One Is the Loneliest Number

If You're Ivan Basso, Anyway: my, I know St. Ivan of Varese has well and humbly reformed and all, but from his little chat with cyclingnews waxing rhapsodic about how honored and delighted he is to be officially "co-captaining", as was previously rumored, with Franco Pellizotti at the Giro for Liquigas, and how wonderful and deserving Pellizotti is, and how sure he's had experience sharing with others as shown with Carlos Sastre at CSC (tho' as I recall Basso was actually the *leader* at the '06 Giro, but what's historical accuracy worth anyhow?), you'd think the boy had barely ever competed as a waterboy in the Giro, much less personally won the thing. Okay, one might detect the slightest hint of resistance to his apparent fate when he alludes to figuring out the real team leader on the road, but I am the only one wondering if team management's hedging their bets for fear their gilded angel ain't gonna be quite the rider he was before he didn't dope in 2006, and is having perhaps the wee-est bit of (incredibly expensive) buyer's remorse? You say you're back to training?--you've still got the Giro di Trentino to win a race and prove my suspicions dead wrong, Ivan!

Eat It, Damiano!: as Cunego takes off for a couple of weeks of high-altitude training in prep for a fruitless run at a second Giro win, new BFF we love Gilberto Simoni is already taking a stage over such formidable mountainmeisters as Floyd Landis and Tyler Hamilton and sitting on the overall at the Vuelta a Mexico, and though there's no denying that Classics Boy's got prettier pictures of himself on his website, the Simoni tifosi are going absolutely wingnut for their "old man"'s form ahead of May. Forza Gibo, and put that punk-!@# Cunego in his place (suckin' down the dust from your wheel) in the Dolomites!

You Can't Make This Stuff Up: and, I see the latest person to proclaim "justice served" in LPR being denied a spot in Milano-Sanremo and dirty pigs Di Luca and Petacchi being thus excluded is resurgent sprint king Tom "Sniffy" Boonen, on the grounds that if they won't commit to antidoping efforts so strongly as he has, they deserve whatever they get. Now, having defended our strapping boy's, say, more powdery escapades in the recent past, I won't be so unkind as to point out the obvious (and to be quite fair, at least "the obvious" wasn't intended for performance enhancement), but I *will* note that Patrick "30 YEARS OF DOPING" Lefevere's Quick Step, which as you might recall dear Tommeke is on, was one of the very last teams (along with CSC) to sign that stupid antidoping virginity pledge ahead of the Tour. What's next, Bjarne "Guess How I Won My Tour de France?" Riis going off on how committed to the cause he is? Oh, wait...

Happy Birthday, Barbie!: finally, a toast to girlhood icon Barbie's 50th birthday, and if you're wondering what the hell this has to do with cycling, it's because I hereby call upon Mattel to forthwith issue a commemorative Marianne Vos I'll Crush You Like the Worthless Weaklings You Are Barbie, a Marta Bastianelli Body Image Issues Barbie, and, of course, a Tom Boonen Jailbait Girlfriend Barbie complete with fake ID and Hello Kitty backpack. Toss in a Faux-Repentant Busted GC Contender Ken with special IV attachment, and a Hypocrite Enabler Directeur Sportif with cash-stuffed briefcase, and we've got ourselves a ProTour squad!

The Thorminator

It's the Classics, Baby!: yes cycling fans, it's finally time for two-odd months of bone-rattling, bike-destroying, mostly freezing sodden cobblestoned misery, and I for one can't be happier about it, not least because I don't have to personally microfracture every part of my own body jerking over the things and mostly because we love the indomitable ever-dissed Thor Hushovd continues his own and badass new squad Cervelo's assault on the season by taking Omloop Het They-Should've-Kept-It-Volk-I-Can't-Spell-Niewsblad and Tom Boonen, after a rather depressing start to the year being relentlessly smacked around by Mark Cavendish (but points out the boy has actual human weaknesses and can be beaten at the Tour, namely by tiring the big lumbering beast out too much over a long stage to take the sprint), took Kuurne-Brussels-Kuurne with time to spare. And I know these races aren't typically an American's game--but just *one* for George Hincapie, please, before he says goodbye!

Two, Four, Six, Eight, Who Should We Eliminate?: and, I see the perpetual cheat-skank enablers (Rasmussen, anyone?) over at UCI are feeling upstaged by the Italians actually bothering to take action against some of the (alleged!) weasels UCI's happily allowed to ride the Tour the last few years, as they assuage their wholly justified feelings of impotence and irrelevance by announcing that, sometime soon, they're sure to name a few boys in biiiiiiiig trouble over nebulous readings on their biological passports. Um, not to rain on the parade here, but given that you were so slow to implement the thing that the boys had plenty of time to manipulate their blood values before you even established their baselines, who's to say you'll catch anyone but the merely slow'n'stupid? Not that that's a bad thing--I'm just sayin'. Well, I'll take bets on who's going down first--but since we're dealing with UCI here it damn well ain't gonna be someone they've been coddling to date!

Schum' and Gloom: speaking of (alleged!) drug-snorters, as Valverde gets set to beg the Italians later this week not to assume some silly DNA match is any more accurate than a random guess by a roomful o' drunken monkeys, Stefan "I Heart Amphetamines" Schumacher continues to vociferously protest his doping ban, claiming not only the usual round of technical screwups by the shameless unteachable lab chimps, but, even more offensive to the powers that be, his genuine innocence. Heck, if it's true, that oughta win the day--worked for Landis, right?

Giro d'I Really Hope Armstrong Doesn't Win This: meantime, the Italians are throwing down the gauntlet already, with up-and-coming Bennati and slowly-cheering-up Petacchi trading sprints at Sardegna, Rebellin so far looking stronger than Cunego ahead of both their Classics campaigns and the Giro (and given that the Little Prince is supposed to be the GC contender and Rebellin merely Gibo's domestique at the big show, not to mention that his Grand Tour performances since his toddlerhood Giro win have taken on a certain, well, Valverdian quality, Damiano better be planning this right), Basso finding time between Twitters about fun with the kids to rest his knee and inevitably reclaim his rightful place as Giro champ over such discredited foils as Danilo DiLuca, and Spaniard Carlos Sastre stepping in and making it clear that while his first aim is defending his Tour, he's not showing up in Italy just to gorge himself on great food and wine (a tough choice, but who I am to criticize?). Forza Sastre, but I'm still hoping Simoni takes everyone out in the mountains!

Leviathan: finally, a heartfelt get-well-soon to Armstrong Tour domestique (keep dreamin' Alberto!)/Tour o' California champ Levi Leipheimer, whose mild surprise he still felt a bit sore after his little wheel clip with Armstrong turned out to be a broken sacrum, which, despite not preventing him from slaughtering a formidable field in the time trial and overall, is, unfortunately, forcing him off the bike for a whole six seconds or so before he, like all you Tyler Hamiltonesque cult-of-pain bike freaks, returns to whomp on his competitors from traction in a specially pimped hospital bed complete with aero bars and ultralight bottle cage. Come back pronto, Levi!

!@#dammit, *no-one* thinks poor Frank Schleck is innocent?

To Have and Have Not

Bonjour, Scum: so some master thieves have stricken, of all people, poor we love Dave Zabriskie, and what did they take? Damn near everything, it seems, as our boy Twitters a plea for their return, including a couple cars, his Olympic ring and time trial bike, all his fine team steeds, and, perhaps worst of all, his collection of giant Marvel comic book character statuettes. You want to steal from some arrogant wank like Lance or some bitter nasty crankypants like Robbie McEwen? Fine, still deeply uncool, but arguably less objectionable in the broader karmic scheme of things. But Dave Zabriskie? What's next, you pervs, stealing Milkbones from puppy dogs and carrot sticks from bunny rabbits? Okay, you purloined a bunch of priceless Olympic and other carbon-fiber memories off an incredibly dedicated, hardworking athlete--pity party for you, dirtbag, aside from the total abomination of ripping off a bike freak's perfectly-calibrated rides, you're just a pathetic wannabe who'll still never come close to touching the glory that actually earned 'em. But taking the boy's action figures? That's just cold. Show some dignity, you soulless carrion-sucking hyenas, and give Dave Z his stuff back!

Aw, Mom, Do I *Have* To?: Having heroically managed to avoid for a good 3 years holding any Spanish cyclist of consequence responsible for any dangerous liaisons with Dr. Eufemiano "Gyno to the Male Stars" Fuentes, the Spanish cycling authorities have apparently been dragged kicking and screaming into the whole sordid mess at last, sullenly conceding they oughta ask for some of that pesky Operacion Puerto stuff on the extremely unlikely chance, of course, any of their kids have done anything remotely wrong. Y'know, not to question the wisdom of wanting to look all Dirty Harry for coming down on a few unemployed no-names from the long-dead Comunidad Valenciana or nuthin', instead of continuing to allow the Italians to paint you as a pack of sell-out cowardly doper-apologists, but are you guys *sure* you're not going to accidentally take out anyone from, say, Manolo Saiz' old stable you might prefer stay in the peloton? Just checkin'!

Road to the Giro, and Tour: meantime, while Basso's knee luckily recovers nicely from his little handlebar thwap in California, and as Alberto Contador pounds the competition in the Volta ao Algarve and sweetly continues to delude himself he'll be granted unquestioned team leadership in July, Lance has announced he's looking forward to hitting "the podium" at the Giro, making one wonder, is he just psyching out Basso, Di Luca, Cunego and co. by appearing uncertain of his impending form, or did he just confirm that the Giro can screw and he's dead-set on owning the maillot jaune on the last day of the Tour? Don't stop believing, though, Alberto--he still might let you wear it a day or two in the mountains, or even give you one with his autograph!

