped poor crushed Gesink and couldn't shake Valverde on the final descent (does that make anyone else, well, sorta queasy but me?), you were right to take it conservatively--just *please* don't lose too much to Cadel and Ivan in the time trial! Y'know, not to suggest you won't win entirely on your own next year--but if someone suggested to the race organizers that the Vuelta take a scenic one-day detour into, ooooohhhh, saaaaaay, Italy next year, that'd be totally coincidentally awfully pleasant, wouldn't it?
Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean: meantime, holy moly, maybe St. Ivan of Varese really *is* as reformed as he's thankfully stopped constantly trumpeting he is, as he gamely holds his own but doesn't disconcertingly bash the heck out the competition and still has a shot at (now don't get too ambitious, Ivan) third tomorrow after a season of highly respectable, but not freakishly, oh, Rabobankian, results. Oh my, am I feeling twinges of sympathy after that ridiculous "attempted doping" excuse that's still !@#$ing me off from two years ago, or am I just getting bedazzled by those pretty, pretty eyes and pretty, pretty pout and pretty, pretty tweets to his wife on her birthday? Focus, Racejunkie, focus! The tifosi, of course, are duly proud, but if there seems to be a soupcon of disappointment in their comments that he's not back on the juice, I mean, not quite yet able to beat the undoubtedly doped-up pigs ahead of him in every race, well, perhaps my translation skills are just off. Anyway, forza Ivan--and I doubt you'll have to worry about Alejandro at any rate next season!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Eat Scalding Karmic Cycling Eternal Flaming Suffering, You Disgusting Hypocrites!
I Mean, Gee Whiz, UCI!: so we still love and still miss !@#dammit ex-Euskaltel climbing god/sensitive emotional trainwreck Iban Mayo has announced that, his two year ban for a B sample that wasn't even !@#$in' positive 'til the desperate witchhunting skanks at UCI finally found a pack of chimps that'd give his unlawfully-tested Z sample a bull!@#$ poz completed, he's disillusioned and not returning to the sport. What the hell is wrong with you, UCI? Here you are, the most egregious enabling druggie-lover cheat-wank-huggin' hypocrites on the planet, coddling some truly extraordinarily repulsive dirtwads whose dishonesty and utter lack of respect for other athletes has damn-near ruined and certainly irreparably damaged our beautiful cycling, and of all people, including the ones you so relentlessly !@@-kiss, you pick the quiet--and by your own freakin' protocols, not even guilty, which one would think might be mildly relevant to any legitimate tribunal--Iban Mayo to kneecap? No offense, but given who you dissembling weasels have been coddling, and who you choose to pick on like some dim-bulb reasonless child-thug schoolyard bully, you look like a pack of completely stone-stripped wussies. Free Iban I say--not that it matters anymore!
Miracle on Ice (Well, In Pounding Heat, Whatever): meantime, am I absolutely hallucinating here on an astonishing amount of adulterated acid, or is Alejandro "Wannabe" Valverde actually about to take a Grand Tour? 'Cause if you've been watching the same baseless hysterical pre-race hype and inevitable spectacular ignominious cracks I've been watching the last several years, honey, it is *far* likelier that all those tye-dye-colored lizards you've been seeing crawl up the ceiling while you're under the influence are real than what we're seeing happen with the boy this Vuelta. And happy as I rather was for him up to the precise moment I learned Iban was screwed while this clown pedals on, again, and despite his still-rightful place as a one-day Classics man, he'd better enjoy it while it lasts, because on the incredible off-chance those pig doper-sucking narcs at UCI finally get shamed into actino, he ain't gonna be riding the Vuelta, much less the Giro or the Tour, again anytime soon. Anyhoo, good work holding it together so long for once, Alejandro--and how come all that !@#$ you were taking never helped you before this?
Shut Up! He Can Still Too!: in other news, the fabulous Samuel Sanchez of the perfect Euskaltel is currently on the podium in third, and barring the daring last-minute attack I know our stealthy holy-crap-he's-the-reigning-Olympic-champion is cannily holding up his sleeve, I assume how badly he woofs, and how endless pissed-off bad-luck sad-sack Cadel Evans pounds him and where-the-hell-did-he-come-from Gesink in the time trial, is gonna decide it. Venga Samu'! Speaking of Euskaltel--and who doesn't want to--can !@#$ing Lance Armstrong stop poaching the broke-!@# team's best riders with his bottomless dough and swooning unquestioning Saint-o'-the-Peloton media slutmongering? It's like watching a Smurf get into an X-Treme Sports Fatal Kickboxing Match with the monster from Alien for heck's sake--gruesome. Anyway, for my money, the other revelation of the Vuelta has got to be--besides the babelicious Ivan Basso's truly impressive return--fellow-Valverdian-Classics-boy Damiano Cunego, whose Grand Tours have been a miserable two-wheeled deathmarch since his freak (and ungentlemanly) Giro win in his infancy. Sure, he's still incapable of winning another three-week race--but it's nice to see, if all his "Mr. Clean" braggadoccio is true, that he can still hold his own and then some, ain't it?
Come Fly With Me: finally, lest I get dope-slapped again by the Lance Armstrong/ Criticizing Dear Leader Gets You 5 Years Hard Labor In Some Hellish Gulag contingent, I have to admit, this new thing of Lance's where he's having all these open rides with ordinary folks is not only a great crowd-pleaser opening gambit for his future run for Governor of Texas, but just generally, a really cool gesture. I mean, if him using his undeniable star power to encourage more of us cycling-ignorant Americans to ride our bikes, and even better develop an interest in this gorgeous sport of road racing, isn't that genuinely great? In fact, it's *so* great I think he oughta do it more often. Like, full-time. Especially during the 2010 road racing season. And in perpetuity thereafter. Don't you?
Miracle on Ice (Well, In Pounding Heat, Whatever): meantime, am I absolutely hallucinating here on an astonishing amount of adulterated acid, or is Alejandro "Wannabe" Valverde actually about to take a Grand Tour? 'Cause if you've been watching the same baseless hysterical pre-race hype and inevitable spectacular ignominious cracks I've been watching the last several years, honey, it is *far* likelier that all those tye-dye-colored lizards you've been seeing crawl up the ceiling while you're under the influence are real than what we're seeing happen with the boy this Vuelta. And happy as I rather was for him up to the precise moment I learned Iban was screwed while this clown pedals on, again, and despite his still-rightful place as a one-day Classics man, he'd better enjoy it while it lasts, because on the incredible off-chance those pig doper-sucking narcs at UCI finally get shamed into actino, he ain't gonna be riding the Vuelta, much less the Giro or the Tour, again anytime soon. Anyhoo, good work holding it together so long for once, Alejandro--and how come all that !@#$ you were taking never helped you before this?
Shut Up! He Can Still Too!: in other news, the fabulous Samuel Sanchez of the perfect Euskaltel is currently on the podium in third, and barring the daring last-minute attack I know our stealthy holy-crap-he's-the-reigning-Olympic-champion is cannily holding up his sleeve, I assume how badly he woofs, and how endless pissed-off bad-luck sad-sack Cadel Evans pounds him and where-the-hell-did-he-come-from Gesink in the time trial, is gonna decide it. Venga Samu'! Speaking of Euskaltel--and who doesn't want to--can !@#$ing Lance Armstrong stop poaching the broke-!@# team's best riders with his bottomless dough and swooning unquestioning Saint-o'-the-Peloton media slutmongering? It's like watching a Smurf get into an X-Treme Sports Fatal Kickboxing Match with the monster from Alien for heck's sake--gruesome. Anyway, for my money, the other revelation of the Vuelta has got to be--besides the babelicious Ivan Basso's truly impressive return--fellow-Valverdian-Classics-boy Damiano Cunego, whose Grand Tours have been a miserable two-wheeled deathmarch since his freak (and ungentlemanly) Giro win in his infancy. Sure, he's still incapable of winning another three-week race--but it's nice to see, if all his "Mr. Clean" braggadoccio is true, that he can still hold his own and then some, ain't it?
Come Fly With Me: finally, lest I get dope-slapped again by the Lance Armstrong/ Criticizing Dear Leader Gets You 5 Years Hard Labor In Some Hellish Gulag contingent, I have to admit, this new thing of Lance's where he's having all these open rides with ordinary folks is not only a great crowd-pleaser opening gambit for his future run for Governor of Texas, but just generally, a really cool gesture. I mean, if him using his undeniable star power to encourage more of us cycling-ignorant Americans to ride our bikes, and even better develop an interest in this gorgeous sport of road racing, isn't that genuinely great? In fact, it's *so* great I think he oughta do it more often. Like, full-time. Especially during the 2010 road racing season. And in perpetuity thereafter. Don't you?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
We're Going to Vegas, Baby!
What Happens in Vegas, (Don't) Stay in Vegas: Okay, we're now one short week away from going to the bitchin' Interbike trade show in Vegas, and what's in it for both my faithful readers? Buckets, kids! like:
5 Questions For...: Join me as I ask whatever questions of dubious taste randomly come to mind of whomever I can scam a few minutes with. Sure, it'll probably be the hand-towel gent in the bathroom at the convention center instead of, say, Dave Zabriskie, but who better to know the intimate secrets of the bike world anyway? Inquiring minds want to know!
The Daily Dipwad Shrieking Fan Moment o' the Day: how will my bad-!@# resolve to ask cutting-edge questions dissolve into miserable mortified dorkdom in the face of mano-a-mano combat with the objects of my love-'n'-loathing? Wait and see!
The Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen Periodic Stalker Sighting Update: follow me in my impassioned quest to track down the greatest cycling commentators in human history and bow to their total godliness like dope-smacked-domestique-on-Armstrong. We love you Phil and Paul!
The Salacious Gossip Project: because what good is 4 days of 24/7 cycling immersion if we can't dig up some lurid dirt on our heroes? Bike parts, schmike parts, yaaaaaawwwwwnnnnn....
Schwag Lust: what's the smashingest freebie I can score today? Hell, I'll be drooling just over the advertising flyers, but hand me a sweet cycling cap and I'll pimp your product shamelessly for life. I do take bribes!
The Sex-on-a-Stick Bike Gear o' the Day: yep, for you gearheads, if you thought you wanted to steal Lance Armstrong's crappy bike from the back of his team truck at the Tour of California, wait'll you see this coolio new stuff, so get ready to pilfer from Grandma's handbag or, God forbid, actually work for a living to get it. Oooooo....carbon fiber!
And Finally, Your Special Interactive Racejunkie Reader Feature--Ask a Pro Cyclist a Question (That Won't Get Me Punched)!: yes, opportunities and no-neck ham-handed bone-bustin' bodyguards permitting, I'll be asking a lucky pro cyclist(s) a question of burnin' interest and up to, say, moderate offensiveness from you, our faithful reader. If your question *does* get me punched, well, I'm a peaceful person and all when you come right down to it, but boy, will I ever lecture you severely! So you got questions? Post 'em--and allez allez on to Sin City, honey!
5 Questions For...: Join me as I ask whatever questions of dubious taste randomly come to mind of whomever I can scam a few minutes with. Sure, it'll probably be the hand-towel gent in the bathroom at the convention center instead of, say, Dave Zabriskie, but who better to know the intimate secrets of the bike world anyway? Inquiring minds want to know!
The Daily Dipwad Shrieking Fan Moment o' the Day: how will my bad-!@# resolve to ask cutting-edge questions dissolve into miserable mortified dorkdom in the face of mano-a-mano combat with the objects of my love-'n'-loathing? Wait and see!
The Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen Periodic Stalker Sighting Update: follow me in my impassioned quest to track down the greatest cycling commentators in human history and bow to their total godliness like dope-smacked-domestique-on-Armstrong. We love you Phil and Paul!
The Salacious Gossip Project: because what good is 4 days of 24/7 cycling immersion if we can't dig up some lurid dirt on our heroes? Bike parts, schmike parts, yaaaaaawwwwwnnnnn....
Schwag Lust: what's the smashingest freebie I can score today? Hell, I'll be drooling just over the advertising flyers, but hand me a sweet cycling cap and I'll pimp your product shamelessly for life. I do take bribes!
The Sex-on-a-Stick Bike Gear o' the Day: yep, for you gearheads, if you thought you wanted to steal Lance Armstrong's crappy bike from the back of his team truck at the Tour of California, wait'll you see this coolio new stuff, so get ready to pilfer from Grandma's handbag or, God forbid, actually work for a living to get it. Oooooo....carbon fiber!
And Finally, Your Special Interactive Racejunkie Reader Feature--Ask a Pro Cyclist a Question (That Won't Get Me Punched)!: yes, opportunities and no-neck ham-handed bone-bustin' bodyguards permitting, I'll be asking a lucky pro cyclist(s) a question of burnin' interest and up to, say, moderate offensiveness from you, our faithful reader. If your question *does* get me punched, well, I'm a peaceful person and all when you come right down to it, but boy, will I ever lecture you severely! So you got questions? Post 'em--and allez allez on to Sin City, honey!
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
All Hell's Broken Loose!
No, Not Armstrong: jeez, you take a few days off during a sprint-contaminated Vuelta and all hell breaks loose--Cunego actually wins his first Grand Tour stage since he bushwhacked Gilberto Simoni at the Giro as an infant, both the Schlecks collapse, Alejandro Valverde of all people pulls it together for more than a stage at a time, now even the stolid Cadel Evans is Robbie McEwen-ing the harmless Robert Gesink right in the guts--what's next, Basso taking GC? And yes, you can all just bite me, because despite his current lack of the maglia d'oro the wily Samu Sanchez is clearly just saving his energy for more profitable all-peloton smackdowns in later stages. Venga Samu--and don't get too comfortable in that golden jersey Valverde you punk!
Eat Hot Melted Tire Tracks, Cav!: and, I was going to say something perhaps somewhat south of diplomatic about the Manxman's spectacular defeat at the hands (well, legs) of we love Thor Hushovd, but let's just roll the tape, baby: Woo-hoo Thor!
No Freire!: so speaking of Cavendish (and there's a link here, trust me), I still haven't gotten over master tactician/peloton overlord Paolo Bettini retiring (though happily, he will apparently be co-directing the squadra azzurra at the Worlds) and now freakin' Oscar Freire is calling it quits?! Luckily, it's after the end of next season, as he wants to retire as reigning world champion, plus he did manage to save me from utter despair when he basically went off on certain racers (see, I told you there was a link) for being talentless robot lead-out-suckin' wuss-weenies who can't win a sprint without being forcibly yanked to the line like a dimwitted (if fleet-footed) donkey. Oh, Oscar--could it be *possible* to love you even more? I swear, when we love Jens retires, all we're gonna have left are a pack of whining scrawny prima donna climbers and muscle-bound sprint knuckleheads with no politesse whatsoever. Dag nabit!
Lament of the Big Man on Campus: oh, how hard to be the high-school quarterback pursued by the head cheerleader, the class slut, the homecoming queen *and* the freshman hottie all at once--just ask Alberto Contador, being chased by Caisse d'Epargne, Astana, Quick Step *and* Garmin! Of course, being in the family way with Astana already, he's somewhat hamstrung at the moment--but surely it's nothing his mommy and daddy can't weasel him out of with a big fat payo--I mean contract buyout--to team management, right? Good luck honey--it ain't easy being BMOC!
