Let's Head for the Hills, Baby!; and, That !@#$in' Lancefest in California

Higher, Baby!: yes, I've been lame about posting, and yes, it's because Petacchi and McEwen aside I really don't give a rat's !@# about the flats, but now the fabulous Giro's *really* under way: it's time for the hills, baby! On immediate tap: playgirl pinup Pippo Pozzato gets going on the strade bianche, and predicts disaster for pampered-kitten roadies Ivan Basso and shut-the-hell-up-Pippo-he's-a-god-anyway we love Carlos Sastre. Just please don't lose any more time, Carlos! Here's Sunday's parcours. Finally, some mountaintop action--oh, can it, you pervs!

Cadel Evans Is Scr#wed!: okay, let's get straight to it: Cadel's fine young team--and they *are* a fine young team--just doesn't have the chops to put Cadel into the final maglia rosa in Milan. Can someone please explain to me why the !@#$ a multiple Tour de France podium finisher & current scorchin' world champ can't ever find a team to hire him that can actually do him justice? I mean, I still want Sastre to stomp him into the dust and all--though I mightily appreciate Cadel's both ditchin' the wheel-suck and his increasing tendencies to go certifiably wingnut on the unsuspecting press corps--but are the powers-that-be *trying* to Klodi this poor guy into total obscurity? Hmmm...if Valverde gets nailed (ha!), there'd be Caisse d'Epargne, except LL Cool Sanchez is ready to take over there...if Bjarne can't find a new sponsor and the Schlecks hightail it for their own gig, *he* might have a last-minute opening...um, anyone?

Oh, All *Right* Already!: finally, it's time for the Amgen EPO Tour of California, and, in lieu of a formal preview, I'd just like to point out to the celebrity-grubbing Lance-whores who will ignore every other world-class rider on the planet and turn this event into a 24/7 piss-me-off-athon, Levi Leipheimer, not the Chosen One, is the RadioSkank rider for GC. Y'know, he's a cyclist...he's bagged a ton of Grand Tour and other glory...he's nice to animals...he wins this race every year...anyway, *we* love you, Levi!

Blood, Guts, and the Giro

The Agony and the...Well, Agony: Boy, if the fact that the first two stage wins and the first two maglia rosas went to English-speakers weren't enough to make the Italian press freak out over an obviously imminent linguistic and cultural takeover, seeing national hero Petacchi admit he blew it and watching half their riders looking like extras from some sleazy teen-movie gorefest sure were. Is anyone else thinking that Alberto Contador, watchin' the carnage and thinking ahead to his own first stages at the Tour, is quivering at home like a storm-soaked Chihuahua right now?

A Gentle Plea to Vs.: WHY THE !@#$ AREN'T PHIL AND PAUL ANNOUNCING THE GIRO LIVE EVERY DAY YOU LANCE-OBSESSED GOONS? Is it really more fulfilling as a matter of sport to cover a bunch of cowboys sadistically jerking ropes around innocent bulls' fragile packages while they're being tormented by rodeo clowns for other people's entertainment? Do you realize how many windmills we've passed without an in-depth investigation into their presence in an important 15th-century painting, or the particular hoppiness of a local beer they enjoyed together back in 1963? Hell, let's talk race--in the midst of the hours of dead air that characterize the other English language coverage I can get, you think some of us might be curious as to how Caisse d'Epargne ended up fourteen hours in arrears by the finish line or how the hell Cadel's gonna survive in the mountains if his fine-yet-inexperienced young team can't hold it together in the flats? No, I'll keep watching Dutch streaming video interspersed with 8,000 hard-core porn ads per second, you just keep showing bass fishing--really, it's much better. Aiiigggghhhhhh!

Thor Hushovd is !@#$%ed!: well, Cavendish, you've maybe got your green jersey for the Tour de France, 'cause poor we love Thor's training's now been been wrecked by--as if his early-season illness weren't enough--a broken collarbone sustained running over some sweet little tot on a training ride. Now, I'm not saying you're not right in your endless, years-long whining about how you've been totally unfairly jacked out of the green jersey by someone less deserving through no actions of your own whatsoever. But what I *am* saying that, *this* year, if *I* were you and took the final jersey in Paris at the Tour after Thor's training had been so catastrophically interrupted, I'd be wondering every single day for the rest of my life if I'd really have won it if it hadn't been. Every. Single. Day. Of. My. Life. But that's just me who'd wonder. Every. Single. Day. You just run along and enjoy it, you hear?

Somewhere, Mark Cavendish and his 2,000 Teeth Are Grinning: speaking of Cav, I can give him one more reason to smile tonight: HTC set up the perfect--perfect--lead-out, and arch-nemesis/derided second-rate backup-boy Andre Greipel, indeed the only sprinter with any teammate within a kilometer of the finish line, completely and utterly blew it:
Apropos of not-the-last-kilometer, get well soon Christian Vande Velde, and anyhoo, nice job Wouter--but Patrick Lefevere still kinda thinks you suck!

My Losing Pick o' the Day; and, Don't !@#$ With Robbie!