Leip of Faith

Thor of California: so even with the great Dave Zabriskie on his tail, Leipheimer's just unbeatable, but for my money the most bitchin' aspect of the race this year has actually been the sprints, and while it's nice Cav's snagged his stages and all, it's big lug we love Thor Hushovd's win with his spankin' new, untested, and unexpectedly smashing lead-out train that's the revelation of the ToC. Be honest--did any of you expect an entire squad o' new mates over at Cervelo to gel this quickly? Woo-hoo Thor! On a sadder note, I *know* he's gotten all Ward Cleaver responsible and serious of late, and that's a good thing for any wayward reckless Tour-banned babe-snackin' party-boy-o'-the-past to be. But WTF is going on with Tom Boonen this week--am I the only one thinking he just had that extra little motivating joie de vivre heading up to the finish line when he was indulging in the midnight happy dust? Oh sure, like it's worse than what 90% of the peloton is doing--anyone know of a good party tonight to get our boy back on form? Oh, and Rosemary--I'm jealous!

Ivana Go Home: meantime, it's been a miserable race for half the guys using sunny California as a training ground, with Freire and Kirchen already jacked for the season, buckets of Americans out hosed with injuries, don't even get me started on poor Landis, and, worst of all, Ivan Basso gone after he smashed his kneecap on his handlebars when his chain blew apart scouting the time trial course. Still, to the delight of his endless tifosi, he's confident it won't affect his Giro, so it still oughta be between him and Armstrong in May, that is if Lance isn't really hell-bent on crushing Alberto Contador like a malaria-plagued mosquito in July instead. Keep dreamin' Alberto, it can't hurt you're training so hard anyway since Johan's gonna make you domestique for you-know-who!

Cuz You're Filthy/Ooooo And I'm Gorgeous: and, as the breathless day-by-day countdown to the 100th Giro continues, the Italian GC contenders have pleasingly let loose on each other already, with Di Luca dismissing Cunego as a has-been-never-was Grand Tour wannabe, Cunego implying Basso's a lying obfuscating drug-sucking weasel, Basso protesting his blood values are clean as a whistle, and peerless snipemeister Simoni, wonder of wonders, content so far to merely watch the lot of his countrymen eat their young. Now, I appreciate a pack of sissified oral slapfights as much as any other low-class muckracker, but really, why not cut to the chase--we'll stick you all in a coliseum full of half-starved lions armed with maybe some bike pumps and a couple of brake cables, and see which of you *really* has the endurance and tactical savvy to survive a sustained attack. Hey, easier than that loooong Giro time trial'll be for some of you, right?

Dia de los Muertos: okay, one muerto anyway, as the triumphant Italian narcs announce that they've definitively linked Alejandro "I Can't Believe I Got Away With It For This Long" Valverde's DNA to blood bag no. 18, "Valv. Piti" in Dr. Fuentes' ample stash (huge points to cyclingnews.com for discreetly, and hilariously, noting that Valverde continues to deny any link to the blood "notwithstanding the clear similarities to his surname plus the fact that he has a dog named Piti."), and the Roman authorities, not to be outdone, begin a criminal investigation. Anyone else remember Ivan "Birillo Is Not My Dog" Basso's attorney defending his client on the grounds that he'd personally observed Ivan's toddler daughter calling the family pup by a different name entirely? Anywho, as to the indignant howls of the ruthless Spanish protectionists, I mean crack wholly objective prosecutors, that the Italians have no right to go after their innocent icon? Well, as the Italians pointed out, if they don't like it, there are a good 80 other local sporting heroes to go after, and so far as I can tell, with the Italians naturally invested in not having the also-implicated Giro winner/all-around-angel Alberto Contador besmirch their own Grand Tour, the Spaniards oughta count themselves damn lucky they ain't going after their beloved baby Indurain as well. Cut your losses while you're ahead, boys--don't worry, even with being so busy kissing Armstrong's rump, Johan's not gonna let his newest cash cow go down without a fight!

California Dreamin'

Love 'Em and Levi'm: okay, Cancellara's an utterly inhuman Bionicle on wheels capable of blasting pavement into high-velocity shrapnel with even one sleepy flex of his C-4 leg muscles, particularly when he was apparently already sick before the start of the prologue, but watching Levi's "Die, poseurs, die!" game face at the start gate, Dave Zabriskie's silky-mooth performance after a couple of really unfortunate seasons, and of course we love Thor "Eat My Green Jersey, Freire!" Hushovd's sturdy ride in his new Cervelo kit (right on, ben, I agree!)--best of all, Phil and Paul's dulcet return after months of sadistic off-season deprivation--I was happy. My question: even giving former Olympic time trial champion Tyler the benefit of the doubt due to distractions and caretaking on the home front, and Basso's declaration his legs felt good at the prologue and his Giro training's going perfectly to plan, is anyone a bit, well, perplexed at their times therein, particularly given the latter's sudden freakish Schumacheresque velocity in the discipline before his little never-doped episode a couple years back? Naw, me neither!

Ouch is Right: and, I hope it was some comfort to Floyd Landis after two straight crap days in a row that new Astana DS Ekimov (I miss Eki!) had pegged him as Levi's biggest threat, tho' I'm still hoping for a stage win. Ivan had a good day, though, didn't he? And, I must say, much as I loathe Rock Racing's philosophy, flashiness, and overall desperate slutty pursuit of constant press coverage (not to mention completely destroying the season and job prospects of buckets of less-recognizable riders and staff) I was almost jumping off my chair with excitement when dope-linked degenerate Francisco Mancebo beat back Nibali after a quite brave ride and almost certain last-minute defeat. After all, he's the least of the peloton's problems at this point, and the squad barely squeaked by with enough dough for a race license--who among them could afford any hijinks even if they were so nastily inclined? Anyway, points to Armstrong for doing his job today, and allez allez Levi!

The Great Escape: and, as the cops begin to conclude that the punk-ass theft of Lance's priceless time trial ride was likely the work of garden-variety morons, not sticky-fingered cycling fanatics desperate to hoard an iconic ride in their stable for the ogling delectation of a few discreet fellow roadies, one can't help but imagine: how exactly *is* the rocket scientist who probably bought the thing for $50 out the trunk of an ancient Chevy Nova so its proud new owners could go get stoked to the gills supposed to return it, exactly, without ending up in prison for their good deed instead of snagging the reward Armstrong has promised? Roll it up the start line in a borrowed pair of bike shorts and some Reeboks and hope to blend in with the peloton long enough to surreptitiously lean it up against a barrier? Apologize, and say they merely mistook it for their own Huffy in the dark as the crowd dispersed? Flee the country and seek asylum in Armstrong-hatin' France? Good luck with that (though the last one might work), o Prince of Thieves!

Pirates of the Mediterranean: finally, it's been a full five year's since the Marco Pantani's tragic death from a cocaine overdose, and, as a theatrical production of his life is given in Italy, his Mamma, still unconvinced, gives an agonizing interview in which she pleads with Marco's girlfriend--an "angel" one day, a "devil" the next--to tell her the truth about what really happened to her son. The tifosi, of course, mourning him just as sharply as they did the day after, and as admiring of his triumphs as they were forgiving of his flaws, blitzed the pages of Gazzetta dello Sport with tributes and "grazies." Riposi in pace, indeed!

Let the Games Begin!

Piti Party: as the Italian Olympic Committee, CONI, finally loses it pondering Alejandro Valverde's filthy e'er-doping carcass defiling snow-pure Italian roads while a good half its own boys'n'girls are either out on, or trickling back in from, cheating bans, the ever-accommodating tho' "indignant" dog-defaming "Piti" himself reiterates once again he's delighted to appear before, and cooperate, any authority that asks him--so long as, natch, that authority is "legitimate." Anyone want to bet money CONI counts? Me neither! As for the gazzetta dello sport tifosi? Hell, not only are they still completely enraged they were deprived of their beloved St. Ivan of Varese for two seasons when he didn't even get to dope in the first place (hack! ack!), they're so pissed they're even feeling sentimental about long-ignored little-fish Michele Scarponi--so to finally see a, no *the*, Spaniard fall, especially at the Italians' own tribunal, is a drop-to-your-knees-and-sing-hosannas smug delight. Don't worry, Alejandro, I'm sure you'll get a fair hearing--heck, you've scammed your way out of it this long, right?

Go Ask Armstrong/I Think He'll Know: so while Lance swears his only goal in California is to get Levi Leipheimer the win (!@#damn right, buddy) before viciously screwing Contador (and Klodi! oh, Klodi...) in July, comes the sad but surely inconsequential word that, due to "administration" and "cost" concerns, he's bagging the wholly transparent Don Catlin anti-doping program he vowed like a vestal virgin he'd pursue and publish in favor of Astana's own, and reportedly more, well, laid-back, Dr. Damsgaard. Sure, there's been a bit of skepticism raised here'n about,but nothin' to see here, you cold, nasty cynics--after all, none of Johan's boys ever test poz til after they fly his cozy nest!