Faster Than a Speeding Doper: and finally, what gives with this rumor that Rock "I Heart Druggies" Racing's gonna debut a new line of bikes at Interbike later this month? Let's review, shall we? Unbearable egomaniac Michael "Style Over Substance" Ball, purveyor of ungodly-overpriced poseur hipster denim, hires a huge number of instantly-recognizable name-brand cheat-wanks on the wholly noble grounds that anyone who soulfully keeps denying they did what they did surely deserves a second (third, fourth, whateva) chance for their unrepentance. Then, he completely justifies the gracious forgiveness and moral purity of that decision with the inarguable exclamation point of a bitchin' acid-toned flaming-skull team kit. Last, he *really* buttresses his cred by !@#$ing over the great Fast Freddy Rodriguez, abandoning the first guy on his squad who tests poz on his watch and could actually use some redemption, and, icing on the cake, demoting until recently the impressive talent Rahsaan Bahati from full-fledged team player to underemployed amateur sock-washer. So now he's got the time, effort, and obscene amount of cash necessary to shove out a new line of incredibly expensive (and cool-lookin'! really cool-lookin'!) bikes? Give that poor traumatized boy a raise instead, you cheapskate!
Eat Hot Melted Tire Tracks, Cav!: and, I was going to say something perhaps somewhat south of diplomatic about the Manxman's spectacular defeat at the hands (well, legs) of we love Thor Hushovd, but let's just roll the tape, baby: Woo-hoo Thor!
No Freire!: so speaking of Cavendish (and there's a link here, trust me), I still haven't gotten over master tactician/peloton overlord Paolo Bettini retiring (though happily, he will apparently be co-directing the squadra azzurra at the Worlds) and now freakin' Oscar Freire is calling it quits?! Luckily, it's after the end of next season, as he wants to retire as reigning world champion, plus he did manage to save me from utter despair when he basically went off on certain racers (see, I told you there was a link) for being talentless robot lead-out-suckin' wuss-weenies who can't win a sprint without being forcibly yanked to the line like a dimwitted (if fleet-footed) donkey. Oh, Oscar--could it be *possible* to love you even more? I swear, when we love Jens retires, all we're gonna have left are a pack of whining scrawny prima donna climbers and muscle-bound sprint knuckleheads with no politesse whatsoever. Dag nabit!
Lament of the Big Man on Campus: oh, how hard to be the high-school quarterback pursued by the head cheerleader, the class slut, the homecoming queen *and* the freshman hottie all at once--just ask Alberto Contador, being chased by Caisse d'Epargne, Astana, Quick Step *and* Garmin! Of course, being in the family way with Astana already, he's somewhat hamstrung at the moment--but surely it's nothing his mommy and daddy can't weasel him out of with a big fat payo--I mean contract buyout--to team management, right? Good luck honey--it ain't easy being BMOC!
Faster Than a Speeding Doper: and finally, what gives with this rumor that Rock "I Heart Druggies" Racing's gonna debut a new line of bikes at Interbike later this month? Let's review, shall we? Unbearable egomaniac Michael "Style Over Substance" Ball, purveyor of ungodly-overpriced poseur hipster denim, hires a huge number of instantly-recognizable name-brand cheat-wanks on the wholly noble grounds that anyone who soulfully keeps denying they did what they did surely deserves a second (third, fourth, whateva) chance for their unrepentance. Then, he completely justifies the gracious forgiveness and moral purity of that decision with the inarguable exclamation point of a bitchin' acid-toned flaming-skull team kit. Last, he *really* buttresses his cred by !@#$ing over the great Fast Freddy Rodriguez, abandoning the first guy on his squad who tests poz on his watch and could actually use some redemption, and, icing on the cake, demoting until recently the impressive talent Rahsaan Bahati from full-fledged team player to underemployed amateur sock-washer. So now he's got the time, effort, and obscene amount of cash necessary to shove out a new line of incredibly expensive (and cool-lookin'! really cool-lookin'!) bikes? Give that poor traumatized boy a raise instead, you cheapskate!
Friday, September 04, 2009
Happy Labor Day! and, Meetings with Fallen Idols
Well folks, having seen the weirdest pack of sprints in the Vuelta in recent memory (not that, to be fair, I particularly notice any of 'em while I'm swooning over Euskaltel in the mountains), and having met a really quite mellow and friendly Tyler Hamilton and listened to an interesting in-depth discussion about chamois cream last night, I'm off for the weekend to ponder that one. When we come back, it's finally the mountains, baby, and watching Thor Hushovd kick the crap out of everyone at the Toura Missoura--woo hoo, and Happy Labor Day everyone!
And Pereiro to RadioSkank with Landis? Really?
And Pereiro to RadioSkank with Landis? Really?
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Boulevard of Broken Dreams (and Bodies)
Noooooooooooooo!: okay, it was inevitable. But I still think it phenomenally blows that we love Levi Leipheimer has inked a two-year deal to be Lance Armstrong's trod-upon serf over at team Radioskank. Even worse, Levi seems to be under the complete delusion that Lance's gonna let him all-out for his very own Tour de France win. Um, not to jam a pin into the happy shiny helium balloon here, but am I the only one who heard Lance say he's going to the Tour next year to really, really, really win it? Sure, he blew it this time by underestimating the defiance of kid Contador, but he ain't gonna do that again. Oh well, if by "go for the Tour" you mean "go fetch Lance another Power Bar from the team car," I suppose you're right on target! Oh, poor Levi...and don't even get me *thinkin'* about Andreas "First Ullrich, Then Contador, Now This !@#!@#$?!" Kloden....
Little Shop of Horrors: what a total freakin' slaughterhouse disaster my beloved Vuelta's decision to go into Belgium has been, as the Glassy Roads o' Bone-Crushing Agony take out half the peloton, including, heinously, hardest-working-man-in-show-business Chris Horner, who deserved, after an already injury-wrecked season followed by his flat-out offensive omission from the Tour de France, a hell of a lot better than this lame crashout. I mean, not to suggest that I believe in divine punishment for something he didn't (much less even did) do, but *no-one* else had worse karma coming to 'em yesterday?
Burnin' Down the House: speaking of crashes, Jakob Fuglsang's freak careen into the back of an oil tanker is already one for the record books, tho', fortunately, neither tanker nor rider exploded into a Bruce Willis action-movie ball o' flames. No offense to the Vuelta, which is perfect, but what the hell was that thing doing at the side of the road there anyway? 'Cause if we're gonna up the ante on the danger of the race course so far beyond the usual "I whacked a Golden Retriever" or "I took out a spectator" hijinks, I say we oughta go Vegas entirely and have 'em ride through hoops of burning fire or dodging charging famished circus tigers or something. Now *that* would boost this race's ratings. Watch out, Valverde--that lion's right on your---ooooh!
Cycling/It's a Gas: meantime, I see team Liquigas is finalizing its 2010 roster, and it looks like both Ivan Basso and his "co-captain" Franco of the Euromullet Pellizotti are going to face off against, I mean harmoniously work with, each other next year, which, depending on whether ASO lets attempted-but-repentant-never-cheated Basso back in the Grand Boucle, oughta make for some mighty entertaining internal competition at the Grand Tours next year. Heck, what possible problems could a little friendly rivalry cause, right? Just ask Lance and Alberto!
Yet Another Reason to Love the Danes: finally, to the delight of Greg Lemond fans everywhere, a Danish (I think) doctor is alleging that Lance Armstrong's strange blood chemistry during the Tour shows that he either (1) had an unmentionably gross three-week stomach ailment or (2) hit the good stuff. Anyone else wanna bet that Lance's lawyers are already marshalling an army of explicit data to argue (1) while they they descend on that doctor like a screeching flock of subpoena-wielding Harpies to put the kibosh on (2)? Me, I don't actually mind either way, as long as someone else whomps him in the Tour next year. Since even Contador seems to think he's hosed over at Astana, go baby Schleck!
Little Shop of Horrors: what a total freakin' slaughterhouse disaster my beloved Vuelta's decision to go into Belgium has been, as the Glassy Roads o' Bone-Crushing Agony take out half the peloton, including, heinously, hardest-working-man-in-show-business Chris Horner, who deserved, after an already injury-wrecked season followed by his flat-out offensive omission from the Tour de France, a hell of a lot better than this lame crashout. I mean, not to suggest that I believe in divine punishment for something he didn't (much less even did) do, but *no-one* else had worse karma coming to 'em yesterday?
Burnin' Down the House: speaking of crashes, Jakob Fuglsang's freak careen into the back of an oil tanker is already one for the record books, tho', fortunately, neither tanker nor rider exploded into a Bruce Willis action-movie ball o' flames. No offense to the Vuelta, which is perfect, but what the hell was that thing doing at the side of the road there anyway? 'Cause if we're gonna up the ante on the danger of the race course so far beyond the usual "I whacked a Golden Retriever" or "I took out a spectator" hijinks, I say we oughta go Vegas entirely and have 'em ride through hoops of burning fire or dodging charging famished circus tigers or something. Now *that* would boost this race's ratings. Watch out, Valverde--that lion's right on your---ooooh!
Cycling/It's a Gas: meantime, I see team Liquigas is finalizing its 2010 roster, and it looks like both Ivan Basso and his "co-captain" Franco of the Euromullet Pellizotti are going to face off against, I mean harmoniously work with, each other next year, which, depending on whether ASO lets attempted-but-repentant-never-cheated Basso back in the Grand Boucle, oughta make for some mighty entertaining internal competition at the Grand Tours next year. Heck, what possible problems could a little friendly rivalry cause, right? Just ask Lance and Alberto!
Yet Another Reason to Love the Danes: finally, to the delight of Greg Lemond fans everywhere, a Danish (I think) doctor is alleging that Lance Armstrong's strange blood chemistry during the Tour shows that he either (1) had an unmentionably gross three-week stomach ailment or (2) hit the good stuff. Anyone else wanna bet that Lance's lawyers are already marshalling an army of explicit data to argue (1) while they they descend on that doctor like a screeching flock of subpoena-wielding Harpies to put the kibosh on (2)? Me, I don't actually mind either way, as long as someone else whomps him in the Tour next year. Since even Contador seems to think he's hosed over at Astana, go baby Schleck!
Monday, August 31, 2009
The What the Hell is He Thinking?! Award of 2009; and, You Suck, Universal Sports!
I'm Going Off the Rails on a Crazy Train: okay, I'm sure there are perfectly good reasons for this, like maybe blackmail, or a coke-filled club crawl with some of Tom Boonen's ol' pals, or a truly sick amount of dough, that elude me here, but while it's a bit too early for the 2009 Racejunkie Awards,reigning World Champion Alessandro Ballan's got an early lock on the prize as he's left his career-long home at Lampre for a gig with...BMC? No offense, Alessandro, but have you gone utterly Vinokourov-raving-wingnut? Sure, you've had a crap virus-decimated first half-of-the-season, and I get wanting to spread your wings after 6 years of being forced to dress up like Barbie's colorblind glitter-obsessed little sister every day, but you really want to take the risk that your new squad--fine as it is, and it's had an admirable season--isn't gonna get an invite to half the Classics you want to race? And let's talk your stated reasons, shall we? You want to "learn English," and stellar talents Hincapie, Karsten Kroon, and Marcus Burghardt are supposed to be joining you at BMC. First, Kroon--who may, to be fair, be playing it coy--isn't even mentioning BMC in his realm of possibilities, so if you're bankin' on him being your new roomie, I hope you've called him first. Second, if you want to "learn English," go to Team RadioShack which'll get an invite to everything and just piss Lance Armstrong off by not kowtowing to his absolute authority--I guarantee you, honey, you will learn more English in a single wanky Twitter feed or two-second snarl to the press than you'll ever need to know in your lifetime. On the other hand, maybe BMC isn't looking so bad after all...
Look What You Did to Rosemary, You Clods!: and, no thanks to Universal Sports, who--while I'm still willing to grovel at their feet for showing the Vuelta at all in this country--apparently jacked one of our faithful readers out of viewing one of the few sprint stages ever to take place in a Vuelta and who, if not completely put out by an act of God, truly owe her and the rest of us desperate US-bound bike freaks a drooling, abject apology. Get it together, clowns--do you even realize how rare it's been for Tom Boonen to be within visual range of a camera at the line at all this season?!
My Samu Sanchez Plug o' the Day: meantime, since we all know Samuel Sanchez is gonna win the Vuelta, you can head over here to place your vote at Gazzetta Dello Sport's latest poll. For Samuel Sanchez. 'Cause he's gonna win the Vuelta. His name is the fourth one down, so you can click on it. Right there. Did I mention Samu's gonna win the Vuelta?
Okay, Ivan Basso's Riding It, Too: as I pondered saying something today about how just, well, unusually impressive it was that Alejandro Valverde and Ivan Basso beat Cadel Evans in a time trial, my urge to surmise was almost squelched as I recalled with shame and relief how very fortunate we simply are that our Liquigas studmuffin even made it in one piece to the Vuelta at all (no serious injuries to anyone else, either, don't worry):
And, We're Going to Vegas, Baby!: yep, if all goes as planned, I'll be heading to smashing industry trade show Interbike in late September, and if there's anyplace better-suited to encapsulating the gear, the grime, the glory, and the gaudiest outfits outside the Liberace Museum than the City of Sin, I've yet to hear of it. So besides daily product reviews for you gearheads, the usual unsubstantiated slanderous peloton gossip, and an exceedingly wily plan to track Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen like a besotted punch-drunk panther, keep your eye out for Interactive Racejunkie Reader Features to be announced, and baby, let's hit the Strip!
Look What You Did to Rosemary, You Clods!: and, no thanks to Universal Sports, who--while I'm still willing to grovel at their feet for showing the Vuelta at all in this country--apparently jacked one of our faithful readers out of viewing one of the few sprint stages ever to take place in a Vuelta and who, if not completely put out by an act of God, truly owe her and the rest of us desperate US-bound bike freaks a drooling, abject apology. Get it together, clowns--do you even realize how rare it's been for Tom Boonen to be within visual range of a camera at the line at all this season?!
My Samu Sanchez Plug o' the Day: meantime, since we all know Samuel Sanchez is gonna win the Vuelta, you can head over here to place your vote at Gazzetta Dello Sport's latest poll. For Samuel Sanchez. 'Cause he's gonna win the Vuelta. His name is the fourth one down, so you can click on it. Right there. Did I mention Samu's gonna win the Vuelta?
Okay, Ivan Basso's Riding It, Too: as I pondered saying something today about how just, well, unusually impressive it was that Alejandro Valverde and Ivan Basso beat Cadel Evans in a time trial, my urge to surmise was almost squelched as I recalled with shame and relief how very fortunate we simply are that our Liquigas studmuffin even made it in one piece to the Vuelta at all (no serious injuries to anyone else, either, don't worry):
And, We're Going to Vegas, Baby!: yep, if all goes as planned, I'll be heading to smashing industry trade show Interbike in late September, and if there's anyplace better-suited to encapsulating the gear, the grime, the glory, and the gaudiest outfits outside the Liberace Museum than the City of Sin, I've yet to hear of it. So besides daily product reviews for you gearheads, the usual unsubstantiated slanderous peloton gossip, and an exceedingly wily plan to track Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen like a besotted punch-drunk panther, keep your eye out for Interactive Racejunkie Reader Features to be announced, and baby, let's hit the Strip!