Forza!: yes, my losing pick of the day is, for nationalist reasons even tho I'm not even actually Italian, Alessandro Petacchi. Dai Ale-Jet! Why this pick's a dog: after yesterday's mechanical debacle, Robbie "Head-Butt" McEwen's gonna be out for revenge, tho' since he won't personally have a mechanic any longer having chewed him up into mulch after the time trial, that minor detail will work against him. Here's the last 27 seconds of his mechanic's life on this earth:
Either way, stay the !@#$ out of his way, honey!

One Day And Counting, Baby!; And, A Shout-Out to the Sprinter Fans

What the !@#$ Does *That* Mean?: yes, tifosi, with the Giro officially underway, and English-language coverage virtually guaranteed to freeze up or just plain suck, it's time to learn just a bit more Italian than those lines you always quote when you're loaded from "The Godfather," so here's some stuff you'll need to know:
Partenza: the start line
Traguardo (or Arrivo)--the finish line
Fuga: the breakaway
Tappa: the stage
Testa della corsa: the leader(s)
GPM (on signs, or on the road): the part of the climb where the points are awarded. What's that? The King of the Mountains contenders are looking for points toward the climbers' jersey, and other teams' domestiques are sent up to snake them out of 'em.
Pendenza: the percent gradient of the climb you're watching. Ahi, the Mortirolo hurts!
Tornante: the hairpin turns on a climb or descent--they're often numbered so you can keep track of how many more brushes with death (or just garden-variety misery) you have.
W--it's not a "W" you see on the road really, it's a "VV" for Viva. Naturally, VV Gibo!
Well, unless you want me to spell out in ill-bred detail the cuss words the tifosi are screaming at Vinokorouv, that's your lesson for today. Vaf--forget it!

It's My First Your Losing Pick o' the Day!: yep, the opening day in Amsterdam (or thereabouts) is a short flat time trial to stick someone in the maglia rosa and enrage the Italians if it isn't them. And yep, I know it should be that sanctimonious whine-wussy St. David Millar. But Cadel's got to beat the crap out of Ivan Basso right off the bat to psych him out, even tho' Ivan knows Cadel's easily gonna whomp him anyway, so I'm pickin' him. Forza Cadel--break my pathetic losing streak, I beg you!

More Practical Stuff You Can Use: so what's the order of sendoff of our brave cronomen tomorrow? Look for Damiano Cunego at no. 37, Gilberto Simoni in 125th, the irksome Millar at 185th, Bradley "Please Kick Millar's Sorry !@#!" Wiggins at 186, then Ivan, then Cadel, then Alexander Vinokorouv at 190, and Sastre at 195. Dai, dai Wiggo!

Self-Serving Wah-Wah of the Week: this one's for 2009 ex-podium finisher/disgraced druggie Danilo di Luca,for using a cheerful brag to the press that he's back in training and ready to hit the road--and good luck with that, sucker, but I digress--to snipe that the entire GC field this time is a pack of blowmeister milquetoast girly-man weaklings, which, of course, would not be the case if *he* were there. Glad all your free time during your ban hasn't diminished your good sportsmanship, Killer!

Faster Than a Speeding Boonen: first, you *suck*, Amgen EPO Tour of California!--what sick twisted Giro-hating pervert even *thought* to schedule this at the same time, are you *trying* to help Lance screw Levi and Klodi even worse than usual? Anyway, as I said, a friendly shout-out to our dear sprint fans here at racejunkie, as their faves, the toothilicious Mark Cavendish and Belgian ex-party-boy hunkster big Tom Boonen, are at the ToC so I'll try to cover the damn race a bit for their sakes. And as I don't want either fan base to pound me into jelly, good luck to 'em both!

Finally, a Loving Reminder: now, repeat after me: Gilberto Simoni is a god. Bow, peons!

It's the 101st (Anniversary -- 93rd Running, mea culpa) Smokin'-Hot Giro d'Italia, Baby!

No, dear newbie (and dear oldie as well), Lance isn't riding it--and no, it didn't matter last year, either. Why? Because there's so much more to this race than just a rabid unquestioning cult of personality! And besides, that belongs to the great Marco Pantani. What'll you see? This!

1) The Contenders: it's a hot field, honey, and more'n just the two-dimensional dipwad Contador 'n' Armstrong crap you'll hear all July. Who's news? Ex-Lance protege Ivan Basso, still hoping to prove he can be the rider he was before his ignominious doping ban for the scandalous Operacion Puerto. Fellow Liquigas captain/desperate for credit Franco Pelli--oops, maybe next year! Crazed Astana captain/hugely controversial ex-(allegedly!)doper Alexander Vinokourov, out for revenge against everyone who still thinks he's dirty. Tour de France ever-bridesmaid Cadel Evans, whose world champion stripes have really given him wings and freed him from years of accusations of wheel-sucking timidity. And quiet Tour de France winner/pure climber Carlos Sastre, battling his own fragility in the crucial time trials and on the flats right down to the final podium. Tell me, what's *not* to love about these bad boys!