Joker's Wild: meantime, the 2009 UCI wild cards are out, and here's who's still reeling from being colossally jacked out of the ProTour events: Petacchi and DiLuca from LPR, and Giro champ Stefano Garzelli over at Acqua e Sapone. Why? Well, UCI sez it's a combination of
sporting history, admin transparency, and willingness to comply with the UCI's so-far-useless biological passport, so what's the prob with these squads? Given their collective palmares even with their teams' crap budgets, I'm guessing it ain't the "sporting history," so be honest, UCI, what are you afraid of: another little OD on the asthma meds you've given a pass for to 3/4 of the wheezing peloton? DiLuca's Malibu Barbie-level testosterone results? Garzelli's, um, nothin', he just wants to freakin' race? Spit it out and tell me why Leukemanns over at Vacansoleil deserves any better, you hypocrites! Oh, boys, you shoulda just stuck with the blow and amphetamines, you'd be free and easy right now...

Goin' to the Dogs: finally, as Red Sox fans the world over celebrate evil bastid/Madonna-slurper A-Rod's admission of drug use during his MVP season, even worse news has emerged: the Sussex Spaniel who won Best in Show at the Westminster Kennel Club this week has been stripped of his title and banned from competition for two years after a positive steroid test revealed the chunky dog is actually a pumped-up teacup Yorkie named Twinkie. Twinkie, through his attorney Maurice Suh, has denied the allegations, contending (1) he's just been hitting the gym a lot lately and (2) if he did test poz, it's clearly due to his kibble being spiked with drugs by some bitch from the Sporting Group trying to bring him down. Damn, first it's Olympic ponies, now it's man's (and woman's) best friend--can't *anyone* lay off the juice these days?

The Amgen EPO Tour of !@#$%^& Lance Armstrong

Aiiiiiggggghhhhh!: so I'm thrilled and astonished to discover that Vs. is not only covering the Tour of California next week, but running an actual preview show like it's the Superbowl this week, and my initial untainted joy is hideously slaughtered, and it only takes me about six seconds to want to whack someone over the head with a bike pump, as what do I hear? Yep, "leading the charge" for the Americans is the godlike Lance Armstrong! Um, I know it's rude to use all caps (like that's my worst offense, but I digress), but NO, NO HE'S NOT, YOU REPULSIVE CHEAP-THRILL PANDERING ASSHATS. Levi Leipheimer is "leading the charge" goddammit, and for those of you who've may not have heard of him, he's got a rather bitchin' palmares, is clearly capable of winning the Tour de France for example, and has more than earned the right to be mentioned as the biggest threat of a race he's freakin' taken repeatedly. Look, Vs. I know the only way you can gain enough advertiser dough to justify showcasing the thing over the ever-compelling ratings-blockbuster station ol'-reliables of candlepin bowling fat guys sitting in boats tying flies for six hours and oiled-up extreme wrestlers giving me far too much information is to ruthlessly pimp the lowest-common-denominator easy-to-digest blank-stare-and-nacho-friendly All-American-Hero survival story remember-he-used-to-date-Sheryl-Crow-and-Kate-Hudson !@#$%^&, but let's be clear: this is a complete monstrous disaster for actual coverage of this incredible sport. If the blinding glare of Lance's bottomless ego trip and your own relentless glowing subservience so overilluminates the heavens that no-one you're trying to interest for the long haul can even see enough of anything else to learn about and be drawn into cycling for its own magnificent sake, and they're all just gonna run screaming out the room next morning like you're last night's hung-over beer-pong please-don't-turn-the-lights-up desperation hookup, what the hell exactly is the point?! What's more, in practical terms, if I've really gotta listen to this stupid worshipful unquestioning Princess-Diana-in-spandex stop-the-presses-Lance-just-went-to-the-bathroom crap for the next six months, I'm gonna have to watch every !@#$%^ race with a mute button, or, better, take a sledgehammer to my TV whenever you-know-who comes on. Phil and Paul, please, for the love of Mike (and Levi, and Klodi, and Alberto, and Cavendish, and Boonen, and Gibo, and....), reign in these halfwit publicity-whore bosses of yours and take back this sport! Due credit for redeeming feature: I did hear Levi's name a few times during the hour, and he was, rightly, the last image on screen as the credits rolled. Of course, he could have been mistaken for just the team towel boy and stuck in there as last-second filler....

To Forgive Is Human, To Freire, Divine: meantime, endless world champ/recent green jersey Oscar Freire's wasting no time setting the record straight, disdaining Lance for pathetically returning to the sport when he himself has the dignity to retire for good when he's done, and blaming Valverde's doltish dithering for blowing the squad's chances in Varese and handing the Worlds right over to the Italians. On the other hand, he did warmly compliment Ballan, so if he stays nestled among the boys of the squadra azzura this season, he ought at least to be safe on the roads from his new nemeses. Sing it, Oscar, you're spot on!

Aw, Shucks: heading on over to Teen Beat, I mean, Gazzetta dello Sport, the lovely Ivan Basso is shocked touched and humbled by the tifosi's surprising willingness to welcome him back to their hearts, which phenomenon, of course, happened utterly without any effort whatsoever on his or his astonishingly ginormous PR machine's part, and, fear not, he's in great form on his road to inevitable (re)coronation at the Giro to boot. Anyone else want to take bets on whether he's really gonna be the same "extraterrestri" he was when he left the field crying like colicky babies at the feet of the Dolomites in 2006?

The Five Stages of Mourning: so it looks like wee rightful king of the universe Alberto Contador's slowly getting to the "acceptance" stage of his misery over Lance's return to leadership, admitting he was perhaps less than joyous at first over the news of Armstrong's homecoming to Bruyneel but now professing some muted non-loathing, which perhaps means that (1) he truly doesn't think Lance is gonna have the strength to take him out at the Tour or (2) he delusionally thinks that merit is gonna be the deciding factor. Maybe adding a sixth stage of mourning, like "utterly dope-slapped into emasculated submission" would be more accurate?

Bjorn Again: finally, congrats to both Bjorn "Love to Love You Baby" Leukemanns and the still-pissed Alessandro Petacchi for their inaugural wins of the seasons, and while I didn't check out what the Leukemanns fan club is doing besides competing for his studly affections, the tifosi are going absolutely shrieking wingnut with adulation over Ale-Jet's return after his ludicrous bust and race-result-negating for taking asthma meds the UCI okayed for him (and everyone else, while we're at it) after the end of the race. Welcome back Alessandro--but young Bennati's still gonna try to make you beg for mercy at the Giro!

Ceeeeeelebrate Good Times/Come On!

I Fought the Law And/I Won: as beloved party-boy sprint king Tom Boonen smokes the field at Tour of Qatar (Cav who?) for his inaugural win of the season,a Belgian court, sympathetically opining the poor boy's been "punished enough," has decided not to criminally prosecute him for his little coke poz(es), and while I agree he's been a naughty, naughty boy (and you all know you like him that way), unless he's pausing 2km out from the line with a mirror, some white powder, and a razor blade, I can't see how one can begrudge the Brad Pitt 'o' Belgium a little after-hours entertainment, right? Best of all, Tour de France organizer Christian Prudhomme over at ASO is warmly welcoming him back to the fold, and, if Speedo's gonna stick with wholesome Olympic icon Michael Phelps despite his pot imbroglio, I'm guessing Tom gets to keep his little leather gladiator skirt and the rest of his cash-cow sponsorships as well. Now let's party--but remember, just stick to the booze, okay? No, Tom, you *cannot* have the keys to the Lamborghini back...

No More Mr. Nice Guy: so while the Italian national champion's squad gets left off the centenary Giro's start list for heck's sake, sad-sack Amore & Vita's been dissed for the start list at the somewhat smaller Gp Costa degli Etruschi, and team boss Ivano Fanini knows exactly who's to blame: yep, it's the scumly nefarious Paolo Bettini, hell-bent on vengeance for Fanini's perfectly harmless suggestion to the entire planet that Paolo knew, in advance, when and how surprise doping controls were being conducted at last year's Worlds. Hey, what adored icon-of-a-nation could possibly mind an assertion like that? Il Grillo, to his everlasting credit, kept his cool, merely replying that the decision to tell the team to blow was made by committee. Damn lucky for you, too, Fanini!

OMG!!!!OMG!!!: As Gazzetta Dello Sport's almost indecent love affair with comely comeback Ivan Basso continues (the snow can't stop him! He trains on his mountain bike!), despite the inexplicable announcement from Liquigas that our never-doped indomitable hero, tho' certainly back to his completely unenhanced and medically-unaided 2006 form, is nonetheless gonna have to "co-captain" with Franco "Don't Tread On Me" Pellizotti at the Giro, comes news you can use (and swoon over): Ivan's got a Twitter feed! And even better, it seems to be in English. Go here, take a long leisurely detour to the gallery to melt away in those dreamy, dreamy eyes, drop him a note (click on "scrivi ad ivan"), hit the twitter icon, sign on up, and get ready for breaking news on his latest massage *and* his latest doping controls. OMG!!!! Oh, Jan Ullrich. This smashing celebrity rehab could've been you. *How* could you have !##$ed things up so badly?

Cycling In The News: last but not least, as Lance's dazzling presence inspires actual commentary by the non-cycling sports press, comes a spectacular gem from National Public Radio, which not only mentioned the Tour of California, but listed four main protagonists--Lance, Ivan, Floyd and Tyler--and their doping histories (once tested positive; attempted to dope; tested poz for, um, "steroids"; and blood-doped). The crack analysis: "at least it should be fast." Lookin' forward to some ace play-by-play announcing at the ToC!