Friday, August 28, 2009
It's the Vuelta, Baby!--Sprint Edition
Go, Speed Racer, Go!: okay, Robbie "Head-Butt" McEwen is out, which, frankly, blows, not only cuz he's so much fun to watch in the last 200 meters, but also because you never know what poor bastard he's gonna randomly turn on like a rabid cornered starving wolverine in the traditional post-race interview. So is Alessandro Petacchi, whose last visit to the Vuelta, if I recall correctly, ended by breaking his hand while smashing into the team bus in a snit, and Cav, among other luminaries. But it's still a field chock-full o' thrill-a-minute, bad-!@# talent, so as the few remaining moments of pre-race rest tick by, let's look at these boys while they last:
1. Tom Boonen. Oh yeah, baby, after his latest moronothon coke bust, then barely scraping into, then gacking out of, the Tour, everyone's favorite scalawag is back, fresh from a win at the Eneco Tour and out to whomp his naysayers into quivering blobs of Gu. Go Tom--you need to replenish that diminishing Lamborghini budget or dontcha?
2. Tyler Farrar. Break out the Bud Light, paint my big hairy beer gut with the American flag and slap an idiotic horned hat on my head as I run in the middle of the course in my boxer shorts, honey, 'cause the USA's Next Great Sprint Hope's bringing out the most disgusting braggart jerkface behavior that makes us justly loathed the world over by the same classy Eurosnobs who routinely pound each other senseless over soccer matches. Get ready to ruuuummmmbbbbblllleeeee!
3. Daniele Bennati. After seasons of deriding Petacchi as a decayed crawling shadow of better days past, Benna-Jet's been whacked with an illness-ridden, utterly unimpressive season of his own, and he'd like--and damn well needs to--reclaim *some* dignity. Good luck Daniele, but you're still gonna be beaten by:
4. Woo-hoo Oscar We Love Freire! Neither nut-needling saddlesore, bone-snapping crash, nor freak invisible back or neck injury shall keep this hard man from his appointed rounds dope-smacking everyone else around in even the slightest uphill sprint. Allez allez Oscar--and for heck's sake hold your body together the next three weeks!
Well, I never did get to the stage winners, but it's all about the wee Spanish squads anyway, as it should be, and in any event, let's face it, the only thing about this race that truly matters is the high mountains, and Samu is gonna knock you out. Aupa Sanchez--and eat his dust, Valverde!
P.S. Keep trying, Contador, but you better move fast: Vino still looooooooooooooooves you, and you don't want to piss off the likes of him by failing to bail and *then* be stuck on his squad within kicking distance. Best wishes, child--maybe Cadel can lend you a few of his bodyguards?
1. Tom Boonen. Oh yeah, baby, after his latest moronothon coke bust, then barely scraping into, then gacking out of, the Tour, everyone's favorite scalawag is back, fresh from a win at the Eneco Tour and out to whomp his naysayers into quivering blobs of Gu. Go Tom--you need to replenish that diminishing Lamborghini budget or dontcha?
2. Tyler Farrar. Break out the Bud Light, paint my big hairy beer gut with the American flag and slap an idiotic horned hat on my head as I run in the middle of the course in my boxer shorts, honey, 'cause the USA's Next Great Sprint Hope's bringing out the most disgusting braggart jerkface behavior that makes us justly loathed the world over by the same classy Eurosnobs who routinely pound each other senseless over soccer matches. Get ready to ruuuummmmbbbbblllleeeee!
3. Daniele Bennati. After seasons of deriding Petacchi as a decayed crawling shadow of better days past, Benna-Jet's been whacked with an illness-ridden, utterly unimpressive season of his own, and he'd like--and damn well needs to--reclaim *some* dignity. Good luck Daniele, but you're still gonna be beaten by:
4. Woo-hoo Oscar We Love Freire! Neither nut-needling saddlesore, bone-snapping crash, nor freak invisible back or neck injury shall keep this hard man from his appointed rounds dope-smacking everyone else around in even the slightest uphill sprint. Allez allez Oscar--and for heck's sake hold your body together the next three weeks!
Well, I never did get to the stage winners, but it's all about the wee Spanish squads anyway, as it should be, and in any event, let's face it, the only thing about this race that truly matters is the high mountains, and Samu is gonna knock you out. Aupa Sanchez--and eat his dust, Valverde!
P.S. Keep trying, Contador, but you better move fast: Vino still looooooooooooooooves you, and you don't want to piss off the likes of him by failing to bail and *then* be stuck on his squad within kicking distance. Best wishes, child--maybe Cadel can lend you a few of his bodyguards?
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
It's the Vuelta, Baby! And, Your Paranoid Conspiracy Theories o' the Week
Venga Euskalteeeeeeeeeeeeeel!: All right, screw helping those who won't help themselves, it's time for the race which is even better than the Tour de France, not only because Lance Armstrong doesn't ride it, but also because the climbs are nastier, the pitches steeper, the fanatics more crazed, and the competition amongst the hometown boys way fiercer, than anything that the sideshow-freak publicity-snowjob that is the Grand Boucle has to offer. And, if you haven't already been wholly seduced by this sex machine of a stage race, honey, now's the time to *really* know what love is. So today, let's get right to the GC contenders:
1. Samuel Sanchez: they've got the lamest budget in the whole ProTour short of maybe Silence-Lotto, and still, year after year, Euskaltel-Euskadi continues to shock and delight. And Samu "Holy Crap He's the Olympic Gold Medalist!" Sanchez is king of them all. Kept out of the Tour by a squad that much prefers the arid heights of the Vuelta, he's got a major motive to succeed, and as as far as I'm concerned or you can all just bite me, he's gonna stomp the field like drunken bull-necked skin-head soccer hooligan on spindly chinless innocent passers-by. And with a literally rabid, foaming, bellowing pack of orange-shirted wingnuts to cheer him along, who's to say he won't? Aupa Samu'!
2. Ivan Basso: okay, his triumphant return to the Giro could've been a little more auspicious, but let's just chalk that up to his long Operacion Puerto hiatus. The question: can the (one hopes) post-doping dreamboat of 2009 match the spectacular climbing ability of the "attempted-doping" man-candy of 2006? My money's actually still on "no," but the poor s.o.b.'s had such a crap season I'd rather love for him to prove me wrong (not that I need help on that one), and I *will* hope he proves himself with a killer stage win. But also that Sanchez kicks your pretty !@# off the podium, Ivan!
3. Alejandro Valverde: so much promise, so many blood bags, and still, so *little* delivery. But, barred from the Tour by Italian authorities still pissed their darling Basso went down and Alejandro didn't, "Piti"'s got a score to settle, and before he implodes with clockwork accuracy in the third week of the race, he's at least gonna be fun to watch. Prediction: a roller or two of a low-mountain stage win. There's always next year, anyway, unless Caisse d'Epargne snatches up Alberto Contador when Astana loses their deathgrip!
4. Cadel Evans: Cadel, Cadel, Cadel. Just about the glummest July I ever did see, but when his head's in the game, a quite fearsome time trialist and an immovable wheel-glommer in all but the sharpest high passes. I do hope he snags a stage, and at least pulls himself into the top 5, but with Lotto's snoozer backing, and the Spaniards all bringing their A-games, it ain't gonna happen. Damn--after all that work to rehab you, Cadel, I think we all deserve a podium spot from you!
5. Baby Schleck: Smashing, but he and his Saxo Bank domestiques've already busted themselves all season, and it remains to be seen if, at least without a few more years' experience under his belt, Junior's a weeeeeee bit too far past his bedtime. Am I the only one who's skeptical he's gonna win the whole show?
6. Last But Not Least: Alexander Vinokourov: Brilliant. Aging. Unstable. Supremely self-absorbed. And, now that he's back, out to make every other forcibly-reformed drug-suckin' cheat-fiend in the peloton pay. Perfidy, thy name is Vino. Watch yer back, Sanchez!
Oops, I just realized I forgot Damiano Cunego. Really, except for he's all "drugs are bad" 'n' stuff, is he that different from fellow Classics man Valverde? Next up: the Sprinters. Boonen, baby, redeem thyself!
Welcome to Fantasy Island: finally, it's a two-fer for your Paranoid Conspiracy Theory o' the Week, as a suspicious local asks whether Pat "Dick" McQuaid's triumphant announcement of no doping pozes at the Tour now or ever again is (1) merely the result of the usual incompetent testing or (2) a dirt-wily nefarious coverup by UCI to protect the incredible money monsoon that is the Tour de France from present or future scandal. Somehow, "no-one doped" doesn't seem to fit in there. Over in Italy, meanwhile, Danilo Di Luca has decided that (1) the tests were !@#$ed up or (2) if they weren't, the CERA he completely unconsciously took into his body was placed there without his consent in some sort of hideous jealous conspiracy by unknown (because, well, nonexistent) dark forces. Way to cover your bases there Danilo--oughta be just about as successful as Bjorn Leukemanns' old "I was busy doing the nasty" defense!
1. Samuel Sanchez: they've got the lamest budget in the whole ProTour short of maybe Silence-Lotto, and still, year after year, Euskaltel-Euskadi continues to shock and delight. And Samu "Holy Crap He's the Olympic Gold Medalist!" Sanchez is king of them all. Kept out of the Tour by a squad that much prefers the arid heights of the Vuelta, he's got a major motive to succeed, and as as far as I'm concerned or you can all just bite me, he's gonna stomp the field like drunken bull-necked skin-head soccer hooligan on spindly chinless innocent passers-by. And with a literally rabid, foaming, bellowing pack of orange-shirted wingnuts to cheer him along, who's to say he won't? Aupa Samu'!
2. Ivan Basso: okay, his triumphant return to the Giro could've been a little more auspicious, but let's just chalk that up to his long Operacion Puerto hiatus. The question: can the (one hopes) post-doping dreamboat of 2009 match the spectacular climbing ability of the "attempted-doping" man-candy of 2006? My money's actually still on "no," but the poor s.o.b.'s had such a crap season I'd rather love for him to prove me wrong (not that I need help on that one), and I *will* hope he proves himself with a killer stage win. But also that Sanchez kicks your pretty !@# off the podium, Ivan!
3. Alejandro Valverde: so much promise, so many blood bags, and still, so *little* delivery. But, barred from the Tour by Italian authorities still pissed their darling Basso went down and Alejandro didn't, "Piti"'s got a score to settle, and before he implodes with clockwork accuracy in the third week of the race, he's at least gonna be fun to watch. Prediction: a roller or two of a low-mountain stage win. There's always next year, anyway, unless Caisse d'Epargne snatches up Alberto Contador when Astana loses their deathgrip!
4. Cadel Evans: Cadel, Cadel, Cadel. Just about the glummest July I ever did see, but when his head's in the game, a quite fearsome time trialist and an immovable wheel-glommer in all but the sharpest high passes. I do hope he snags a stage, and at least pulls himself into the top 5, but with Lotto's snoozer backing, and the Spaniards all bringing their A-games, it ain't gonna happen. Damn--after all that work to rehab you, Cadel, I think we all deserve a podium spot from you!
5. Baby Schleck: Smashing, but he and his Saxo Bank domestiques've already busted themselves all season, and it remains to be seen if, at least without a few more years' experience under his belt, Junior's a weeeeeee bit too far past his bedtime. Am I the only one who's skeptical he's gonna win the whole show?
6. Last But Not Least: Alexander Vinokourov: Brilliant. Aging. Unstable. Supremely self-absorbed. And, now that he's back, out to make every other forcibly-reformed drug-suckin' cheat-fiend in the peloton pay. Perfidy, thy name is Vino. Watch yer back, Sanchez!
Oops, I just realized I forgot Damiano Cunego. Really, except for he's all "drugs are bad" 'n' stuff, is he that different from fellow Classics man Valverde? Next up: the Sprinters. Boonen, baby, redeem thyself!
Welcome to Fantasy Island: finally, it's a two-fer for your Paranoid Conspiracy Theory o' the Week, as a suspicious local asks whether Pat "Dick" McQuaid's triumphant announcement of no doping pozes at the Tour now or ever again is (1) merely the result of the usual incompetent testing or (2) a dirt-wily nefarious coverup by UCI to protect the incredible money monsoon that is the Tour de France from present or future scandal. Somehow, "no-one doped" doesn't seem to fit in there. Over in Italy, meanwhile, Danilo Di Luca has decided that (1) the tests were !@#$ed up or (2) if they weren't, the CERA he completely unconsciously took into his body was placed there without his consent in some sort of hideous jealous conspiracy by unknown (because, well, nonexistent) dark forces. Way to cover your bases there Danilo--oughta be just about as successful as Bjorn Leukemanns' old "I was busy doing the nasty" defense!
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Survival Tips for Cyclists, Or, How Not to Find Your !@# On the Street Next Season
And they're from a real live lawyer, too!*: Okay, kids, it's damn near September, and you don't have a ProTour contract, or even a contract with the desperate Continental publicity whores over at Team We Heart Doping Rejects, so let's face it: you need help, and it's time to get moving before you end up spending 2010 on the couch hypersnorting nachos and pork rinds and replacing your team kit with an ever-larger series of stained sweaty undershirts to contain your ever-growing beer gut as your podium babe runs off with your ex-soigneur. Ergo, Your Handy Survival Tips:
1. See Your Doctor: yes, you're perfectly healthy, but yes, unless you win or at least place respectably in the last few races of the season before you even get formally rejected for your national Worlds squad, you can kiss your next year, and that bangin' fat bank account it brings you, goodbye. What better way to guarantee the results that honest hard work and training can so often fail to bring, than to visit your dru--I mean, physician--for some last-minute IV dri--I mean, advice? Caveat: if you've already got a good thing going, nimrod, now is *not* the time to mess this up. Remember, discretion is the better part of outsmarting the narcs!
2. Semantics Count: repeat after me, o unemployed roadie: you are not "a dessicated bag of bones," or "one of the oldest riders in the peloton," you are "a mentor for the younger riders" or "an experienced Grand Tour stalwart." Conversely, you are not a "neo-pro," a "newbie," or an "unknown quantity," you are an "up-and-comer," a "raw new talent," or "the next Lance Armstrong/Mark Cavendish/Alberto Contador." Nor are you "pack-filler"--you are "an invaluable part of your sprinter's lead-out," or "crucial support in the mountains." Now stand there and shout it 'til you mean it, you worm!
3. Show Them the Money: everyone likes to get riders on the dirt-cheap, and while that's not exactly a challenge for the women's peloton, you pricey boys can dangle the lure of existing or imminent bike-gear and supplement sponsorships to coax the reluctant team into a low-end, but still perfectly valid (and better'n anything else you're likely to get this late in the season) offer. And hey, will your team ever get *buckets* of free gels from that company and save money on the back end, too! Believe you me, kid, never underestimate the power of making an accountant's heart go pitter-patter. Which brings us to:
4. Think Outside the Box: okay, they don't want to shell out any more dough, but that don't mean you can't still arm-twist 'em into giving you some pretty sweet schwag instead. A limo ride to the stage start away from the team-bus riff-raff? Your own masseuse? A private suite at the Ritz while the other saps on your cheap-!@# squad go bonkers listening to each other snore like a rhino all night sharing a room at the sexy local Motel 6? Can't go wrong with that, and yes, they *do* think you're too stupid to count how much less that costs them than actually shelling out a few thousand extra euros for your contract--use it to your advantage!
