Jailbait Breakouts! GC Hijinks! Fixie Numnuts! Rolling Palaces! Yep, it's the Giro and ATOC #Giro

Toddler Takeover!: well, Italy's got a brand new cycling god: yes, while the GC faves devolved into chaos behind, baby Cannondale Davide Formolo took a smashing win, and, after handing his bottle and lollipop to his soigneur, got on stage for his very first pro win ever. Not a bad one, either! And who's this "Jan Polanc" again? Meantime, over in the Amgen EPO "Does No One See the Irony of This Sponsorship?" Tour of California, Toms "How the Hell Do I Pronounce" Skujins--of Team Hincapie, which just goes to show how hard the Armstrong affair hit its participants--took an incredible solo breakaway win of his own. Nice to see the whippersnappers making a little noise--and watch out Contador, because from a GC perspective, that rugrat Aru ain't lookin' too shabby this week neither!

GC Chaos!: and, we're barely into the hills in the venerable Giro d'Italia, and one thing's already clear: Uran's screwed, Hesjedal's going to have to bag a consolation stage win, Contador may've taken pink (and too early at that, since I can't imagine Oleg's gonna let him give it away for a single day even if it would save Contador and the squad tactically) but Aru's the one with teammates able to hang with him 'til the end, and Chris Froome is *definitely* gonna demand that Richie Porte's luxury one-man rolling spa hotel be upgraded to a hideous McMansion-sized Trump-ian gold-plated butlered monstrosity so he gets to be even *more* special than his own damn domestique for the Tour. In related news, Oleg Tinkov reportedly rewarded Peter Sagan (spoiler alert!) for today's shock stage win by upgrading him from being stuffed into a cardboard cat carrier, to being stuffed into a plastic dog crate. "Marginal gains," Saganator--if you win *another* one, I hear he'll let you sleep in the custodian's closet next to the toilet brushes and mop-buckets filled with slop-water!

Miss Manners for Cycling Fans: finally, since apparently even ardent experienced cycling fans need a *reminder* not to be life-threatening glory-whoring egomaniacal dimwits, let's review: if you ride your poseur hipster fixie right into the passing peloton for the sheer wanna-be adrenalin rush of imitating people who'd actually rather not croak to serve yer twisted need for self-importance, you are, for lack of a more ladylike term, a total !@#$wad. *Jaysus*, it's not enough to stumble drunkenly next to a stage leader with a superhero cape twisting around your clomping feet, shoot a BB gun into a breakaway, send your kid out for an errand across the road right as the race is coming through at 40 miles an hour, let your excitable pony-sized dog off the leash, or stick a lethally-sharp promotional item into someone's arm 30 yards from the finish line anymore? *I* say it's time for the peloton to take back the damn road for themselves--that's right, make an unscheduled full-speed left-hander past the flag-waving guys *right* into the next pack o' nimrods who !@#$ with their lines. Free the Peloton!

Tomorrow, Tomorrow/I Love Ya, Tomorrow!: next up: Ale-Jet Petacchi gets his chance. But he still won't look quite as cute as Alberto doing that "Pistolero" move!