Career Tips for (Ex) Dopers

Helpful Hints: Vinokorouv. Schumi. Sella. Kohl. Bastianelli. Dang, even Triki (aaaaiiiggghhh!). What do they all have in common? That's right, a scarlet letter for doping, deeply repentant souls (ha!), and crap employment prospects as a result. Therefore, in the spirit of sincere belief in returning rehabbed miscreants to productive roles in society, and my desire not to have our tax dollars pay to support these arrogant twits on the dole, I humbly offer some alternate career suggestions to help our poor downtrodden boys'n'girls back on the path to righteousness:

1. Phlebotomist. Who better to draw blood from someone else than a person with pre-existing expertise and such a marked lack of squeamishness they can shoot themselves up on the toilet of a Holiday Inn? Thanks, Dr. Fuentes!

2. Bus Driver. We already know you can manage those tricky descents on two wheels, why not for your local Greyhound franchise? With luck, you might even get to ferry your old teammates around--and with your eyes focused on the road, you'll honestly be able to say you had no idea what the hell was going on back there when the narcs come a-knockin'. Bonus!

3. Head of One of the Most Powerful Teams in Cycling. Okay, it helps to have doped your way to an actual Tour de France win for this one, but even the least successful among you ought to be able to score a gig with *somebody*. Big points if you can get your sympathetic sponsors to say they "understand" you don't want to "dwell on the past," then turn around and credibly profess your shock, disgust, and outrage when one of your own riders cheats without a particle of self-awareness or irony. Lookin' good there, Bjarne!

4. Pharmaceutical and Medical Supply Sales Rep. You walked the walk, now you can talk the talk. Your million-dollar mantra: Man, was *that* !@#$ good!

5. Waiter at Applebee's. Anybody who can stuff a dozen water bottles down their jersey riding alongside a team car at 35 miles per hour then pass 'em back out in a crowded peloton without so much as clipping a wheel can surely handle the beer-'n'-bloomin' onion orders of a handful of boisterous just-liberated cube-dwellers during the 5:01 p.m. rush. You get tips, too!

6. Peace Corps. If you've got any desire whatsoever to get back in the game after your ban is up, this one's for you. You benefit humanity, learn what a tough break really is, and totally coincidentally get potential-employer-pleasing waif-laden photo ops galore to prove your reformed-in-body-and-mind genuine-regret cred. Who knew charity could benefit the giver-of even more than the given-to?

Well folks, I hope this helps, but if these don't work out for you, you can always join little Ricco' teaching spin class. Welcome back to the ranks of the real world's domestiques, and don't forget to look busy when the boss comes 'round!

Dopes Suck

Or Dopers, Whatever: all right, kids, we haven't even made it to the Tour of freakin' Qatar yet, and already either "a few" or 30 or so of these peloton clowns--including one allegedly "top" rider--are about to get busted via the UCI biological passport for blood doping. Now, I don't doubt for a moment that most of these boys naturally have the oxygen-carrying capacity of a twelve-pack of world-champion yodelers, or the inherent endurance of Tom Boonen on a week-long party crawl, or the ruthless bodily efficiency of a school of piranhas at an underwater barbecue, or inhaled a litter of equally-athletic embryonic sibs when they were themselves barely big enough to register on an ultrasound. But for the rare, rare specimen of a cyclist who might just try to sneak one past the narcs, I must ask--what the !@#$ are thinking, you brainless egomaniacal teammate-hosing tool? Is it the lure of glory? The dough? The hometown rock-star status and endless access to besotted bike-lovin' jailbait? The DS swearing to break your worthless sponsor-draining legs off if you keep jumping away when he's trying to make you hold the IV so he can jam a needle in your !@# and a testosterone patch on your works (no, never that!)? Damn. One day, *one* day where I can believe in one of you doofuses. Is that really too much to ask?

Giro? What Giro?: gee, Alberto, you can really tell from Lance's comments after the Tour Down Under how truly gobsmacked with excitement he is to be aiming "primarily"" at the Giro this year, seeing as he was all over how bitchin' his form is ahead of--um, the Tour de France in July. Boy, he's one eager-beaver domestique for you, though, ain't he? Lucky that's all he hopes to accomplish in France this year! Y'know, not to presume to advise you on how to manage your career and all...but, GEEEEEEEEETTTTTTTT OOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUTTTTTT!

Tour Down Under Roundup: speaking of one of the most bitchin' races of the season (did you go, randie?), there's one thing that truly stood out, besides the mighty glare of Lance's fabulousness, Stuey O'Grady's smashing second in GC, and Allan Davis' endless series of stage wins and Phoenix-like rising from the ashes of Liberty Seguros--yep, Robbie "Simoni of the Sprints" McEwen's crybaby wanking about someone else, as usual. This time, it's poor Graeme Brown, who not only lammed right into him with his handlebar while our righteous good sport was generously giving him an ultra-wide berth to help him out, but who had the audacity to unclip and damn near bring them both down, ruining Robbie's inevitable triumph over some no-talent no-name Italian guy. Graeme, though, took things politely in stride, merely pointing out that the commissaires didn't think there was anything amiss, which is not only diplomatic, but, considering the rabid McEwen's tendency to bushwhack his rivals at close quarters, probably the sensible thing to do as well. Now, stop snarling, Robbie, no need to literally chew up your rivals and spit them out...

Not a Piep: and, it's a sad, permanent farewell to drug-snorting stage-thief Leonardo "I Didn't Do It! No, Ricco' Made Me Do It! No, I'll Get a Lighter Sentence If I Say I'm Really Sorry I Did It!" Piepoli, whose two-year ban seems unlikely to result at his advanced age in a return to the riders' ranks, tho' I imagine he might score a nice modest paid interview or two if he plays it right and, say, outs anyone interesting up the supply chain. Start posting photos of you cuddling the wife and bambini and call for the paparazzi while you help some underprivileged tots, pronto, you hear me?

Takes a Lickin' and Keeps On Tickin': finally, it seems that after umpteen farewell six-days, Erik Zabel's really calling it quits this time, and while one can hardly blame him, I gotta say, the sprints are gonna be a long shot lamer this year wondering if he's gonna pull off an increasingly rare yet still seductively possible win at an age when most ex-cyclists are disconsolately gorging on Doritos, descending into drug-fueled downward spirals, or lugging some upstart twerp's dirty laundry down to the hotel basement as a one-shot junior DS. Come back, Erik--I mean, you *are* part Bionic Man, right?

Lessons From Slasher Films; And, Breaking Rock Racing News

Run, Alberto, Run!: thought you'd maybe have to suffer the power-sucking vortex of Lance Armstrong's insatiable ego and hunger for attention for just one Tour de France, then you'd be back to being unquestioned team king at Astana under the nurturing, supportive hand of Johan Bruyneel? Ha! Think again, little Contador, because Dear Leader is now suggesting he'll come back for a second year. Y'know those scenes in horror movies where some unearthly disembodied voice gacks "GEEEETTTTTTT OOOOUUUUUUTTTT" to a half-dressed houseful of comely horndogging coeds who naturally ignore the voice then post-haste start getting slaughtered? Yeah, it's like that. GEEEEEETTTTTT OOOOOUUUUUUTTTTTT!

Advance Australia Fair: meanwhile, it's time for the fabulous Tour Down Under, baby! and as Robbie McEwen takes the early lead in the 2009 Thor Hushovd Promotional Tchotchke Body Mangling Award by being thwapped by a doofus spectator's outthrust camera just moments into the new season, congrats to hometown fave Allen Davis for his smashing stage 2 triumph, not that one'd know it with everyone hanging on whatsisface's every piggish burp instead, but for my money the local boy to watch remains indestructible stalwart we love Stuey O'Grady, who sez he's not really yet on proper form (aaaiiiggghhhh!) but which doesn't save him from my heartfelt expectation that he'll imminently crush everyone in the race like spike heels on cigarette butts. Allez allez Stuey!

Oh, Baby, It's Kohld Outside: over in doper purgatory, thieving Tour de France podium skank Bernard Kohl has decided to accept his two-year ban for being completely inferior to Maurizio Soler, whining that he'd hoped the penalty for cooperating wouldn't be the same as for an uncooperative rider, as he never *promised* he'd name his actual supplier. Live 'n' learn! I gotta say though, if he weren't such a cheating weasel dirtball, I'd almost feel rather sorry for him. Why name names just to get back to the peloton a few months earlier if the supplier's other customers are gonna run you over with a team car or knock you off a precipice for !@@#$ing up their source?

I Want to Publish 'Zines/And Rage Against Machines: yep, as he successfully tests his redeemed and drug-free legs in Argentina, dreamy-eyed winged angel Basso's blood values are officially up on line, and while Armstrong's backtracking a bit about posting numbers that could be misinterpreted in the vent of a little tummy upset or high-altitude training bout, our Ivan's determined to be not only clean but also transparent, so here's the site. Any of both my faithful readers who's not a raging science twit like, um, other people besides me, want to take a crack at it and give us the dish, especially, oh, in May or so?

Don't Cry For Me Argentina (Cuz I'm The One Who Owes You Thirty Thousand Bucks): finally, what would cycling news, or at least lurid rumormongering, be without the near-inexhaustible opportunity to dope-smack Rock Racing, this time for jacking the Tour of Argentina race organizers out of a sweet 30 grand put up front to coddle a pack of hosed-over hopefuls from a team too decimated to get its license--forget about their overall act--together in time to line up for the start. I'm tellin' you Ball, we've already got a good collection of bike(s) and harmlessly expired Power Bars here--don't look a gift horse in mouth when ya can't even keep your boys in bike skivvies!