5. Think Looooooooong and Hard About That Morals Clause, Honey: because no-one knows you like you do, darlin', and you don't want your personal peccadiloes interfering with your obscenely lucrative gig as a glorified Big Wheel enthusiast. Timing, here, is key. Come on, your pen's literally in your hand hovering above the signature line. And everybody else worth hiring is already snatched up, or banned. So the sponsor's really gonna waste another $600 an hour for 8 hours making their attorney wank over an inconsequential little word like "knowingly" or "blow"?
All right, you nervous Nellies, you're doing great--and you're almost, almost there. Just keep (apparently) clean, don't break anything important in your last few crashes of the season, and for heck's sake, whatever butt-end-of-nowhere squad you're forced to sign with, by golly are you excited to be working for 'em (at least while the cameras are rolling)!
*Disclaimer: this doesn't constitute legal advice, so don't be a jerkface about it. In fact, if you *do* take this crap seriously, you're clearly far too dim to legally sign a contract anyway. No, that's not legal advice either--lighten up, you freaks!
1. See Your Doctor: yes, you're perfectly healthy, but yes, unless you win or at least place respectably in the last few races of the season before you even get formally rejected for your national Worlds squad, you can kiss your next year, and that bangin' fat bank account it brings you, goodbye. What better way to guarantee the results that honest hard work and training can so often fail to bring, than to visit your dru--I mean, physician--for some last-minute IV dri--I mean, advice? Caveat: if you've already got a good thing going, nimrod, now is *not* the time to mess this up. Remember, discretion is the better part of outsmarting the narcs!
2. Semantics Count: repeat after me, o unemployed roadie: you are not "a dessicated bag of bones," or "one of the oldest riders in the peloton," you are "a mentor for the younger riders" or "an experienced Grand Tour stalwart." Conversely, you are not a "neo-pro," a "newbie," or an "unknown quantity," you are an "up-and-comer," a "raw new talent," or "the next Lance Armstrong/Mark Cavendish/Alberto Contador." Nor are you "pack-filler"--you are "an invaluable part of your sprinter's lead-out," or "crucial support in the mountains." Now stand there and shout it 'til you mean it, you worm!
3. Show Them the Money: everyone likes to get riders on the dirt-cheap, and while that's not exactly a challenge for the women's peloton, you pricey boys can dangle the lure of existing or imminent bike-gear and supplement sponsorships to coax the reluctant team into a low-end, but still perfectly valid (and better'n anything else you're likely to get this late in the season) offer. And hey, will your team ever get *buckets* of free gels from that company and save money on the back end, too! Believe you me, kid, never underestimate the power of making an accountant's heart go pitter-patter. Which brings us to:
4. Think Outside the Box: okay, they don't want to shell out any more dough, but that don't mean you can't still arm-twist 'em into giving you some pretty sweet schwag instead. A limo ride to the stage start away from the team-bus riff-raff? Your own masseuse? A private suite at the Ritz while the other saps on your cheap-!@# squad go bonkers listening to each other snore like a rhino all night sharing a room at the sexy local Motel 6? Can't go wrong with that, and yes, they *do* think you're too stupid to count how much less that costs them than actually shelling out a few thousand extra euros for your contract--use it to your advantage!
5. Think Looooooooong and Hard About That Morals Clause, Honey: because no-one knows you like you do, darlin', and you don't want your personal peccadiloes interfering with your obscenely lucrative gig as a glorified Big Wheel enthusiast. Timing, here, is key. Come on, your pen's literally in your hand hovering above the signature line. And everybody else worth hiring is already snatched up, or banned. So the sponsor's really gonna waste another $600 an hour for 8 hours making their attorney wank over an inconsequential little word like "knowingly" or "blow"?
All right, you nervous Nellies, you're doing great--and you're almost, almost there. Just keep (apparently) clean, don't break anything important in your last few crashes of the season, and for heck's sake, whatever butt-end-of-nowhere squad you're forced to sign with, by golly are you excited to be working for 'em (at least while the cameras are rolling)!
*Disclaimer: this doesn't constitute legal advice, so don't be a jerkface about it. In fact, if you *do* take this crap seriously, you're clearly far too dim to legally sign a contract anyway. No, that's not legal advice either--lighten up, you freaks!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Silence of the Lamb
Hush, Hush: so it's been several days since the Kazakhs' cheery "Your !@# Is *Mine*!" press release over at Astana, and so far there's no response whatsoever coming from the Contador camp, at least not from Alberto's website, his fan page, his Facebook page, or the English- or Italian-speaking press that I can find. Note to Alberto: even if you're off at some secret Swiss clinic getting extensive plastic surgery to mask your identity, your climbing style is *still* gonna give you away to those thugs. Oh, well, kid--you can always use some of that fat Tour de France prize money to bribe, I mean buy, 'em out of your contract! Though I've heard the misty mountains of Kazakhstan are quite gloriously beautiful during training camp season...
Well He's Movin' on Up/Movin' on Up: yep, just look at how lovable Belgian coke-snarfin' car-crashin' club-hoppin' stranger-slurpin' moppet Tom Boonen is coming along since his miserably colon-blown Tour de France--two great finishes (if not quite wins--maybe he oughta rethink swearing *totally* off the blow...) at Eneco in two days! Holy moly, we might actually have some serious sprint action in the Vuelta from our prodigal son--allez Tom, and don't you !@#$ that beautiful race *up* you big doofus! Speaking of Eneco, despite Tyler Farrar's smashing performance, is anyone else thinking things just aren't the same without the verbal and combat stylings of endlessly pissy smack-talker Robbie "Head-butt" McEwen? Get well soon Robbie--with we love Gilberto Simoni now keeping his head down, and Armstrong and Contador just whining like two of those heinous invisible bastard mosquitoes that swoop around you at an unbearable pitch but you can't ever whack then you wake up in the morning covered with giant itchy miserable welts til you want to shriek with agony and claw your skin off, there's no one of your caliber left worth watching at the ol' post-race press crush right now!
Greg LeMond's War: 3-time Tour de France winner. Survivor of a freak hunting accident. Unfortunate part of a particularly ugly episode in the Floyd Landis trial. And most recently, best known for his endless litigation with his ol' bike company and for shrieking-wingnut (if likely correct) stalker outbursts against BFF Lance Armstrong at press conferences. But on a serious note, gazzetta dello sport, oddly enough, has a piece on Greg LeMond's latest work as spokesman for 1 in 6, an organization dedicated to working with men who, as he was, were sexually abused as children. You can fault LeMond for a hell of a lot, and folks sure do, but, as even the tifosi admiringly point out, this ain't it. Keep it up Greg--you're spot on, and much needed, on this one!
Rock'n'Roll: speaking of blasts from the past, or at least the sort of past that involves blood bags, centrifuges, and enough dope to fuel the Italians for a good ten years, I see our old buds Oscar Sevilla and Francisco Mancebo are whomping the field for Rock Racing, which means that drug-skank apologist-to-the-stars Michael Ball must've somehow started convincing folks to fork over $250 for faux-distressed poseur hipster jeans again. Glad to hear the economy's picking up--anyone else want to place bets on which is the next Rock rider to go down in a scandal again? Oh right, that's all in the *past*...these guys can't afford the good !@#$ anymore!
Oh, the Shark, Babe/Has Such Teeth, Dear/And It Shows Them/Pearly White (Gratuitous Mark Cavendish Compliment o' the Post): sure, he rides pretty fast. And the rumor mill sez he's even been known to win a sprint once in a while. But what's really struck me about Cav this week (at least til he hits the road again at the Tour of Ireland) is how
very, very big'n'Hollywood his grin-o'-triumph is as he crosses the line, particularly against his high-contrast yellow-and-black Columbia team kit. Whew. Can I go back to dope-slapping him for what comes out of that mouth yet?
Well He's Movin' on Up/Movin' on Up: yep, just look at how lovable Belgian coke-snarfin' car-crashin' club-hoppin' stranger-slurpin' moppet Tom Boonen is coming along since his miserably colon-blown Tour de France--two great finishes (if not quite wins--maybe he oughta rethink swearing *totally* off the blow...) at Eneco in two days! Holy moly, we might actually have some serious sprint action in the Vuelta from our prodigal son--allez Tom, and don't you !@#$ that beautiful race *up* you big doofus! Speaking of Eneco, despite Tyler Farrar's smashing performance, is anyone else thinking things just aren't the same without the verbal and combat stylings of endlessly pissy smack-talker Robbie "Head-butt" McEwen? Get well soon Robbie--with we love Gilberto Simoni now keeping his head down, and Armstrong and Contador just whining like two of those heinous invisible bastard mosquitoes that swoop around you at an unbearable pitch but you can't ever whack then you wake up in the morning covered with giant itchy miserable welts til you want to shriek with agony and claw your skin off, there's no one of your caliber left worth watching at the ol' post-race press crush right now!
Greg LeMond's War: 3-time Tour de France winner. Survivor of a freak hunting accident. Unfortunate part of a particularly ugly episode in the Floyd Landis trial. And most recently, best known for his endless litigation with his ol' bike company and for shrieking-wingnut (if likely correct) stalker outbursts against BFF Lance Armstrong at press conferences. But on a serious note, gazzetta dello sport, oddly enough, has a piece on Greg LeMond's latest work as spokesman for 1 in 6, an organization dedicated to working with men who, as he was, were sexually abused as children. You can fault LeMond for a hell of a lot, and folks sure do, but, as even the tifosi admiringly point out, this ain't it. Keep it up Greg--you're spot on, and much needed, on this one!
Rock'n'Roll: speaking of blasts from the past, or at least the sort of past that involves blood bags, centrifuges, and enough dope to fuel the Italians for a good ten years, I see our old buds Oscar Sevilla and Francisco Mancebo are whomping the field for Rock Racing, which means that drug-skank apologist-to-the-stars Michael Ball must've somehow started convincing folks to fork over $250 for faux-distressed poseur hipster jeans again. Glad to hear the economy's picking up--anyone else want to place bets on which is the next Rock rider to go down in a scandal again? Oh right, that's all in the *past*...these guys can't afford the good !@#$ anymore!
Oh, the Shark, Babe/Has Such Teeth, Dear/And It Shows Them/Pearly White (Gratuitous Mark Cavendish Compliment o' the Post): sure, he rides pretty fast. And the rumor mill sez he's even been known to win a sprint once in a while. But what's really struck me about Cav this week (at least til he hits the road again at the Tour of Ireland) is how
very, very big'n'Hollywood his grin-o'-triumph is as he crosses the line, particularly against his high-contrast yellow-and-black Columbia team kit. Whew. Can I go back to dope-slapping him for what comes out of that mouth yet?
Friday, August 14, 2009
Oh, Sweet!; and, an Update
Talk About Lab Chimps: so now Bernhard "Scumlord" Kohl, apparently somewhat more than mildly annoyed that he's gone down in flames while every other weasel within and without the peloton continues to rake in the dough, the accolades, and the podium babes, has seriously gone for the jugular: yep, he's claiming that he, via his manager, successfully bribed the anti-doping labs, for really quite astonishing chump change, to analyze his samples for the sole purposes of helping him microdose--that is, to cheat. Now, I can't speak to ethics--particularly for dirtwads who have none--but if you can't nail these clowns for helping cyclists ('cause it seems awfully unlikely that Kohl's the only one) cheat, for my money they sure as hell oughta be at least nailed for selling themselves out so cheaply when, given the stakes at hand for and the bank balances of the buyers of their services, they could've been raking in truly extortionate amounts of money instead. Not that I approve of it in the first place--they're all very, very naughty, of course. I'm just sayin'. I mean, can't you prosecute someone for sheer stupidity *anywhere* in this world?
Don't Do It, Levi!: oops, too late, as we love Levi Leipheimer has reportedly sealed his eternal doom, I mean signed with, Team RadioSkank, and much as it pains me to see such a brilliant cyclist stiffed out of team leadership *again*, I'm miserably assuming it's only a matter of time before Andreas "Man, I'm *Whipped*" Kloden does the same. The great unknown: competing rumors that Hincapie is, or is not, going to bail on Columbia for BMC (which would apparently have included Levi) or Lance's new squad. Aw, George--sure I prefer the Italians anyway, but give me *something* in US cycling (besides Tyler Farrar's inevitable 2010 Tour de France stage wins and Christian Van de Velde's ongoing total bitchin'-ness) to be happy about next season for heck's sake!
It's a Madhouse! A Madhouse!: speaking (sort of) of Astana, I see the irrepressibly crazed Alexander Vinokourov is looking to start the Vuelta with his ol' team, which I must say fills me with ambivalence because, despite the fact that Vino's an unrepentant amoral drug-sucking demon's-spawn, he's nothing if not entertaining to watch on the attack (though I imagine that, if actually ever forced to ride clean, he'd now be stuck with rather cruder tactics like, I don't know, jamming a water bottle into someone's derailleur at 60kph), he's duly served his time in the big house, and, unlike some team leaders I can think of, he was never one to begrudge his domestiques a stage win when they'd damned well killed themselves for Vino earning it. Plus, Chris Horner sez he wouldn't mind it--so how bad for the sport could his return be? Oops, looks like Vinokourov just got the results from his latest doping control:
Dammit Cadel, I *Told* You To Make Your Move!: meantime, Alberto Contador (and what the hell is with Paulinho bailing on him? Armstrong must've (1) offered him more money than he's ever seen in his life or (2) scared the crap out of him by the career-crushing black hole of his egomaniacal enmity) is basking in the glow of 8 gazillion teams that want to leech off his glorious (if still perhaps somewhat suspect) talent, and, while he's discreetly denying any final decision yet, Caisse d' Epargne has sworn to pimp its collective management's grandmothers to find a loaded new sponsor to afford him if it has to, and, despite the allure of a new Spanish squad and even the reputed interest of Quick Step, Alberto has coyly conceded he's interested. My only concern: Columbian climbing god Mauricio Soler, inexcusably excluded from the Tour this year by the tool organizers, has apparently inked a deal with Caisse already, and much as I like anyone who pisses off Lance Armstrong, Alberto, if you're gonna make Soler domestique for you in the Tour de France next year to get you the overall you better let that boy off the leash for the King of the Mountains he so richly deserves, twerp. Allez allez Mauricio--hell, I've already had to give up on poor Cadel I suppose...
Whoops, Here's Your Chance After All Cadel!: yep, the fine folks at velo- and cyclingnews are reporting that, despite that player-slut Contador's dalliances with other squads, the Kazakhs are delighted to announce they'll be enforcing Alberto Contador's contract through the end of 2010, which I'm sure equally delights Alberto as, with Vinokourov at his back, nothing could possibly go wrong next season. Not to worry Alberto--not only will all the remaining Kazakh riders be coming off their bans by then, but Vino makes one hell of a loyal domestique--just ask Jan Ullrich! Oh, honey, you should've *known* when Vinokourov plastered his own face on his latest jersey that if your lawyer hadn't the sense to draft you a good out clause in the first place that it was all gonna be over anyway...