Breaking News: really finally, it seems that even with its current travails, Michael Ball's miraculously scored his troops a break, as the squad's apparently gotten an invite to the Amgen EPO Tour of California. Slick move by Rock Racing, and here's hoping they can afford by then to show up with something more reliable to ride than 30-year-old Goodwill rejects--anyone else thinking it's gonna be lively watching Tyler Floyd and Levi slug it out for supremacy? Place yer bets now folks!

License to Ill

But Just Barely: yep, after Michael Ball's all-out hysterical PR assault the other day touting Rock Rocing's incredible stability (We've got the new Cadillac Escalade hybrid--and it's cool! We are so too getting bikes--and they're cool! Yes, I'm screwing the riders out of half the salaries and most of the races I promised 'em--and I'm cool!), the next day's less optimistic news that the boys were pulling out Argentina because they were about to be denied a UCI license, and Francisco Mancebo's glum realization that the only race he's gonna be riding is his paper route, the Boulder Report is well, reporting, that USA Cycling is affirming the squad met the UCI's astonishingly tough definition of solvency by putting down 10% of the riders' salaries today (whether it's the tasty ones promised, or the rancid scraps they've been told to eat'n'like it, remains unclear) and scored a last-second season's license to race after all. Break out the Champagne, boys, we're back on top!

Now, I'm no mathematician--not that it takes much aptitude to count to "broke-ass"--and I don't want to spoil the party, but before you uncork that expensive bubbly just yet, kids, you might want to consider the somewhat disconcerting implication that even having pulled the team back from the brink this time, Rock's still gotta come up with the remaining 90% they're gonna owe their riders before (1) the season ends (2) the managers and lawyers start shrieking and subpoena-ing or (3)a horde of wiry little guys in tight shiny clothing that was jacked out of gigs with anyone else descends on Michael Ball in a yowling mob and beats him down with a painful thumping surfeit of carbon-soled bike shoes. I know it's really truly hunky-dory, now, Michael--but Tyler can still have my Gary Fisher if he needs it!

Operacion Mindcrime: meantime, the Spaniards--perhaps chagrined by the worldwide mocking they received for running the Lowest-Casualty Doping Investigation In All Human History, perhaps tired of beloved icon Valverde's perpetual failure to score a Grand Tour, perhaps having finally found evidence that would implicate and humiliate the French (always a worthy goal)--have decided they've uncovered new evidence of "danger to human health" with regard to Dr. Eufemiano "Gyno to the Male Stars" Fuentes' helpful nutritional supplements and are gonna reopen the impressively impotent and charmingly salacious Operacion Puerto. Now, props to the authorities and all for taking it up again--because frankly it's unbelievable that there was anyone left riding in the Spanish peloton in particular besides a couple of runaway children careening around Daddy's team bus in their Big Wheels after that debacle--but I must wonder, what the hell are you clowns thinking? Okay, Valverde-the-Classics-man you apparently are willing to lose, but your little Grand-Tour-triple-winning princeling/Teen Beat poster boy/Indurain-of-today-and-tomorrow Alberto Contador from frickin' Liberty "More Drugs Than a Tom Boonen Birthday Party" Seguros? I don't care if he was powerless mind-controlled unfulfilled-promise jailbait at the time and everyone's happy to give him a pass for anything that (allegedly!) happened in his infancy--is this what you guys are willing to risk, or are you just going to pin a tiresome boring also-ran perp walk on Mancebo and Sevilla and waste everyone's time? Either way, run for it, Alejandro!

Charity Drive!

Let's Give Rock Racing Our Extra Bikes for Christmas: all right, having merely mourned the impending passing of Rock Racing, it finally occurred to me that if I really care I oughta actually spring into action about it, so here's what I propose: yep, as you wily readers of headers will guess, Let's Give Rock Racing Our Extra Bikes for Christmas (TM)! (Okay, it's several weeks late, but like anyone gives their nearest'n'dearest presents for Presidents' Day?)

Why our bikes? Because while one could reasonably assume a pro rider's got some pretty sweet rides in his stable, if Rock's flat out of its own bikes, I imagine the boys won't be allowed to use, say, their old logo-d Phonak gear without the ex-sponsors going all wingnut or, worse, litigious. And what better way to thank 'em for those many springs and summers of awe-inspiring sporting entertainment, and the thousands of unsung hours of excruciating training that preceded 'em, than by handing over our own handsome steeds?

Now, lest anyone think I won't put my money where my mouth is, I've got a beautiful red 1997 Gary Fisher Tassajara (with bitchin' panniers included even, for those times when a scrawny little musette just won't do!) with some lucky rider's name on it. Sure, it's a mountain bike frame, it's like four inches high, it weighs six hundred pounds, I had to hack half the handlebars off it to accommodate my wee little hands--but beats walkin' your !@# up a queen stage, right?

Now, I would've suggested we collect mechanics, since I hear they're lacking those too, but some stupid UN declaration apparently puts the kibosh on human trafficking. Anyone got, say, an extra Park bottle opener lying around instead?

Race to the Bottom

Rasmatazz: okay, I still think Michael "Someone, Please Feed Me a Sandwich" Rasmussen's ejection from the '07 Tour is crap even if he did intentionally skip pre-race doping controls like a dark-alley drug-snorting sleazemeister, if only because both rabid antidoping guardians of peloton virtue UCI and don't-ask-don't-tell Rabobank both knew it before they let him start, so if they weren't egregious publicity-whore hypocrite enablers--which they are--they either ought not to have let him ride, or admit they were happy to let him do it so long as those fair-play whiners at ASO didn't find out about it. But anyhoo, his ban is almost up, he's still got a stinkin' cloud over his head, and what's his first goal? To ride the Vuelta. Goddammit, can the world of pro cycling quit using this spectacular race as its sorry !@#$% of last resort? You know you'd choke at the Tour, you ride the Vuelta. You crash out of the Tour, you ride the Vuelta. Your numbnut team captain gets busted and blows your stage win hopes at the Tour, you console yourself at the Vuelta. Free the Vuelta, I say, and ban these undeserving unappreciative wankers--aiiiggghhh!

St. David Millar, Watch Your !@#: okay, he hasn't started actively bawling yet, and it remains to be seen whether he'll start to wail like a tot with a stolen Happy Meal anytime anyone else gets busted, but Ricco' lieutenant/fellow-Tour-skank Leonardo Piepoli has sure got a good start on his own behalf, wah-ing extravagantly about how, after he'd painfully crashed out of his beloved Giro with a torso's worth of broken ribs, and being desperate to honor his leader Ricco's call for aid when called upon at the Tour, he foolishly threw all his years of integrity to the wind by succumbing to the weakness of his own desire to help and, perhaps just the tiniest bit, but honestly just the tiniest, his own personal glory. I'm sure this has nothing, nothing to do with the fact that his day o'judgment with the Italian narcs is coming up on the 26th--but just in case, you might still have time to score a nice little DS gig with Liquigas, Leonardo!

Outback Stakeout: meantime, Lance Armstrong is apparently slipping into Australia incognito separate from his Astana teammates under banana-republic-dictator-level security ahead of his ride at the Tour Down Under (Go Stuey!), one imagines in the desperate if fruitless hope that Greg LeMond won't pop out of nowhere screeching at him, or that the violent French cycling fans he so fears won't hunt him down like pigs on truffle before he even gets a chance to have them cheer admiringly for him, I mean advance on him in a grunting flesh-eating destructo horror-movie zombie mob, on Gallic soil in July. Geez, Lance, I know it's truly terrifying the way everyone tosses rose petals in your path and hangs breathlessly on your every word, but a bit overheated from the glow of your own ego, are we? Tangential Alberto-Contador-Is-Doomed note: Lance now sez he can see an all-Astana podium at the Tour de France. Free commemorative winner's photo if you can guess who gets to be second, Alberto!

You're My Best Friend: and, as Gilberto Simoni magnanimously decides to forgive bushwhacking baby ex-domestique Damiano Cunego for his outrageous kneecapping betrayal of his rightful team captain at the 2004 Giro--which rift was charmingly healed by the intervention of their wives and bambini--Il Piccolo Principe has announced he's going to form an alliance with our smashing smack-talking aging two-time (eat it, Damiano, that's *two* times!) champ against Basso and Armstrong, to boost their chances of victory or at least put some fear--or more realistically, momentary mild discomfort--into a doubtlessly resurgent Ivan (after all, he took it in '06 clean, right?) and race-defiling Lance. Yes, I know it's to no avail dammit, let's just tattoo the freakin' maglia rosa on who's clearly gonna take the thing right now why don't we, I can still dream though, can't I?

Rock of Ages: so I'm stricken with a pang of conscience for being so hard of late on poor noble Michael Ball of Rock Racing by suggesting they're in trouble and all, and in the quarter-second this self-flagellation lasts I abandon my sordid muckraking and decide to get the news straight from the source: yep, ignoring the instinctive chills heading up my spine, I go to the Rock Racing website. The team motto? "Here to Stay." Okay, I admit I almost pass out at that one, but that does sound auspicious (or is that audacious?), so I delve in further and read the up-to-the-minute headline news that--Rudy Pevenage is the new DS? Um, that's dated November, but I'm sure the webmaster's still recovering from that New Year's Eve hangover, so certainly they're fine. And then--sorry folks, it's the Official Team Death Knell: Michael Ball--a guy who routinely charges people $200 a pair for artfully scuzzy pre-distressed jeans (on purpose! and without even a noticeable pang of guilt or nothin'!)--has put their Rock Racing gear on sale. I mean, it's still a rip and all--but that's it, baby, it's over!

The Love Boat...

...Hits the Rocks: Damn, Alberto, I *told* you Bruyneel was gonna ditch your jailbait trophy-wife !@# for old-bat first-flame Lance, and now you might as well put any doubts to rest: Johan's gone and said flat out he thinks Lance can take the Tour again (though having nothing to prove, why would he want to?). Except he does, of course, so you're !@#$ed. If he thinks Lance can take it one more time, and you of course have 8-odd seasons left in those legs to bag a bunch more Grand Boucles anyway, who do you think he's gonna hose over Levi and Klodi for--you get one guess, kid! Ah, well, it only took Lance 7 seasons to thank Hincapie's relentless efforts with a stage win--now get back to the team car and bring me a water bottle, you peasant!

Bad(en) to the Bone: meantime, amiable Aussie sprinter Baden Cooke--lately pushed to Team Good-Luck-Getting-a-Wild-Card-to-Anything-Suckers after Rock Racing's speedy implosion--has now gone completely postal and is swearing to sue arrogant if natty wank Michael Ball for breach of contract, on the previously-rumored grounds that he wouldn't return his signed contract, wouldn't promise him more'n squat for dough, and, even better, would be bagging the prestigious Grand Tour and Classics calendar that the boy was promised (and with his palmares, has earned the right to expect) in favor of the even more prestigious Tour-Around-Michael-Ball's-Block-Before-His-Mansion-Gets-Repossessed and similarly mortifying races. I'm afraid he's gonna have plenty of time for those "long walks on the beach" he professes to enjoy on his website...

I'm Depraved on Account of I'm Deprived: and, I see Tom Boonen's day of judgment is at hand, with a Belgian court set to decide in the near future what our partying pinup is going to face for his little cocaine-and-ecstasy imbroglios--a serious drug bust, outright dismissal, or the tantalizing possibility that he could be nailed on the facts but released to the terrified 'n' vulnerable general public on the grounds that it'll help him "resocialize." Y'know, not to pass judgment on a surely more enlightened legal system than our own, but damn, Your Honors, he already *knows* how to socialize--isn't that what got our strapping sprinting hedonist into this mess in the first place? Perhaps Quick Step could just lock him in a room with a Wii or something to keep the boy wholesomely entertained between races...

Paranoid Conspiracy Theory o' The Week: finally, just when you thought Bjorn Leukemans couldn't go any more wingnut in the search for a plausible excuse for his last year's doping poz, he's now turned from an excess of manliness to a doofus team doc to now a three-fer of evil conspiring team docs battling over the right to back Cadel at the Tour by spiking each other's potions with disreputable substances to clinch the spot. Or, maybe you just, y'know, are the poor-sap victim of two false samples--it could happen, right?--or, um, actually did it. Wait...it was that Starbucks barista who messed up your latte whose manager you complained to! no, that kid you budged in front of in the lunch line in second grade! no...

Happy New Year! (And New Resolutions, Too)

Okay, I won't keep 'em, if looking back at last year's list o' doomed aspirations is any guide. But I will probably feel mildly crappy about it, which may be motivation enough to restrain, even if temporarily, my baser instincts. So, in the interests of some sorely-needed self-improvement, and for love of this repugnant glorious wreck of a sport, here goes:

1. I will welcome Ivan Basso back with open arms. The man has paid his dues for something he entirely credibly claims he never even actually did in the first place, and that's good enough for me. In fact, I'll welcome him back even more if he gets into a sissy-boy verbal slapfight with Gilberto Simoni at the Giro for old times' sake. On a related note, if Simoni leaves him in the dust on at least one stage in the Dolomites, I'll build a shrine to Gibo in my office.

2. I will give Lance Armstrong 24 hours after the start of the Tour to prove he will work for Alberto Contador's GC victory before I excoriate him for being an !@#$%&!.

3. I will not post that photo of Tom Boonen in his gladiator outfit again. It's not his fault he's a Belgian babe magnet. If he's caught outside a nightclub or in his Ferrari with white, um, baby powder caked on his nose, though, I will post that.

4. I won't be mean to Bjarne Riis, who is after all a Tour de France winner and one of the best DSes in history--besides having, even better, backed Frank Schleck--and Photoshop a picture of his head on a turkey again. I'll wait til February 2nd, and Photoshop his face onto a groundhog instead.

5. I'll be nice nice nice to Alberto Contador, who has truly earned his place in history despite his sordid (allegedly!) past at Liberty Seguros, his Tour win on Michael Rasmussen's crap last-minute ejection, and his total (if politely done) co-hosing of Levi Leipheimer and Andreas Kloden. But I'll be even nicer if Samuel Sanchez whomps him in at least one stage.

6. Okaaaaaay, it's been like two years, I'll stop whining about the absence of we-still-love-so-bite-it-buddy Jan Ullrich and Roberto Heras from the peloton. I will, however, whine extravagantly about the loss of Paolo Bettini Bobby Julich and Iban "I Can't Believe Even That Twerp Jaksche Scored a New Gig Instead of Me" Mayo. Dammit!

7. I won't assume that any rider who beats the one I'm rooting for up an epic climb, particularly in the Vuelta or Giro, is a worthless scumsucking dopesnarfing IV-jabbin' skank. Except you know you are, you dirty bastard. Right, Sella?

8. In lieu of promising not to endlessly abuse the upcoming winner of the 2009 Doping Excuse o' the Year Award--which I can tell right now I'm gonna do anyway, resolution or not--I'll provide the cheat-weasel in question free (if somewhat dubious) legal advice as a reward for sheer ingenuity. Inhaled your body double lately? Busted in flagrante delicto? Cocktail spiked with a totally coincidentally fun recreational drug by some nefarious nonexistent enemy hell bent on taking you down for no reason? Bring it on, baby!

Last but not least, it is with a deep and abiding sense of "Aw, rats!" that I bid a fond "ciao" to the all-knowing lords-o'-Landis analysis at trustbutverify, who, after 2 years of dedicated and immaculate parsing of every chromatowhatsis, Idon'tknowwhatthehellRMSmeanses, cheap blog dope-slap, and tedious legal detail that justifies Shakespeare's loathing of the lot of us, have finally, with the appeals all done and the boy back in the game over at OUCH, decided to call it a day and simply let their archives live on as the definitive source for all things Floyd. Thanks to all and sundry at trustbut, and I'll try to cover his actual return to racing at least passably from here on out!

All right, any cycling resolutions I missed, or got any of your own you're willing to have to stick to? Spit 'em out!

Rock Slide: News from the Front Lines

Honest!: so I’ve perhaps had my, well, issues with Rock Racing, but nonetheless it truly does appear that the recent rumors circulating in the cycling press with regard to the state o’(in)stability over at Michael Ball’s pet project have, if anything, vastly underestimated the problem. To wit:

Ever wonder what you’d do if your boss called, told you the company you just joined was hemorrhaging dough, professed he was trying to scrounge up the cash from his own pocket, and generously offered to honor your contract at a crap percentage of what it says you’ll get paid? Right, well, he bailed, and luckily snared a last-minute gig somewhere else before the solvent squads finalized their rosters. Great, that’s one boy saved!

Remember that scene in “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas” when Cindy Lou Who busted “Santa” stuffing her Christmas tree up the chimney and our archvillain promised he was just borrowing it for a little tinkering before bringing it back? It’s like that, but with Santa asking for the contracts back for a slight modification in the wake of the team’s recent reclassification, the riders trustingly sending ‘em on, and at the end of this show, Santa never actually feels bad about it and returns ‘em, and he won’t respond to slews of desperate terrified time-sensitive e-mails, either. Um, leaving aside the strong likelihood that some of the boys’ wily managers have actually heard of those newfangled “copy machines,” Michael, couldn’t you have at least had the spine to break the agreements to their faces and retained *some* of your dwindling dignity?

Last but not least, a few key items have apparently gone missing as well: the team’s got no mechanics, no bikes, and, thanks to UCI telling Rudy Pevenage to blow when it came to his app for a director’s license, no DS. Nothin’ a little trip to the sports equipment aisle at the local Wal-Mart can’t cure!

I gotta say, I know there is limited sympathy around these parts for those who have either actually or allegedly done the dirty deed (doping, that is) but have failed to work up a full-scale wah-wah for the swooning media hordes—and let’s face it, that’s a pretty impressive slice of the pie here—but I really feel sorry for all the riders, whose chances of obtaining a contract at this point with anything stronger than your local gang of sixth-grade bike hooligans terrorizing the good folks buying a Slurpee at 7-Eleven are now somewhere handsomely south of zero, and whose training, seasons, and careers have been tanked through no fault of their own. On the plus side, you the consumer ought to really, really be able to get a good fire-sale deal on those overpriced-if-sartorially-bitchin’ $200 flaming-skull acid-green jerseys. See, good things *do* come to those who wait!