And, Heading Off to My Happy Place: finally, as contract negotiations for next season alternately enthrall and nauseate me, and the beautiful perfect Vuelta where Samuel Sanchez will swat down Alejandro Valverde like a fly on a picnic lunch remains weeks away, we love the indomitable Jens Voigt is already set to get back on the bike, making me believe, yet again, that there's something sweet and innocent still to love about this gorgeous wreck of a sport. Forza Jens--and watch out for dips in the road from now on!
Don't Do It, Levi!: oops, too late, as we love Levi Leipheimer has reportedly sealed his eternal doom, I mean signed with, Team RadioSkank, and much as it pains me to see such a brilliant cyclist stiffed out of team leadership *again*, I'm miserably assuming it's only a matter of time before Andreas "Man, I'm *Whipped*" Kloden does the same. The great unknown: competing rumors that Hincapie is, or is not, going to bail on Columbia for BMC (which would apparently have included Levi) or Lance's new squad. Aw, George--sure I prefer the Italians anyway, but give me *something* in US cycling (besides Tyler Farrar's inevitable 2010 Tour de France stage wins and Christian Van de Velde's ongoing total bitchin'-ness) to be happy about next season for heck's sake!
It's a Madhouse! A Madhouse!: speaking (sort of) of Astana, I see the irrepressibly crazed Alexander Vinokourov is looking to start the Vuelta with his ol' team, which I must say fills me with ambivalence because, despite the fact that Vino's an unrepentant amoral drug-sucking demon's-spawn, he's nothing if not entertaining to watch on the attack (though I imagine that, if actually ever forced to ride clean, he'd now be stuck with rather cruder tactics like, I don't know, jamming a water bottle into someone's derailleur at 60kph), he's duly served his time in the big house, and, unlike some team leaders I can think of, he was never one to begrudge his domestiques a stage win when they'd damned well killed themselves for Vino earning it. Plus, Chris Horner sez he wouldn't mind it--so how bad for the sport could his return be? Oops, looks like Vinokourov just got the results from his latest doping control:
Dammit Cadel, I *Told* You To Make Your Move!: meantime, Alberto Contador (and what the hell is with Paulinho bailing on him? Armstrong must've (1) offered him more money than he's ever seen in his life or (2) scared the crap out of him by the career-crushing black hole of his egomaniacal enmity) is basking in the glow of 8 gazillion teams that want to leech off his glorious (if still perhaps somewhat suspect) talent, and, while he's discreetly denying any final decision yet, Caisse d' Epargne has sworn to pimp its collective management's grandmothers to find a loaded new sponsor to afford him if it has to, and, despite the allure of a new Spanish squad and even the reputed interest of Quick Step, Alberto has coyly conceded he's interested. My only concern: Columbian climbing god Mauricio Soler, inexcusably excluded from the Tour this year by the tool organizers, has apparently inked a deal with Caisse already, and much as I like anyone who pisses off Lance Armstrong, Alberto, if you're gonna make Soler domestique for you in the Tour de France next year to get you the overall you better let that boy off the leash for the King of the Mountains he so richly deserves, twerp. Allez allez Mauricio--hell, I've already had to give up on poor Cadel I suppose...
Whoops, Here's Your Chance After All Cadel!: yep, the fine folks at velo- and cyclingnews are reporting that, despite that player-slut Contador's dalliances with other squads, the Kazakhs are delighted to announce they'll be enforcing Alberto Contador's contract through the end of 2010, which I'm sure equally delights Alberto as, with Vinokourov at his back, nothing could possibly go wrong next season. Not to worry Alberto--not only will all the remaining Kazakh riders be coming off their bans by then, but Vino makes one hell of a loyal domestique--just ask Jan Ullrich! Oh, honey, you should've *known* when Vinokourov plastered his own face on his latest jersey that if your lawyer hadn't the sense to draft you a good out clause in the first place that it was all gonna be over anyway...
And, Heading Off to My Happy Place: finally, as contract negotiations for next season alternately enthrall and nauseate me, and the beautiful perfect Vuelta where Samuel Sanchez will swat down Alejandro Valverde like a fly on a picnic lunch remains weeks away, we love the indomitable Jens Voigt is already set to get back on the bike, making me believe, yet again, that there's something sweet and innocent still to love about this gorgeous wreck of a sport. Forza Jens--and watch out for dips in the road from now on!
Sunday, August 09, 2009
The Cadel Evans Find Me a Team That Won't Jack Me Over Project
Yes folks, in our continued philanthropical efforts to help those too dense, too doped, or just too plain helpless to help themselves, Part II of our series of completely free (and likely wholly unwelcome) Rider Reinvention Projects is on: multiple Tour de France maid-of-honor Cadel Evans! Today, we get our boy on track to find a new squad and gain the Tour de France maillot jaune he's always dreamed of:
1. Interacting With the Press 101: Cadel, I know you've got a reputation as an internal, naturally reticent kind of guy, which has led to some, well, rather awkward moments with the press corps of late, but if you're gonna be a real Grand Tour contender--and get those guys on board to pimp you as one, because you could use their support and publicity--you've got to find a happy medium between "Going Completely Mute" and "Going Completely Freakin' Wingnut." And in fact, you're quite charming on your Twitter feed, so clearly you can translate this to more personal interactions. Our introductory drill: multiple choice questions. 1. The proper response to "What happened out there today?" is...(a) "!@#$ you, you !@#$ing !@#$!" (b) "Nothing, except my TEAM SUCKS!" (c) "No, I didn't attack, you got a problem with that?" (d) "Andy Schleck is a phenomenal young talent and it will be exciting to see how he develops in the future. But I'm looking forward to showing what I can do tomorrow in the next stage in the Pyrenees." No, it's not (a), you twit!
2. The Entourage: Am I on crack, or have you now got Mr. T guarding your !@#? Cadel, unless you've had some serious threats to your personal physical safety by some psychotic cycling stalker, or have had some gigantic shrieking Jonas Brothers teenybopper flash-mob trying to tear your team kit off (and I'm not saying you haven't, so don't get your ego-bruised chamois in a twist), ditch the musclebound Neanderthals, tell the rest of your fawning hangers-on to blow, and face the world yourself. Who the hell do you think you are, Lance "Kneel, Dammit!" Armstrong or some unbearable arrogant sprinter? Look, a fan's shoving a jersey at you to sign--now stop that mouth-breather goon from breaking his arm, and pony up your autograph!
3. The Season: okay, I *do* hope Samuel Sanchez crushes you like an ant at a picnic in the Vuelta, but there is a Grand Tour champion in there somewhere Cadel, and this is the last real race this season you've got to prove it in. And unlike most of the Spaniards, you can whale on the time trials as well, and make up time there if you must. Which begs the question of...
4. The Strategy: I know this is gonna piss you off, Cadel, so it's a good thing you won't ever read this, but if you want a new gig with an outfit that can afford to give you the domestique firepower you so clearly deserve (and need), you're gonna have to learn to brownnose better. What does this have to do with strategy? Because if you don't ATTACK, Cadel, the sponsors can't see their giant garish logo filling up the screen as the camera zeroes in on your heroic move, particularly if you actually take the freakin' stage and with time enough to zip up your jersey sit up straight and conspicuously point to their name emblazoned across your chest as you cross the line. Sponsors seeing their giant garish logo filling up the screen = money. Money = support riders who won't pass out from exhaustion the second they hit a speed bump, much less leave you alone in the mountains with 8000 Saxo Bank riders kicking you in the works with every pedal stroke. No, I don't care if the team is gonna offer to extend your contract anyway--you want a better paying gig with another squad that's paying attention, or not? Yes, I *know* it's snuggly in the middle of the front group--get the hell *out* of there, I cannot see your team kit!
5. The Sign: Much as it kills me to quote Ace of Base--and someone's gonna pay for that--I saw the sign, Cadel, and it opened up my mind: that sign was Jurgen Van den Broecke saying he's just thrilled to bits at the prospect of sharing GC contention with you on Silence-Lotto at the Tour de France next year. Look, we all know Contador's a bit slow to fire the ol' synapses, Cadel, but you're a lot wiser than he (not that you're exactly aiming at a gold standard there, but I digress), and you are not going to make the same naive, trusting, nimrod mistake that he did: you are going to take that upstart child Jurgen at his word, use your newly-developed publicity and butt-kissing skills, and GEEEEEEEETTTTT OOOOOUUUUUUTTTTT! Which brings us to the question of....
6. The Squad: Let's review our options, shall we? I like Christian Van de Velde even if no-one in Europe thinks he can go higher'n fifth, so Garmin's out. Columbia's gone because they're too sucked up nurturing Mark Cavendish, the very finest sprinter on earth (did I mention that the winner of our Two-Week Rider Insult Moratorium in the Racejunkie Win Free Stuff Part Trois Contest was the entirely worthy Cav?). And really, you need a climber's squad in any case--none of this wishy-washy you're-screwed "we like a well-rounded group who can contest the Classics and the Grand Tours," none of this "we're gonna split the team equally between our sprinter and our GC contender" crap. Now if Zubeldia Klodi and Leipheimer weren't already doomed to dull gray purgatory at the service of The One, I'd have suggested Astana, but without them--and with Euskaltel not having any dough anyway and already having reached its 1-Non-Basque Rider Limit plus you would go straight to eternal flaming hell for getting in Samuel Sanchez' face, this leaves you (assuming the Schlecks'll stay at Saxo Bank), so far as I can tell, with (1) Caisse d'Epargne or (2) Rabobank. Sure, they've got their own Grand Tour gods in Valverde and Menchov, but really, what's the likelihood both those guys won't get busted for years worth of (alleged!) doping by the end of this season? *One* of those suckers is gonna go down--and if not, Valverde's at a minimum gonna choke again next July anyway, so what've you really got to fear, particularly if Contador hooks up with a new Spanish squad and takes Luis Leon Sanchez with him? Sure, you've wasted all that time becoming fluent in Italian--but your new Rosetta Stone CDs are on the way!
Well, honey, you've got a long uphill climb ahead of you, but since we already know you can conquer those, it's merely a question of picking up the pace. Good luck Cadel! Oh, Klodi, if your chances weren't already so far beyond repair, I'd pick you for the next quick-fix in the series...
1. Interacting With the Press 101: Cadel, I know you've got a reputation as an internal, naturally reticent kind of guy, which has led to some, well, rather awkward moments with the press corps of late, but if you're gonna be a real Grand Tour contender--and get those guys on board to pimp you as one, because you could use their support and publicity--you've got to find a happy medium between "Going Completely Mute" and "Going Completely Freakin' Wingnut." And in fact, you're quite charming on your Twitter feed, so clearly you can translate this to more personal interactions. Our introductory drill: multiple choice questions. 1. The proper response to "What happened out there today?" is...(a) "!@#$ you, you !@#$ing !@#$!" (b) "Nothing, except my TEAM SUCKS!" (c) "No, I didn't attack, you got a problem with that?" (d) "Andy Schleck is a phenomenal young talent and it will be exciting to see how he develops in the future. But I'm looking forward to showing what I can do tomorrow in the next stage in the Pyrenees." No, it's not (a), you twit!
2. The Entourage: Am I on crack, or have you now got Mr. T guarding your !@#? Cadel, unless you've had some serious threats to your personal physical safety by some psychotic cycling stalker, or have had some gigantic shrieking Jonas Brothers teenybopper flash-mob trying to tear your team kit off (and I'm not saying you haven't, so don't get your ego-bruised chamois in a twist), ditch the musclebound Neanderthals, tell the rest of your fawning hangers-on to blow, and face the world yourself. Who the hell do you think you are, Lance "Kneel, Dammit!" Armstrong or some unbearable arrogant sprinter? Look, a fan's shoving a jersey at you to sign--now stop that mouth-breather goon from breaking his arm, and pony up your autograph!
3. The Season: okay, I *do* hope Samuel Sanchez crushes you like an ant at a picnic in the Vuelta, but there is a Grand Tour champion in there somewhere Cadel, and this is the last real race this season you've got to prove it in. And unlike most of the Spaniards, you can whale on the time trials as well, and make up time there if you must. Which begs the question of...
4. The Strategy: I know this is gonna piss you off, Cadel, so it's a good thing you won't ever read this, but if you want a new gig with an outfit that can afford to give you the domestique firepower you so clearly deserve (and need), you're gonna have to learn to brownnose better. What does this have to do with strategy? Because if you don't ATTACK, Cadel, the sponsors can't see their giant garish logo filling up the screen as the camera zeroes in on your heroic move, particularly if you actually take the freakin' stage and with time enough to zip up your jersey sit up straight and conspicuously point to their name emblazoned across your chest as you cross the line. Sponsors seeing their giant garish logo filling up the screen = money. Money = support riders who won't pass out from exhaustion the second they hit a speed bump, much less leave you alone in the mountains with 8000 Saxo Bank riders kicking you in the works with every pedal stroke. No, I don't care if the team is gonna offer to extend your contract anyway--you want a better paying gig with another squad that's paying attention, or not? Yes, I *know* it's snuggly in the middle of the front group--get the hell *out* of there, I cannot see your team kit!
5. The Sign: Much as it kills me to quote Ace of Base--and someone's gonna pay for that--I saw the sign, Cadel, and it opened up my mind: that sign was Jurgen Van den Broecke saying he's just thrilled to bits at the prospect of sharing GC contention with you on Silence-Lotto at the Tour de France next year. Look, we all know Contador's a bit slow to fire the ol' synapses, Cadel, but you're a lot wiser than he (not that you're exactly aiming at a gold standard there, but I digress), and you are not going to make the same naive, trusting, nimrod mistake that he did: you are going to take that upstart child Jurgen at his word, use your newly-developed publicity and butt-kissing skills, and GEEEEEEEETTTTT OOOOOUUUUUUTTTTT! Which brings us to the question of....
6. The Squad: Let's review our options, shall we? I like Christian Van de Velde even if no-one in Europe thinks he can go higher'n fifth, so Garmin's out. Columbia's gone because they're too sucked up nurturing Mark Cavendish, the very finest sprinter on earth (did I mention that the winner of our Two-Week Rider Insult Moratorium in the Racejunkie Win Free Stuff Part Trois Contest was the entirely worthy Cav?). And really, you need a climber's squad in any case--none of this wishy-washy you're-screwed "we like a well-rounded group who can contest the Classics and the Grand Tours," none of this "we're gonna split the team equally between our sprinter and our GC contender" crap. Now if Zubeldia Klodi and Leipheimer weren't already doomed to dull gray purgatory at the service of The One, I'd have suggested Astana, but without them--and with Euskaltel not having any dough anyway and already having reached its 1-Non-Basque Rider Limit plus you would go straight to eternal flaming hell for getting in Samuel Sanchez' face, this leaves you (assuming the Schlecks'll stay at Saxo Bank), so far as I can tell, with (1) Caisse d'Epargne or (2) Rabobank. Sure, they've got their own Grand Tour gods in Valverde and Menchov, but really, what's the likelihood both those guys won't get busted for years worth of (alleged!) doping by the end of this season? *One* of those suckers is gonna go down--and if not, Valverde's at a minimum gonna choke again next July anyway, so what've you really got to fear, particularly if Contador hooks up with a new Spanish squad and takes Luis Leon Sanchez with him? Sure, you've wasted all that time becoming fluent in Italian--but your new Rosetta Stone CDs are on the way!