Holiday Wishes (and Champagne Dreams)

So now that I'm emerging from my post-Giro-route-announcement rage that the organizers of this gorgeous race have designed its centennial corsa rosa, thanks to the bull!@#$ inclusion of an endless time trial, around a freakin' American who never cared enough to ride it anyway--or maybe for Ivan Basso as well, if one generously assumes that his disconcertingly Schumacherish improvement in the discipline in 2006 was a natural result of his evolution as an athlete instead of, say, an unnatural evolution prompted by whatever he solely "attempted" to imbibe 'til the narcs caught up with him in Op Puerto--it seems to me that some of these boys could use a plea to Santa Claus, or a jolly gift-giver of any appropriate persuasion, for presents this year. Ergo, on behalf of those in the biz too humble and selfless to ask for anything themselves, and in the spirit of charity and kindness that defines the season, I gently beg whomever's in charge for the following:

1. Not to be a massive geek, but remember in "The Matrix" how Neo's mouth fused together in a creepy amorphous blob the second he claimed his right to a lawyer when he was being interrogated? Right, so the next time some chump tests poz and the cameras and mics start rolling on irrelevant cyclist commentary, David Millar could really, really use the same thing. Thanks, Santa!

2. So the virtuous anti-dopers over at UCI and WADA swear on all that's holy that if doping-implicated cyclists pony up and spill some names, mercy, and a warm embrace back into the peloton where their repented souls deserve to be, shall be theirs. And what does obedient cheating sap Jorg Jaksche get (besides my undying enmity for implicating Andreas "Haven't I Been Hosed *Enough* This Year?" Kloden) for buying this crap? Right, a major ban, permanent exile from the simultaneously pissed and terrified ProTour squads, and a rockin' reward of one dollar a year from Team Obscure'n'Powerless. So for Pat "Dick" McQuaid and Dick "Dick" Pound, a charitable donation of one year of their salaries to the guilty-and-so-very-truly-sorry-about-it boys they suckered. Heck, it won't compare to what, say, Liquigas can shell out, but sure beats selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door, right?

3. Okay, he's clearly got a brain. A heart? Aw, I'm sure he does. Courage? Well, if chutzpah counts, the guy's an embarrassment of riches. But humility? Oh, *that* he could really use a dose of from the Wonderful Wizard. And he's gonna need it, if he really means this !@#$%*& about being a happy little domestique for Alberto Contador at the Tour. Try it, Lance--you'll like it!

4. So close, but yet so far; so clearly capable, yet year-after-year, so ruthlessly yanked out of the end-game blitz of flowers, statuary, podium babes, screaming crowds and champagne. For Klodi and Levi, just *one* of 'em, *any* of 'em--haven't they *earned* their Giro or Vuelta or Grand Boucle already?

5. I don't care if you think he ought to be roasted like chestnuts over an open fire at Christmastime. In fact, I don't even particularly care if you think he's actually innocent (okay, I do, it's not your fault I'm still too heartbroken over Iban to hope). But what I do think is that considering who's still left in the international peloton, Floyd Landis--gifted as he is this upcoming season with one of the best US squads out there--more than deserves his crack at a serious European road race after two years' disgrace. Come on--like *no* scrawny little big-mouthed weasel from somewhere else is gonna test positive at next year's Tour?

6. If you can read and write, accurate sample labeling--even following the instructions for the A and B tests themselves--is a snap. "Hooked on Phonics" for everyone at Chatenay-Malabry Labs!

7. He's big. He's pretty. He's certainly likable. And when he's not being banned for being a party-boy Paris Hilton idiot, he's one of the most smashing sprinters of his, or anyone's, generation. Common sense for Tom Boonen's stocking, pronto!

8. Sure, there's nothing better than finding a Ken-doll ripoff of some Disney-musical he-starlet or, far better in my view, Rock-em-Sock-em Robots under the tree, but some years, we just need cold, hard cash. How *else* is our dear Euskaltel-Euskadi going to keep its deathgrip on Grand-Tour-winning talent just as it reaches its peak? Samu' in '09! And '10! And...

9. The dough these ProTour twits spent on just the whining weaseling likes of Ricco' and Kohl could sustain the entire women's peloton for 10 years. Raises, raises all 'round--ya can't buy a Ferrari with accolades, you cheapskates!

10. Finally, not to be selfish, but we pay out the nose for cycling coverage our own countries are too lame to air, freeze our works off on mountaintops waiting for a road race to pass in a sport that no-one else on our continent even knows exists, and, perhaps worst of all, invest otherwise handy brain cells in useless garbage like this. Please, please, can't we have *one* season without some shameful disgusting dope scandal smacking us upside the head?

Well, I'm sure I'm missing plenty of wheelborne wisenheimers who ought to get just coal in their stockings, but being that I'm supposed to be all chipper and magnanimous this time of year, I'll just wish upon a star they don't do anything to embarrass themselves, or the sport, or us faithful if pathetic tifosi, again. Merry Everything, everyone!

2009: The Year in Preview

Yeah, You Read Right: okay folks, we all know what happened in the alternately nauseating and transcendently beautiful season o' 2008, so with apologies to Nostradamus, and anyone else with a modicum of common sense, fair play, accuracy, and tact, it seems to me it's high time to take on the 2009 Year in Preview:

January: finishing up the team camps! Garmin-Chipotle boys forcibly removed to day spa and waxed; Quick Step PR head honcho takes riders club-hopping, whacks Boonen upside head with Oxford English Dictionary every time he reaches for nose candy in "negative reinforcement" exercise; team Astana breaks out the calisthenics drills by kneeling repeatedly in front of Armstrong as latter reclines upon golden dais.

February: It's the Tour of California, baby! Brilliant reformed US road champ Tyler Hamilton takes queen stage *and* lands on GQ's Best Dressed List for bitchin' though egregiously overpriced flaming-skull team kit; Levi Leipheimer snags the GC, the only win he'll be allowed all season; Floyd Landis declared poz for testosterone on Stage 3 even though he doesn't actually race or get tested, righteous UCI bans for life. Aw, heck!

March: It's the start o' the Classics! Mark Cavendish takes 14th straight bunch sprint of season, exceeds speed of light, disappears into thin air; Cunego takes Milano-Sanremo, pelted with rotten fruit by Italians still pissed he didn't ride last year's Giro; O'Grady wins Paris-Nice in full-body cast from Stage 1 crash; Marianne Vos procures cutting-edge though wholly unnecessary Internet weight-loss supplement, shrinks into gnat, accidentally inhaled by panting teammates on training ride.

April: Whaddaya mean, the Tour de Georgia's been cancelled?! Big George, Floyd (defying ban), Levi and Tyler(s) grab their best teammates, commandeer the roads, call out the fans, and get the party started. Landis takes Brasstown Bald--yeeeee-haaaaaah!

May: It's the Giro d'Italia, baby! Italian narcs wisely decline to dope-test anyone; Gilberto Simoni takes the overall when Franco Pellizotti, distracted by gorgeous visage of own flowing blonde locks in race-moto mirror, forgets to domestique Ivan Basso; Armstrong mistakenly rides in France for 3 weeks, as he's never quite figured out where that obscure "Italy" place is anyway.

June: Time for pre-Tour doping controls! American squads test clean, promptly barred from race; Bwee-guh Telekom, Cofidis riders unfortunately unavailable due to being on space flight, granted automatic podium spot in Paris; Danilo DiLuca OD's on masking agent, turns into sparkle-ballgowned Disney princess, immediately swept off feet by asthma-med-intoxicated Alessandro Petacchi.

July: What else? Armstrong "domestiques" for Contador by accidentally tossing musette into his wheel at 60 kph, tho' boy takes maillot jaune despite lack of training caused by 10-week pre-race bubble bath; repeat podium finisher/omnipresent GC threat Andreas Kloden assigned to hand-wash team's laundry; Valverde, caught out taking leisurely glass of wine from fan-club spectators during decisive move of the race, chokes *again*. Back in the US, Kristin Armstrong takes national championship while fast asleep at home in bed.

August: Time for post-Tour doping scandals! Armstrong poz for bread-and-water, lurid accusatory French book released to lavish praise by whining disappointed ASO and immediate injunction by Lance's legal team. In unrelated news, Tom Boonen parties hearty again, as no-one in Belgium gives a !@#$ if he's kicked out of the who-cares-noone-watches-it-anyway Vuelta.

September: Not like anyone would know, but it's the Vuelta, baby! Samu', on form to beat the best in the business, takes maillot d'oro without breaking a sweat when only he, a couple other guys from Euskaltel, and delusional Classics specialist Valverde bother to show up.

October: Time for the World Championships! Babelicious pinup Ivan Basso takes the boy's ride, accidentally gilded by jubilant crowd like that chick in "Goldfinger," permanently installed by sheepish tifosi on marble pedestal in Piazza San Marco; Nicole Cooke takes the women's, triples salary to record-breaking 5,000 euros/year.

November: Late-season contract hijinks! Liquigas signs Ricco', Schumacher, Sella, Piepoli, Kohl, and Beltran; Rock would've retaliated by hiring Frank Schleck, but internal Code of Ethics forbids hiring any racer who's actually been cleared.

December: Team camps again! CSC's latest incarnation buried alive in "Kill Bill" punch-your-way-out-of-that-coffin-training, most of roster survives; Milram to sponsor's dairy farm for hard labor, bewildered milch cows stampede fragile cyclist bodies, delaying season; Spanish squads retreat to secret location; Lampre boys improve gear-shifting dexterity by spending 12 hour days with Bedazzlers amping up already-pretty pink-and-turquoise team kits.

Well, cycling fans, that--and the usual cesspool of smack-talk, doping scandals, and rabid bloodthirsty crap monkey trials by incompetent officials--ought to keep us blissfully occupied 'til a potentially even more shameful and disgusting 2010. Now let's all paint our national flags on our overhangin' stomachs, tick off the riders by screaming two inches from their faces and glommin' our hands onto 'em on the mountainsides, and practice yelling, allez allez!

The 2008 Racejunkie Awards

Well folks, another delightful, disgusting, sordid, exciting, gack-inducing, and beautiful year has nearabout drawn to a close, and while there's still another three weeks to up-end even this season's rack-up of hideous scandal, it's that time o' year, and without further ado, I humbly award the following:

Charity Begins At Home Award: Tyler. Santiago. In fact, damn near everyone of a certain age who's romanced an IV line, popped on a patch, or snuggled a syringe. And now, even notoriously blabbermouthed Jan Ullrich procurer Rudy Pevenage. For reasons surely totally unrelated to an insatiable personal need for constant attention like some preening overgrown toddler, Rock Racing's Michael Ball's loving redemption of some of the most notorious, and wholly coincidentally, famous once-dirty names in the biz has made this shameless publicity slut into a bona-fide Mother Theresa of the peloton. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, honey--and hey, is that a camera over there? Come back, I'm over here! Look, I'm signing Richard Virenque!

The Karma,Baby Award o' 2008: I just could't decide which was more delicious: Saunier Duval's boys throwing smack-talking crybaby Riccardo Ricco' to the narco-wolves after he !@#$%-slapped 'em for being maglia-rosa-losing suckmaster weaklings in his Giro, or Patrick Lefevere jacking over we love Paolo Bettini over at Quick Step only to have cheapo (in wallet and character) replacement Stefan Schumacher promptly test poz for dope. See, good really *does* always triumph over evil!

Celebrity Rehab o' the Year: oh Ivan. Two short years ago, you were flashing your wares in gazzetta dello sport, pouting charmingly for every camera you could find, and treating every lower life form on earth with the cool scorn they so clearly deserved from cycling's Next Great Hope. Then, even those long-lashed dreamboat eyes couldn't save you from your spectacular Op Puerto-driven self-destruct. And now, two short years later and with your best seasons still in your legs, you've been reborn, older-and-wiser graduate of a feckless youth, UCI's new anti-doping ambassador, humble patriarch of a beautiful famiily, endless benefactor of worthy children's charities, and, not accidentally, lime-green owner of a smashing cash-cow of a contract from one of the most powerful teams in the world. Give this man's PR team a bronze monument in the Dolomites!

Enviable Coup Award of 2008: on a related note, who *wouldn't* ditch the universally-loathed ProTour and its stupid rule about not hiring dopers for four years when you could perpetrate the scam-of-the-century by snatching Basso out from under your insanely frustrated jealous and naively moral big-league competitors a full two years early? Chutzpah, thy name is Liquigas!

Jesse James Lives Again: he drives drunk, snorts coke, cavorts with certifiable jailbait, crashes his car twice a week like clockwork, and routinely squanders the most formidable talent in the peloton for the hedonistic pursuit of ephemeral pleasures. Yet everyone (me included) still loves amiable aw-shucks leather-skirt-wearing outlaw big Tom Boonen, especially his ever-exasperated yet all-forgiving Mike Brady of a best-dad-ever over at Quick Step. We all *wish* we could live such a charmed life, Tommeke--just time your stupidity a bit more sensibly and don't deprive us of your presence in Tour next year, all right?

Defender of the Faith Award: to flying deliverer-o'-heavenly-justice Bernard Hinault, landing like a ton of bricks on the heinous ignoramus protester of some petty stupid cause like world peace, an end to human suffering or farm tariffs who dared to defile the sacred podium ceremony at the Grand Boucle. Get your priorities straight, you peasant chump, and you can eat cake from your hospital bed for all I care!

All Talk, No Action Prize: yes, it's actually-really-smashing-Classics-rider Alejandro Valverde, who has managed to reward his fans, his endless hype, the dope-rumor-ignoring Spanish officials, and his own constant predictions with yet another season sans the Grand Tour win that we're so relentlessly promised and denied each year. Embrace your true nature, Alejandro, and the hell with promises you can't keep--who wouldn't be proud of your existing palmares anyway? Subsidiary Deathgrip o' Futility Award to UCI and WADA for fruitlessly swearing every Tour, Olympics, Classic and Worlds they're gonna bring him down, and blowing it--damn, would you concede your mortifying defeat and give it *up* already, you *lost*!

Crap Verdict of 2008: I love you, Iban, but this one's for Floyd Landis, whom even the brilliant underappreciated loyalists at trustbutverify and a crack legal team couldn't save from the scumly vendetta-driven selectively-prosecuting due-process-abusing lowlife press-yapping hypocrites over at UCI, WADA, and the Most Incompetent Chimp-Staffed Lab On Earth. Hell, even if you think he *did* do it, this was a freakin' travesty. And am I the only one going absolutely insane thinking of who's still zipping around happily in the high-paid Grand Tour-racing Classics-taking ProTour while poor Landis only just managed to scrape up a deal with an artificial-hip manufacturer? Oh well, at least he'll be racing domestically where we can see him...

Unsung Verdict o' the Year: finally, a team gets held responsible for *something*, as disgraced rightful 2007 Tour de France winner Michael Rasmussen wins hundreds of thousands of euros in a breach-of-contact action against enabling team Rabobank for righteously firing him even though, as the court found, they knew damn well that Rasmussen was lying about his whereabouts when he completely accidentally was nowhere in sight during surprise pre-race doping controls for the Tour. Gee, if a *rider* does something illicit, he gets roasted like a marshmallow at a bonfire, but when a *team*'s implicated in any kind of wrongdoing, even Pat "Dick" McQuaid and Dick "Dick" Pound fall so silent you can hear the crickets chirping--cowardly sponsor-appeasing money-grubbing double standard, much?

Wuss-Baby Sissy-Boy Move o' the Year: Oh, Riccardo. You're busted for doping, and what do you do? Right, run hiding behind the skirts of first your sister, then your fiance, then your mamma, and let 'em protect you from the Big Bad Media and assorted other neighborhood bullies til finally, like a naughty child caught red-handed with a forbidden ice-cream smeared all over your face, you were jerked kicking and screaming from beneath their petticoats to face the obvious. That's an 18-month time-out for you, you bad, bad, boy!

Crash-o'the-Year (Cringeworthy): Oscar Pereiro's excruciating body-snapping airborne switchback traverse at the Tour. All that work for Valverde, for nothin'!
Crash-o'the-Year (Moronic): if there's anything more fulfilling for a cyclist than to work like mad for six hours only to be taken out within sight of the line by some meandering idiot on an oblivious stroll through the course right as the peloton comes through, I've yet to hear of it. I mean, a *dog* I can understand, but for a spectator to be this dimwitted?
Crash-o'the-Year (Spectacular): yep, it's a three-fer for the Tour, as young breakaway artist John-Lee Augustyn slightly misjudges a curve and pitches about 18,000 feet head-over-heels down the Alps before, remarkably unhurt and impressively tenacious, he scrambles back up the rockslidey slope on his tractionless bike shoes and gets back to business on his bike without a second's pause. Sure, he might review the laws of physics a bit when it comes to zipping around a turn at a zillion kph, but anyone else see a great future for this kid?

La-La-La-I-Can't-Hear-You-Doping-Poz-Award: Piepoli? Yawn. Kohl? Cry me a river, baby. Ricco'? Nobody could stand him anyway. Frank Schleck? Okay, that one hurt. But Triki? Triki!? Aiiiggggghhhhhh!

Doping Excuse of 2008: let's face it, nothing's ever gonna come close to Bjorn "I Did It All for the Nookie" Leukemans' in flagrante delicto defense of 2007. But this year, though it breaks my heart, we love Marta "Does My Butt Look Big in This Chamois?" Bastianelli's banned supplement poz comes close. Heck, why be World Champion for the second year in a row in one of the hardest, most beautiful, and most prestigious sports in the world when you could fit just a little more hotly into those already-miniscule blue jeans?

The Why, Why, Why Award of 2008: Lance. You are degrading the perfect and beautiful Giro by acting like you've ever given a toss about it 'til you got a little scared that a surprisingly resistant baby legend-ascendant Contador might take you out at the Tour, and insulting all of us by proclaiming your sudden selfless happiness to domestique for any first-year neo-pro who earns it when, frankly, in your own career you showed your gratitude for the role they play by barely ever letting any of your own willingly-subservient worker bees off the leash long enough to reward 'em with a thank-you-now-go-take-the-stage-win 'til they were damn near too old to be carried up a mountainside in an ambulance, much less personally ride the thing. Your legacy as the Greatest Tour de France rider in History is--justly--secure. Your noble dedication to cancer awareness and eradication is unquestioned and hugely successful. And your celebrity-snogging Matthew McConaghey-palling place in People magazine is permanent. Why, Lance, why, why, why?

And Finally, the Best Attack of the Year: he had to do it, he did do it, and even the tireless grinding and quietly amazing Cadel Evans couldn't answer it. Carlos Sastre on the Alpe d'Huez. Isn't nice to have *something* pure to celebrate in this stunning ever-tainted soul-singing trainwreck of a sport? Woo-hoo!

Well, that's about it for this year folks, and I'm sure there's a bucket o' stuff I either missed, or flat-out blew. So have at, and here's to a thrilling (if intermittently loathesome) 2008!