Well, honey, you've got a long uphill climb ahead of you, but since we already know you can conquer those, it's merely a question of picking up the pace. Good luck Cadel! Oh, Klodi, if your chances weren't already so far beyond repair, I'd pick you for the next quick-fix in the series...
Monday, August 03, 2009
Introducing the Tom Boonen Image Rehabilitation Project!
Let's face it: our brilliant, babelicious sprint king has hit the skids. In just the last half-season, Tommeke has gone from a lovable, rakish party-boy scalawag with an amazing power in the Classics and in the sprints to a sickly, dipsomaniacal washout bawling to the Belgian press about his girlfriend who is one ugly YouTube clip away from becoming a complete drooling incoherent David-Hasselhoffian sad-sack trainwreck. But his mastery of the bike is still there, my friends, and his decaying image can, I am absolutely certain, be fixed. And who better to do it for him than his loyal tifosi and sleazeball-restoration experts here at racejunkie? Ergo, the Plan:
1. The Talk: Look, Tom, it doesn't matter that you were legitimately projectile-spewing every ten minutes from a genuine energy-draining stomach virus at the Tour or any other race this season. If you don't start to win again, and pronto, Patrick Lefevere is not only not gonna go to the mat for you ever again, he's gonna slash your Lamborghini contract to a Hyundai or, worse, cut you loose entirely faster'n you can say "How the !@#$ did I end up on a Continental squad?" You are going to schedule a meeting with Lefevere, your lawyer, your manager, and your new coach you are hiring, for bright and early in the morning. You are going to forswear intoxicating substances the evening prior, you are going to get a good night's sleep, you are going to swear in no uncertain terms on your actual, then-present grandmother that you are done with doltish frat-boy antics, and you are going to prove it. Starting then and there, and continuing at least through your next, fully signed and executed contract extension, no more late-night carousing, no more dimwit Star Magazine escapades, and for heck's sake no more nose candy--that's right, no more fun. No, it's not fair--welcome to earth, you overcoddled spandex party princess. Get over it. You get paid a sick amount of dough to ride a bike, however beautifully. You really gonna cry about it to your fans stuck working some unbearable monotonous desk-monkey cubicle gig? No, you're not. Now hit the showers!
2. The Press Conference: You've now behaved well for a full week straight. Congratulations, you've earned yourself a press conference! You are tanned and handsome. You are sitting up straight. You are pleased to announce that, having undergone a painful reckoning with your weak and foolish self, you have put aside your childish ways once and for all, you have sought and received the help you so clearly needed, and you are back on peak physical and mental form. You are so grateful for the strength, faith, and invaluable support of your sponsors, your team, your family, your friends, your fans, your soigneur, your shoe-shine boy, and the entire world community. You may now choke up veeerrrry briefly, but you may not break down entirely--you don't want to look like some David Millaresque crybaby wuss-weenie. Now you will announce your races for the rest of the season, and you will not !@#$ them up. Thank you all so much for coming. You cannot take questions because it is time for a training ride. Now wave cheerfully as you leave, and take it. Make sure there are cameras there too. Gee, are you working hard!
3. The Charity Work: you are starting the Tom Boonen Bikes Not Booze Foundation for Starry-Eyed Easily-Manipulated Waifs. Off-season, you will go to every elementary school in Belgium in your new TBBNBFSEEMW jersey, you will hand out wholesome juice and snacks to the kiddies and let them sit on your bike, and you will pose with every single teacher who asks you for a cell-phone snapshot of you warmly kissing his or her cheek. Move it!
4. The Vuelta: you will ride it and take out Oscar Freire in at least one uphill sprint and Robbie McEwen in at least one flat sprint, complimenting each heartily thereafter. Great to see you back on top, Tom!
5. The Fail-Safe: for every screwup you make--and you better not make any, boy--you must pose with all your clothes actually on for one full photo shoot. But you do look so dashing in your Quick Step team kit! Furthermore, all clubs in Europe will, any time you cross over their nation's border, be forced to play 24/7 country-western ballads as perky elderly couples in matching gingham outfits and cowboy boots prance by until you have left the country. Tough love, honey, tough but necessary!
Okay, Tom, we've got you back on the road to redemption, and because we all love you anyway, it surely won't take long. Next up: The Cadel Evans Find Me a Team That Won't Jack Me Over Project. We love you too, Cadel!
1. The Talk: Look, Tom, it doesn't matter that you were legitimately projectile-spewing every ten minutes from a genuine energy-draining stomach virus at the Tour or any other race this season. If you don't start to win again, and pronto, Patrick Lefevere is not only not gonna go to the mat for you ever again, he's gonna slash your Lamborghini contract to a Hyundai or, worse, cut you loose entirely faster'n you can say "How the !@#$ did I end up on a Continental squad?" You are going to schedule a meeting with Lefevere, your lawyer, your manager, and your new coach you are hiring, for bright and early in the morning. You are going to forswear intoxicating substances the evening prior, you are going to get a good night's sleep, you are going to swear in no uncertain terms on your actual, then-present grandmother that you are done with doltish frat-boy antics, and you are going to prove it. Starting then and there, and continuing at least through your next, fully signed and executed contract extension, no more late-night carousing, no more dimwit Star Magazine escapades, and for heck's sake no more nose candy--that's right, no more fun. No, it's not fair--welcome to earth, you overcoddled spandex party princess. Get over it. You get paid a sick amount of dough to ride a bike, however beautifully. You really gonna cry about it to your fans stuck working some unbearable monotonous desk-monkey cubicle gig? No, you're not. Now hit the showers!
2. The Press Conference: You've now behaved well for a full week straight. Congratulations, you've earned yourself a press conference! You are tanned and handsome. You are sitting up straight. You are pleased to announce that, having undergone a painful reckoning with your weak and foolish self, you have put aside your childish ways once and for all, you have sought and received the help you so clearly needed, and you are back on peak physical and mental form. You are so grateful for the strength, faith, and invaluable support of your sponsors, your team, your family, your friends, your fans, your soigneur, your shoe-shine boy, and the entire world community. You may now choke up veeerrrry briefly, but you may not break down entirely--you don't want to look like some David Millaresque crybaby wuss-weenie. Now you will announce your races for the rest of the season, and you will not !@#$ them up. Thank you all so much for coming. You cannot take questions because it is time for a training ride. Now wave cheerfully as you leave, and take it. Make sure there are cameras there too. Gee, are you working hard!
3. The Charity Work: you are starting the Tom Boonen Bikes Not Booze Foundation for Starry-Eyed Easily-Manipulated Waifs. Off-season, you will go to every elementary school in Belgium in your new TBBNBFSEEMW jersey, you will hand out wholesome juice and snacks to the kiddies and let them sit on your bike, and you will pose with every single teacher who asks you for a cell-phone snapshot of you warmly kissing his or her cheek. Move it!
4. The Vuelta: you will ride it and take out Oscar Freire in at least one uphill sprint and Robbie McEwen in at least one flat sprint, complimenting each heartily thereafter. Great to see you back on top, Tom!
5. The Fail-Safe: for every screwup you make--and you better not make any, boy--you must pose with all your clothes actually on for one full photo shoot. But you do look so dashing in your Quick Step team kit! Furthermore, all clubs in Europe will, any time you cross over their nation's border, be forced to play 24/7 country-western ballads as perky elderly couples in matching gingham outfits and cowboy boots prance by until you have left the country. Tough love, honey, tough but necessary!
Okay, Tom, we've got you back on the road to redemption, and because we all love you anyway, it surely won't take long. Next up: The Cadel Evans Find Me a Team That Won't Jack Me Over Project. We love you too, Cadel!
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Good Boy, Alberto!
Do You Want Your Treat Now?: yes, our pistol-wielding 2009 Tour de France champ--of late not perhaps the brightest bulb in the lamp--has finally made a huge leap towards common sense by declining, even with the promise of team leadership over returning Alexander "Like Norman Bates in "Psycho," But More Psycho" Vinokorouv, a 4 year, 16-million-euro contract with Astana. Someone's been watching his "Baby Einstein" videos this week! Meantime, no particular word on who else is courting him, but it's at least clear that for Alberto Contador to definitively stomp Lance in next year's Tour he's gotta find a team who can afford (1) him and (2) the all-star superdomestiques he'll need to crush Lance's thoroughbred stable of gazillion-dollar !@#$#es. Caisse d'Epargne? *Could* it be Garmin, bestill my beating heart (but then you better not jack over Van de Velde)? Hey, Rabobank's probably looking for a new GC guy at this point...
Oh, No, Not Again!: so long's we're recapping the shootout at the O.K. Corral, Ivan "Zoolander" Basso might want to look out for the new kid in town: yep, with a Giro podium and a Tour King of the Mountains under his belt, Franco "Hansel" Pellizotti is demanding that he be Liquigas' sole captain in his own right in 2010--of the Giro, that is, and of *course* he'll be delighted to play chorus boy to Ivan in the Tour. Um, not to cast aspersions on anyone who is not only a smashing rider but also has such pretty, pretty hair, but is he that confident that Ivan'll be asked back to the Tour next year after his little dalliance with Operacion Puerto--or is he really that confident he won't be? Forza Franco--you are one smooth operator, honey!
The Call of the Wild: y'know those nature documentaries on public television, the ones where some studly new young lion comes in to challenge the geezer with a huge harem, they engage in an epic battle for Darwinian supremacy, then the old guy gets clawed to shreds and skulks off into the bush to a lonely, friendless, ignominious death in the pounding sun of the veldt? Yeah, so Jurgen Van Den Broeck has now nattered on to the press how *great* it is that Silence-Lotto now has *two* major GC threats for next year! Roar, Cadel, roar for your life I tell you--don't you see those reeking carrion-suckin' blackhearted vultures circling slowly overhead? Update: aw, heck, I *just* realized I inadvertently violated the Racejunkie Win Free Stuff Contest Week 2 Rider Insult Moratorium. Kindly replace "geezer" with "Lion King," "old guy" with "elder statesman," "skulks" with "voluntarily steps down," "lonely, friendless, ignominious" with "dignified, solitary," and the entire last sentence with "Roar, Cadel, and the young lion will cower with the fear and deference which you are wholly due." That about covers it, right? Sincerest apologies to our Week Two winner--my bad!
Dag Nabit, *Again*! okay, try as I might to convince myself that it was, y'know, maybe "George" Astarloza, or "Bob" Astarloza, or some other Astarloza, nope, it was in fact Euskaltel-Euskadi-are-still-the-best-climbers-on-earth-so-you-all-can-completely-bite-me Tour de France stage winner Mikel Astarloza who tested poz in a pre-Tour out-of-competition doping test for EPO. Aw, Mikel, I'm still recovering from we-still-love-so-go-to-hell Iban Mayo, now *you* have to besmirch this beautiful team? And how dare you hose Samuel Sanchez right before the Vuelta, you (allegedly) selfish (allegedly) dope-snarfing (alleged) disgrace of a mud-dwelling pig? Euskaltel, however--unlike other teams I can think of whose riders shoot up every ten minutes practically in the middle of hotel lobbies then are immediately tossed under the team bus by their shocked and outraged directeur sportifs--is standing by their man, certain he'll be imminently be cleared. You better be, pal, or you can damn well schlep Samu' up each and every mountain stage, and anywhere else he takes it into his head he wants to go, harnessed into a freakin' dog cart all next month!
Media Tick-Me-Off o' the Week: speaking of Samuel Sanchez--look, I *love* Velonews. But in their last two articles on the fabulous Vuelta a Espana, they have stuck Samu's name, much less his freakin' GC chances, somewhere disgustingly south of the butt-end of nowhere. What the hell is that about? Give that man the credit he deserves, I say, or eat orange-and-black-scorched tarmac in September, you faithless Schleck-suckups!
And This One *Wins* When She Comes Out of Retirement: finally, congrats to returning 2002 road champ Jessica Phillips, who just bagged the US national time trial championship after years off the pro circuit. Watch and learn--this is how you do it, L--um, no-one!
Oh, No, Not Again!: so long's we're recapping the shootout at the O.K. Corral, Ivan "Zoolander" Basso might want to look out for the new kid in town: yep, with a Giro podium and a Tour King of the Mountains under his belt, Franco "Hansel" Pellizotti is demanding that he be Liquigas' sole captain in his own right in 2010--of the Giro, that is, and of *course* he'll be delighted to play chorus boy to Ivan in the Tour. Um, not to cast aspersions on anyone who is not only a smashing rider but also has such pretty, pretty hair, but is he that confident that Ivan'll be asked back to the Tour next year after his little dalliance with Operacion Puerto--or is he really that confident he won't be? Forza Franco--you are one smooth operator, honey!
The Call of the Wild: y'know those nature documentaries on public television, the ones where some studly new young lion comes in to challenge the geezer with a huge harem, they engage in an epic battle for Darwinian supremacy, then the old guy gets clawed to shreds and skulks off into the bush to a lonely, friendless, ignominious death in the pounding sun of the veldt? Yeah, so Jurgen Van Den Broeck has now nattered on to the press how *great* it is that Silence-Lotto now has *two* major GC threats for next year! Roar, Cadel, roar for your life I tell you--don't you see those reeking carrion-suckin' blackhearted vultures circling slowly overhead? Update: aw, heck, I *just* realized I inadvertently violated the Racejunkie Win Free Stuff Contest Week 2 Rider Insult Moratorium. Kindly replace "geezer" with "Lion King," "old guy" with "elder statesman," "skulks" with "voluntarily steps down," "lonely, friendless, ignominious" with "dignified, solitary," and the entire last sentence with "Roar, Cadel, and the young lion will cower with the fear and deference which you are wholly due." That about covers it, right? Sincerest apologies to our Week Two winner--my bad!
Dag Nabit, *Again*! okay, try as I might to convince myself that it was, y'know, maybe "George" Astarloza, or "Bob" Astarloza, or some other Astarloza, nope, it was in fact Euskaltel-Euskadi-are-still-the-best-climbers-on-earth-so-you-all-can-completely-bite-me Tour de France stage winner Mikel Astarloza who tested poz in a pre-Tour out-of-competition doping test for EPO. Aw, Mikel, I'm still recovering from we-still-love-so-go-to-hell Iban Mayo, now *you* have to besmirch this beautiful team? And how dare you hose Samuel Sanchez right before the Vuelta, you (allegedly) selfish (allegedly) dope-snarfing (alleged) disgrace of a mud-dwelling pig? Euskaltel, however--unlike other teams I can think of whose riders shoot up every ten minutes practically in the middle of hotel lobbies then are immediately tossed under the team bus by their shocked and outraged directeur sportifs--is standing by their man, certain he'll be imminently be cleared. You better be, pal, or you can damn well schlep Samu' up each and every mountain stage, and anywhere else he takes it into his head he wants to go, harnessed into a freakin' dog cart all next month!
Media Tick-Me-Off o' the Week: speaking of Samuel Sanchez--look, I *love* Velonews. But in their last two articles on the fabulous Vuelta a Espana, they have stuck Samu's name, much less his freakin' GC chances, somewhere disgustingly south of the butt-end of nowhere. What the hell is that about? Give that man the credit he deserves, I say, or eat orange-and-black-scorched tarmac in September, you faithless Schleck-suckups!
And This One *Wins* When She Comes Out of Retirement: finally, congrats to returning 2002 road champ Jessica Phillips, who just bagged the US national time trial championship after years off the pro circuit. Watch and learn--this is how you do it, L--um, no-one!
Monday, July 27, 2009
It's The 2009 Racejunkie Tour de France Awards!--and, Our Win Free Stuff Contest Winner!
Well folks, Team Astana has officially eaten its young, three weeks of blood, sweat, tears 'n' disgusting Armstrong fawning have come to an end, and it's time for the 2009 Tour de France awards! Sure, I'm somewhat hamstrung by the Win Free Stuff! Contest's two-week rider insult moratoriums--but who doesn't love Cadel and Tom Boonen anyway? So, without further ado:
Like Britney Spears Flashing Her Crotch at the Paparazzi, But Less Classy Award: yep, this one's for Lance's petty crybaby podium antics, notably reaching over to shake 2nd place finisher Andy Schleck's hand heartily while virtually ignoring Contador, rudely not even glancing at his own 3d place trophy proudly given to him by the race organizers and pissily ogling Alberto's instead, and, icing on the cake, blasting by the neatly single-filing riders on his squad at the best-team presentation so he wouldn't have to stand next to the guy who'd beaten him and he could nestle in among his own happy servants instead. Let's be honest--if one of Lance's teammates had pulled that disrespectful crap on *him* during one of *his* Tour de France wins, he'd have gone Al Capone on him with a baseball bat *plus* had his broken carcass posthumously fired on the spot. Punk whiny sore-loser move, Mr. Armstrong!
Miracle on Ice Award: okay, I thought Denis Menchov maybe doped to improve his *performance*, but did anyone realize he needed to be on the juice just to maintain his *balance*? Never since Michael Rasmussen's ignominious podium-tanking final Tour de France time trial a few years back has a rider crashed so often with so little reason. Lots of guys were still tired from the Giro, Denis--what the heck was going on?
The French Revolution Prize: okay, when it comes to GC hopes--and half the time when it even comes to stage wins--the French have pretty well sucked in their own Grand Tour since Hinault. Until this year. Yes, time for us coarse arrogant McDonald's-suckin' bull-ridin' cultureless barbarian Americans to acknowledge the truth: from Fedrigo to Voeckler to Brice Feillu, not to mention the usual suspects pounding away in the breakaways, the French riders kicked !@# this year. Felicitations, boys!
Sissy-Boy-Slap-Fight-o'-the-Tour: so between we-still-love-so-I'm-sure-this-was- just a hallucinogen-induced-deviation Thor Hushovd cussing out Ciolek and Cav on the sprints, Cav whining about Thor, Bruyneel crying about Contador, and patient little Sastre finally completely losing it and slammin', well, everybody, this one was a killer. In the end, though, it goes to--and it wounds me deeply to say this--big George Hincapie, excoriating a wholly innocent team for protecting their own sprint and GC prospects which is, after all, quite their job. I'm sorry you didn't get yellow too, George--might've taken that one up with your own squad Discovery for oh, seven years straight!
Tuff Enuff Prize: on a sunnier note, this one, too, is for Hincapie: he rode the end of the race with a broken collarbone. What a bas-!@#--truly, even in a sport where you're expected to ride through incredible pain, kudos to you, George!
Celebrity Butt-Kiss of the Race: again, another embarrassment of riches, as a host of irrelevant Hollywood heavyweights, assorted quasi-royal dignitaries, and damn near every media outlet on earth sought to outdo each other with paeans to, and even momentary association with, the One. But only one name stands supreme: yes, former teammate Bob Roll, whose almost pornographic daily lovefests on Vs. could make a hard-core career gigolo blush. You're great fun to watch and listen to, Bob--but TMI man!
Crash o' the Tour (Cringe-Inducing): all right, no-one pitched off the side of the mountain this year, but gnurk! Jens' spectacular--and bone-shattering--face-plant on a none-too-smooth descent. Get well soon Jens--and come back and attack the crap out of the peloton again next year!
Crash o' the Tour (Tactical Significance): anyone else wonder what would've happened with GC if only he'd been around in the mountains to pick up where Popo left off? Yep, this one's for Levi Leipheimer--an ordinary crash with likely race-altering consequences. Okay, I'm still irked you piled on Contador over the Klodi debacle--but fair is fair, you earned this Levi!
Domestique o' the Race: yeah, no-one mentioned his name, not once in three long, long weeks of constant coverage--but if you review the tapes, you'll see him there, faithfully setting the pace, blocking the wind, and working his butt off in a humble obscurity completely at odds with his Classics-winning godliness--yes, it's indomitable Aussie tough-guy Stuart O'Grady. Okay, I know your big bro' Frank was invaluable Andy--but buy that man a drink post-haste!
B-B-Bad to the Bone Award: last year, he landed on some spindly socialist protester like a ton of bricks. This year, when someone dared to try to pass themselves off on the podium as a stage winner, he put on the hurt again. Bernard Hinault--if you ever get tired of being a cycling legend, you can always get a gig as the most-feared bouncer at a dive biker bar!
Sweet Spot o' the Race: lest you think I'm a total cynic, this one goes to Thor's leadout man Heinrich Haussler for choking up as he took his finely-played stage win. Didn't you want to about burst into tears, too? I know I did!
Ivan Basso Can Suck It Award: yes, as our comely long-lashed reformed miscreant readies himself for the Vuelta, the Adonis of the Euromullet, Ivan's equally-supermodelesque Giro "co-captain" Franco Pellizotti was, while sadly ditching his GC hopes, relentless and brave in his successful pursuit of the King of the Mountains. He got Most Aggressive Rider too! And boy, does he look pretty in polka dots...
Unsung Quote o' the Tour: from a smashing article in the Wall Street Journal of all places, this gem from 1/2 of the best cycling-commentator team in the universe Phil Liggett on the rise of the team-centered strategy from the ashes of purely individual contests in the high passes in the old Fausto Coppi days: "The strong men just got together in the mountains and knocked the crap out of each other. Nobody was helping them." Great, so can we finally lay off Contador for not domestiquing Klodi back up to him now?
What the !@#$? Prize: sure, it ain't easy winning the Giro, and goodness knows it's distracting to constantly be hauled off to testify to the doping investigators, particularly when you're about to try to win the most famous race in cycling, but am I the only wondering if there was perhaps something else--like oh, I don't know, a radical, um, nutrition-related redesign in the scandal-plagued Rabobank's race preparations--going on with Denis Menchov? If it's anything more than just really, really needing a nice long nap, buddy, give Roberto Heras back his Vuelta !@#dammit!
Young Rider: all right, Tony Martin was spectacular. And the boy I'm choosing didn't even take a stage--though barely. But I was gaping like a bass on a hook when jailbait Irishman Nicholas Roche was stomping on riders with buckets more experience. Anyone else think we're gonna see a lot more of this kid in the coming years?
Gross Hypocrisy o' the Tour: my, Lance Armstrong really *is* a winner. Stage 3: Armstrong takes advantage of crosswind, ditches Contador, credits self. Stage 7: Contador takes advantage of opportunity on Arcalis, ditches teammates, roundly !@#$%$-slapped by Armstrong for betrayal. And don't even get me started on Armstrong suggesting team leader Contador should've domestiqued for Klodi. Look in the mirror much?
Fan Overboard Award: we wreck their line in the mountains shoving flags in their faces, push 'em on the !@# til we have to be punched away, run alongside them screaming in highly disconcerting neon-green mankinis, and knock them over with sword-sharp advertising-giveaway-whatsits, but *shooting* at them? Aside from being criminal, psycho, and murderous, that just ain't right. What the hell is next, aiming water cannons at the peloton when they're three inches away from a precipice and blasting 'em off the Alps? Don't even think about it, you freaks....
Magical Mystery Tour Award: last but not least, let's look back on the most astonishing fact of an astonishing Tour--three whole weeks, faithful reader(s), and not a single--single!--doping poz announced yet. Luck? Simply careful double-checking by the oft- (and rightly-) maligned lab chimps? Or could we actually have the clean and sparkly peloton we've all been, so idealistically and fruitlessly, dreaming of at last? Somehow, I'm guessing the answer's a grim one. But please, in the name of similarly pure and precious fantasies like unicorns and the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, someone prove my disillusioned heart wrong this time!
Well folks, that's about it for this year, tho' I'm sure that in the likely event that I've (1) missed someone and (2) !@#$ed this up, you'll let me know. 'Til then, cue the schmaltzy music while we bust out the big rhinestore tiara and bouquet of roses for the winners' walk down the runway, and let these boys enjoy their reign!
And, after a plunge into the Holy ONCE-Eroski Cap o' Thrills 'n' Chills, we've got ourselves the final Win Free Stuff! Contest winner, and it's: Tusher! Tusher, check your e-mail so I can get your prize to you! And our Two Week Rider Insult Moratorium is on: TBA. Thanks to all for participating, and if you like, we'll do it again next year!
Like Britney Spears Flashing Her Crotch at the Paparazzi, But Less Classy Award: yep, this one's for Lance's petty crybaby podium antics, notably reaching over to shake 2nd place finisher Andy Schleck's hand heartily while virtually ignoring Contador, rudely not even glancing at his own 3d place trophy proudly given to him by the race organizers and pissily ogling Alberto's instead, and, icing on the cake, blasting by the neatly single-filing riders on his squad at the best-team presentation so he wouldn't have to stand next to the guy who'd beaten him and he could nestle in among his own happy servants instead. Let's be honest--if one of Lance's teammates had pulled that disrespectful crap on *him* during one of *his* Tour de France wins, he'd have gone Al Capone on him with a baseball bat *plus* had his broken carcass posthumously fired on the spot. Punk whiny sore-loser move, Mr. Armstrong!
Miracle on Ice Award: okay, I thought Denis Menchov maybe doped to improve his *performance*, but did anyone realize he needed to be on the juice just to maintain his *balance*? Never since Michael Rasmussen's ignominious podium-tanking final Tour de France time trial a few years back has a rider crashed so often with so little reason. Lots of guys were still tired from the Giro, Denis--what the heck was going on?
The French Revolution Prize: okay, when it comes to GC hopes--and half the time when it even comes to stage wins--the French have pretty well sucked in their own Grand Tour since Hinault. Until this year. Yes, time for us coarse arrogant McDonald's-suckin' bull-ridin' cultureless barbarian Americans to acknowledge the truth: from Fedrigo to Voeckler to Brice Feillu, not to mention the usual suspects pounding away in the breakaways, the French riders kicked !@# this year. Felicitations, boys!
Sissy-Boy-Slap-Fight-o'-the-Tour: so between we-still-love-so-I'm-sure-this-was- just a hallucinogen-induced-deviation Thor Hushovd cussing out Ciolek and Cav on the sprints, Cav whining about Thor, Bruyneel crying about Contador, and patient little Sastre finally completely losing it and slammin', well, everybody, this one was a killer. In the end, though, it goes to--and it wounds me deeply to say this--big George Hincapie, excoriating a wholly innocent team for protecting their own sprint and GC prospects which is, after all, quite their job. I'm sorry you didn't get yellow too, George--might've taken that one up with your own squad Discovery for oh, seven years straight!
Tuff Enuff Prize: on a sunnier note, this one, too, is for Hincapie: he rode the end of the race with a broken collarbone. What a bas-!@#--truly, even in a sport where you're expected to ride through incredible pain, kudos to you, George!
Celebrity Butt-Kiss of the Race: again, another embarrassment of riches, as a host of irrelevant Hollywood heavyweights, assorted quasi-royal dignitaries, and damn near every media outlet on earth sought to outdo each other with paeans to, and even momentary association with, the One. But only one name stands supreme: yes, former teammate Bob Roll, whose almost pornographic daily lovefests on Vs. could make a hard-core career gigolo blush. You're great fun to watch and listen to, Bob--but TMI man!
Crash o' the Tour (Cringe-Inducing): all right, no-one pitched off the side of the mountain this year, but gnurk! Jens' spectacular--and bone-shattering--face-plant on a none-too-smooth descent. Get well soon Jens--and come back and attack the crap out of the peloton again next year!
Crash o' the Tour (Tactical Significance): anyone else wonder what would've happened with GC if only he'd been around in the mountains to pick up where Popo left off? Yep, this one's for Levi Leipheimer--an ordinary crash with likely race-altering consequences. Okay, I'm still irked you piled on Contador over the Klodi debacle--but fair is fair, you earned this Levi!
Domestique o' the Race: yeah, no-one mentioned his name, not once in three long, long weeks of constant coverage--but if you review the tapes, you'll see him there, faithfully setting the pace, blocking the wind, and working his butt off in a humble obscurity completely at odds with his Classics-winning godliness--yes, it's indomitable Aussie tough-guy Stuart O'Grady. Okay, I know your big bro' Frank was invaluable Andy--but buy that man a drink post-haste!
B-B-Bad to the Bone Award: last year, he landed on some spindly socialist protester like a ton of bricks. This year, when someone dared to try to pass themselves off on the podium as a stage winner, he put on the hurt again. Bernard Hinault--if you ever get tired of being a cycling legend, you can always get a gig as the most-feared bouncer at a dive biker bar!
Sweet Spot o' the Race: lest you think I'm a total cynic, this one goes to Thor's leadout man Heinrich Haussler for choking up as he took his finely-played stage win. Didn't you want to about burst into tears, too? I know I did!
Ivan Basso Can Suck It Award: yes, as our comely long-lashed reformed miscreant readies himself for the Vuelta, the Adonis of the Euromullet, Ivan's equally-supermodelesque Giro "co-captain" Franco Pellizotti was, while sadly ditching his GC hopes, relentless and brave in his successful pursuit of the King of the Mountains. He got Most Aggressive Rider too! And boy, does he look pretty in polka dots...
Unsung Quote o' the Tour: from a smashing article in the Wall Street Journal of all places, this gem from 1/2 of the best cycling-commentator team in the universe Phil Liggett on the rise of the team-centered strategy from the ashes of purely individual contests in the high passes in the old Fausto Coppi days: "The strong men just got together in the mountains and knocked the crap out of each other. Nobody was helping them." Great, so can we finally lay off Contador for not domestiquing Klodi back up to him now?
What the !@#$? Prize: sure, it ain't easy winning the Giro, and goodness knows it's distracting to constantly be hauled off to testify to the doping investigators, particularly when you're about to try to win the most famous race in cycling, but am I the only wondering if there was perhaps something else--like oh, I don't know, a radical, um, nutrition-related redesign in the scandal-plagued Rabobank's race preparations--going on with Denis Menchov? If it's anything more than just really, really needing a nice long nap, buddy, give Roberto Heras back his Vuelta !@#dammit!
Young Rider: all right, Tony Martin was spectacular. And the boy I'm choosing didn't even take a stage--though barely. But I was gaping like a bass on a hook when jailbait Irishman Nicholas Roche was stomping on riders with buckets more experience. Anyone else think we're gonna see a lot more of this kid in the coming years?
Gross Hypocrisy o' the Tour: my, Lance Armstrong really *is* a winner. Stage 3: Armstrong takes advantage of crosswind, ditches Contador, credits self. Stage 7: Contador takes advantage of opportunity on Arcalis, ditches teammates, roundly !@#$%$-slapped by Armstrong for betrayal. And don't even get me started on Armstrong suggesting team leader Contador should've domestiqued for Klodi. Look in the mirror much?
Fan Overboard Award: we wreck their line in the mountains shoving flags in their faces, push 'em on the !@# til we have to be punched away, run alongside them screaming in highly disconcerting neon-green mankinis, and knock them over with sword-sharp advertising-giveaway-whatsits, but *shooting* at them? Aside from being criminal, psycho, and murderous, that just ain't right. What the hell is next, aiming water cannons at the peloton when they're three inches away from a precipice and blasting 'em off the Alps? Don't even think about it, you freaks....
Magical Mystery Tour Award: last but not least, let's look back on the most astonishing fact of an astonishing Tour--three whole weeks, faithful reader(s), and not a single--single!--doping poz announced yet. Luck? Simply careful double-checking by the oft- (and rightly-) maligned lab chimps? Or could we actually have the clean and sparkly peloton we've all been, so idealistically and fruitlessly, dreaming of at last? Somehow, I'm guessing the answer's a grim one. But please, in the name of similarly pure and precious fantasies like unicorns and the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, someone prove my disillusioned heart wrong this time!
Well folks, that's about it for this year, tho' I'm sure that in the likely event that I've (1) missed someone and (2) !@#$ed this up, you'll let me know. 'Til then, cue the schmaltzy music while we bust out the big rhinestore tiara and bouquet of roses for the winners' walk down the runway, and let these boys enjoy their reign!
And, after a plunge into the Holy ONCE-Eroski Cap o' Thrills 'n' Chills, we've got ourselves the final Win Free Stuff! Contest winner, and it's: Tusher! Tusher, check your e-mail so I can get your prize to you! And our Two Week Rider Insult Moratorium is on: TBA. Thanks to all for participating, and if you like, we'll do it again next year!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
No Thanks For Winning Us The Tour de France, !@#hole!
Can Someone Please Put the Lid on Astana, Already?: Let's get straight to it: I have never seen a team be so seventh-grade-alpha-girl-bitchy, so bitter, so angry and so publicly nasty over the hideous fact that someone on their team just won the Tour de France. Wah, wah, wah! Look Johan and Lance--quit !@#$in' crying about it. When Contador saw (waaaaaaaay too late, but then we've all pretty well conceded the kid's yet no rocket scientist) that his team boss and The Second Coming were gonna jack the best stage racer on the planet out of the unqualified team leadership he (1) deserved and (2) that any other team anytime anywhere ever would have rightly and unquestioningly given him, he asked to be let out of his contract. Eat this, Lance--*your* Bruyneel, the one who guided you to seven Tour de France wins, the one who hired the best riders in the peloton to solely serve your needs, the guy who was right there with you every step of the way while you proclaimed in all confidence that you would win the Tour again this year, said no. You expected Alberto to roll over like a dog for you like every other rider you've ever worked with anyway--well, too bad, he didn't. The kid is not to blame for it. Arrogant? Yes. Irritating? Punk-!@#? Yep. A few pieces short of a completed puzzle? Sure. A likely drug-stuffed skankball? Well, he was implicated in some weenie little Op Puerto thing that nearly brought down the sport, but he's probably no dirtier than any other recent starlet. Suck it up. Even if he had worked for you as selflessly and nobly as Levi, Tyler, Floyd, George, Popo and everyone else ever did, he is still flat-out matchless, even by you at the moment, in the mountains and (and I still believe there's a creepy, Herasesque quality about this) even a bit faster in the time trial. And while you, Johan, and certain other riders were publicly backstabbing and demeaning him as recently as yesterday--snorting about his disruptive presence on the team, dismissing him with an "I'm gonna ride my race, he's gonna ride his"--Contador has kept his mouth comparatively shut 'til now about the fact that he's been treated like total crap and let, unlike some folks, his legs do the talking.
Enough. We all know what you've accomplished and even those who can't stand you at least respect you for it. When Contador tests poz for dope, you'll be vindicated, and go into full-on crowing nyeah-nyeah mode about how pure you are and what a little lying scumbag he is. Until then, you'll never have to ride with anyone who won't drop to the pavement for you in obeisance again. And likely, to be fair, neither will Contador. You'll have an even playing field, even if, beyond all reason, you feel you didn't have one this time. So next year--keep this vicious backbiting gossip crap out of the press so other riders who deserve accolades and respect can actually get the ten seconds of press time they themselves so richly deserve, and throw down the gauntlet on the road instead!
Enough. We all know what you've accomplished and even those who can't stand you at least respect you for it. When Contador tests poz for dope, you'll be vindicated, and go into full-on crowing nyeah-nyeah mode about how pure you are and what a little lying scumbag he is. Until then, you'll never have to ride with anyone who won't drop to the pavement for you in obeisance again. And likely, to be fair, neither will Contador. You'll have an even playing field, even if, beyond all reason, you feel you didn't have one this time. So next year--keep this vicious backbiting gossip crap out of the press so other riders who deserve accolades and respect can actually get the ten seconds of press time they themselves so richly deserve, and throw down the gauntlet on the road instead!
Friday, July 24, 2009
Bow Down Before the One You Serve/
You're (Not) Going to Get What You Deserve: fine, Team Radioshack is on for next year, and while the best stage racer in the world right now (sorry, but that's *Contador*, Lance fans, at least til he !@#$s up and comes up positive) is gonna get to go somewhere else where he won't be berated for not being someone else's miserable self-abnegating dog-obedient waterboy, Lance gets to build yet again a squad of totally subservient superdomestiques who, despite being able to win Grand Tours in their own right, will never question his absolute lordly authority, and try to win next year’s Tour that way. And fine, it's good for raising cycling awareness in the U.S., a nation better known for making enormous steroid-stuffed force-fed no-neck freaks crush each other to death in front of tens of thousands of freezing nacho-suckin' face-painting beer-swillers in pursuit of a little brown ball. But am I the only one thinking that if we have to deal with this nonstop fawning unquestioning media-sluttin' rump-kissing again next year, we're gonna end up bashing our flat-screens and computers to pieces with a bike pump just to stop the TV and internet madness before those nauseating three weeks are up?
Oh, Shut *Up* Already!: meantime, Lance, Levi, and Bruyneel are *still* piling on Contador for cruelly and intentionally attacking Andreas Kloden on the other day’s climb and jacking him out of a podium place, and while I love Klodi and generally will defend him under any circumstance, on this one, I call bull!@#$! First, coming from Lance, who's never done a favor for any teammate in his entire life and who never worried about any of his teammates' 'podium spots' because he'd have smacked them senseless in the post-race team meeting like a thug for even thinking of such traitorous heresy, that’s freakin' *rich*. Second, that’s not how I saw the stage play out. The Schlecks attacked, so all Contador had to do was stay on their wheels to keep a time gap from building up--fair enough, Johan. But Alberto thought--and that's a mistake right there--he’d try to drop ‘em with one of his super-accelerations, and also thought--again, a bad idea--Klodi had the legs to stay with him. He was wrong, and he was clearly looking back repeatedly in bewilderment when he saw he’d dropped Kloden. I mean, let's face it, tactically the kid's no Paolo Bettini (oh! I still miss him!). Come to think of it, the boy ain't even Wile E. Coyote facing off against Roadrunner, and we all know how *that* turned out every week. But malice aforethought? I didn't see that. Stupid you can maybe fix with experience, Lance--but being a wanker, that's forever!
In An MmmmBop He's Gone/In An MmmmBop He's Not There: fine, Cav took it today, and he'll probably take it again on the Champs-Elysees, and he'll probably take every single other sprint for the next 5 years until his head actually clinically explodes from ego overdrive and some new little upstart starts makin' him cry like a dope-deprived Di Luca. But who is the only sprinter to beat him this Tour, and who stands a pretty good chance of popping on the green jersey in Paris even without the stellar gift of Cavendish's earlier relegation? That's right, it's Thor Hushovd, baby--learn to climb or keep on whining!
And hey--remember, there's still time to enter my contest, and Win Free Stuff Part Trois!
Oh, Shut *Up* Already!: meantime, Lance, Levi, and Bruyneel are *still* piling on Contador for cruelly and intentionally attacking Andreas Kloden on the other day’s climb and jacking him out of a podium place, and while I love Klodi and generally will defend him under any circumstance, on this one, I call bull!@#$! First, coming from Lance, who's never done a favor for any teammate in his entire life and who never worried about any of his teammates' 'podium spots' because he'd have smacked them senseless in the post-race team meeting like a thug for even thinking of such traitorous heresy, that’s freakin' *rich*. Second, that’s not how I saw the stage play out. The Schlecks attacked, so all Contador had to do was stay on their wheels to keep a time gap from building up--fair enough, Johan. But Alberto thought--and that's a mistake right there--he’d try to drop ‘em with one of his super-accelerations, and also thought--again, a bad idea--Klodi had the legs to stay with him. He was wrong, and he was clearly looking back repeatedly in bewilderment when he saw he’d dropped Kloden. I mean, let's face it, tactically the kid's no Paolo Bettini (oh! I still miss him!). Come to think of it, the boy ain't even Wile E. Coyote facing off against Roadrunner, and we all know how *that* turned out every week. But malice aforethought? I didn't see that. Stupid you can maybe fix with experience, Lance--but being a wanker, that's forever!
In An MmmmBop He's Gone/In An MmmmBop He's Not There: fine, Cav took it today, and he'll probably take it again on the Champs-Elysees, and he'll probably take every single other sprint for the next 5 years until his head actually clinically explodes from ego overdrive and some new little upstart starts makin' him cry like a dope-deprived Di Luca. But who is the only sprinter to beat him this Tour, and who stands a pretty good chance of popping on the green jersey in Paris even without the stellar gift of Cavendish's earlier relegation? That's right, it's Thor Hushovd, baby--learn to climb or keep on whining!
And hey--remember, there's still time to enter my contest, and Win Free Stuff Part Trois!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Bromance Is Officially Over, Baby!--and, Win Free Stuff Part Trois!
Of Course, It Was a Sick !@#$ing Train Wreck to Begin With: yes, to the surprise of none, Johan Bruyneel has announced that, given those whiny Kazakhs' ridiculous insistence that they get to have a say in who's hired for a squad they're entirely paying for, particularly their nonnegotiable "take it or leave it" with regard to their psycho doper supremo Alexander Vinokorouv, he's gonna leave Astana at the end of the season to put together a incredibly irritating media-whore of a team with Lance Armstrong. Right, 'cause the same egregious hypocrite who jumped like an amphetamine-stuffed monkey to hire Ivan Basso the second he was implicated in a huge blood-doping scandal's obviously got the moral high ground when it comes to calling another druggie on the carpet! Alberto Contador, meanwhile, was clearly surprised by the news, not least because it was delivered to him by the already-up-to-date press corps. Way to show respect to your team leader, Johan and Lance you wanks--mightn't you have allowed the boy to retain more of his dignity if you'd simply, say, sucker-punched him smack in the manly bits for the cameras instead?
The Great Escape: Speaking of Astana (what's left of it anyway), I see the authorities searched the Astana team car for 3 hours and reportedly found--"nothing." Probably because it was all back at the hotel. Ba-dum-bum!
Eat It, Fedrigo!: Yes, the mountain kings at Euskaltel-Euskadi, already in every breakaway this Tour, have scored one at last:
Woo-hoo Mikel Astarloza, aupa the fabulous Euskaltel!
I Love That Dirty Water: in non-Tour news, 2008 Tour cheat-scum Bernhard Kohl's ex-manager has now accused Kohl of giving Dynepo and other doping products to other boys at Gerolsteiner in 2007 and 2008, and he knows this because, of course, "he got it from me." Well, Kohl's retired, and no other rider is going to hire this degenerate loud-mouthed weasel to work for him--anyone else smell a lucrative book deal before the gravy train is gone for good? Bernie's attorney, meantime, rushed to say the boy only *referred* another Gerolsteiner rider to the manager for drugs--and gee, does that clarification make Kohl look a lot better--but seems to be a bit hamstrung by the fact that his client did, in fact, admit such nefarious deeds in an interview. Refer, procure, what's the dif--must we focus on such unpleasant trivialities?
Get Well Jens!: finally, as the news after eager-beaver-attacker-of-the-gods Jens Voigt's monstrous crashmercifully starts to look up, let's remind ourselves of just a tiny fraction, on happier days, of what makes us love him so much in the first place:
The Great Escape: Speaking of Astana (what's left of it anyway), I see the authorities searched the Astana team car for 3 hours and reportedly found--"nothing." Probably because it was all back at the hotel. Ba-dum-bum!
Eat It, Fedrigo!: Yes, the mountain kings at Euskaltel-Euskadi, already in every breakaway this Tour, have scored one at last:
Woo-hoo Mikel Astarloza, aupa the fabulous Euskaltel!I Love That Dirty Water: in non-Tour news, 2008 Tour cheat-scum Bernhard Kohl's ex-manager has now accused Kohl of giving Dynepo and other doping products to other boys at Gerolsteiner in 2007 and 2008, and he knows this because, of course, "he got it from me." Well, Kohl's retired, and no other rider is going to hire this degenerate loud-mouthed weasel to work for him--anyone else smell a lucrative book deal before the gravy train is gone for good? Bernie's attorney, meantime, rushed to say the boy only *referred* another Gerolsteiner rider to the manager for drugs--and gee, does that clarification make Kohl look a lot better--but seems to be a bit hamstrung by the fact that his client did, in fact, admit such nefarious deeds in an interview. Refer, procure, what's the dif--must we focus on such unpleasant trivialities?
Get Well Jens!: finally, as the news after eager-beaver-attacker-of-the-gods Jens Voigt's monstrous crashmercifully starts to look up, let's remind ourselves of just a tiny fraction, on happier days, of what makes us love him so much in the first place:
Monday, July 20, 2009
We've Got Ourselves A Contest Winner--and, Play to Win Free Stuff Part Trois, Baby!
Yes folks, after randomly selecting from amongst the winning entries from the Holy ONCE-Eroski Cap o' Doom 'n' Destiny, the winner for week two's contest is: SmT! Thanks SmT (do I pronounce that "smut"?)! And our two, count 'em two, week rider insult moratorium goes to: Cadel Evans!
All right kids, we're down to the home stretch. It's time for the final week, so enter to Win Free Stuff Part Trois!
All right kids, we're down to the home stretch. It's time for the final week, so enter to Win Free Stuff Part Trois!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