2) The Climbers: far more so than the Tour, the Giro is a pure climber's race. And the Italians, being on their home turf, want it more than anyone. Franco "Goldilocks" Pelli--oops, maybe next year! Former winner-backstabber/aging baby savant Damiano Cunego, really a Classics man but wanting to prove he still deserves his nation's adoration at the Giro. Stefano Garzelli, burnin' up the tarmac this year in the heights. Last, but *so* not least, 2x Giro king/well-seasoned (sounds better than "damn, he's old!", right?) Gilberto Simoni, retiring after the race and dearly wanting one last win in front of his hometown fans. They'll surge, they'll crack, and they'll surge again in the nail-biting pressure of the Pyrenees. Forza, forza, Gibo--and you'll be *begging* someone to dope you up when he leaves you in the dust, Ricco' you ungrateful twerp!

3) The Sprinters: with the Giro not especially friendly to out of towners, it's all about Alessandro Petacchi, baby. Arguably the greatest of his generation (and admittedly, a generation don't usually last too long for these guys), Petacchi hid the skids then came blazing back last Giro with a formidable 652 stage wins. All talk and no action, *again*--younger-but-not-stronger Daniele Bennati. Foreign riff-raff: well, the great Oscar Freire's been smacked out with allergies, which leaves you-just-watch-him-he's-ready American phenom Tyler Farrar; Andre Greipel, continuing his catfight with Tour-bound Mark Cavendish; and Robbie McEwen, who, if he doesn't actually beat you in the sprint, can actually beat you down, so you might as well concede defeat. Dai, Ale-Jet!

4) The Escape Artists: if they ain't a threat to GC, and they can't particularly sprint, *and* their team boss can afford to have 'em bonk the day after to trick the narcs, the rolling stages are all about the breakaways, baby! Spoilers: versatile tough guy Pippo Pozzato, aiming for the maglia rosa and a few key stages, Op Puerto victim/recently redeemed Michele Scarponi. Look for we love irrepressible Jens Voigt to leap off the front like an upper-stoked dog after a Frisbee, even though he's not even riding this race. We love Jens!

Well, Giro freaks new'n'old, except for your handy guide to unlawful gambling, that's today's intro. Next up: the stages you have to watch, what the hell does it say on the TV screen?, and of course, our never-fail Losing Pick o' the Day. Now pop that Prosecco, ply me with prosciutto, and let's get this party started!

Wow, Crime Really *Does* Pay!

Unless You're an Idiot: yes, on the very eve of the Giro d' Italia, the incompetent hypocrite enablers at UCI've finally managed to nab someone higher in the peloton than Valverde's cousin's high-school-girlfriend's dog's aunt's in-laws' little sister, and, to the excruciating yowls of besotted fans with half-naked screensavers everywhere, it's 2009 Tour de France King of the Mountains/challenger-for-Team-Liquigas-leadership Franco of the Euromullet Pellizotti! Now, I'll discount the speculation of a wisenheimer reader than the man got busted using Rogaine to even further fluff his flowing locks, and assume that he had, at least, the quasi-dignified excuse of cheating his way to the polka-dot jersey last summer. Sigh. Somewhere, Ivan Basso is admiring his own comely reflection in the mirror and smiling. Just flirt those snowy angel wings, Ivan--you're already almost in the final maglia rosa in Milan!

The Fallout: Shockingly, there's no mention on Franco's homepage of his latest adventure, but he did manage to slap together a quickie press conference for tomorrow in which he and a pile of expert witne--I mean, objective medical practioners--will attempt to test out his legal def--I mean, explain the wholly legitimate reasons why the UCI analysis is wrong, so I'm sure this'll all get cleared up by Tuesday eve. Lookin' forward to that one, Franco! In the interim, the never-shy tifosi over at Gazzetta dello Sport have already chimed in en masse, ranging from disgust to support to (and they wouldn't be Italian tifosi if they didn't) instantly calling hypernationalist bull!@#$ and demanding a wholesale immolation of the Spanish peloton at the stake. Good move protecting your own--that oughta keep, say, Ricco' out of trouble for the next ten minutes!

The Dangers of Boredom: meantime, with Pellizotti facing 2 years of imminent downtime, even the most vengeful among us can agree that it's best if the boy finds a healthier outlet for his frustration than some of his sad compatriots. May I suggest, since we know he already likes body art, a new tat might be in order?

The Green Monster: in happier news, notorious Operacion Puerto miscreant Alejandro Valverde has catapulted over talentless (or just, well, under-stoked) Classics hard-man Philippe Gilbert to the top of the UCI world rankings, despite some piddly WADA whining over buckets of bloodbags with EPO and Piti's DNA in 'em, an Italian ban already in place, and some ridiculous UCI campaign to kick his needle-pricked !@# out of the sport altogether before it descends into an actual open-market opium den in full view of the TV cameras at every start line. I don't know who the hell your lawyer and PR team are, you charming weasel, but give those miracle workers a *raise*!

Forza Gibo!: and, in the interests of reminding us all that there really is more to this wonderful sport than greedy dipwads with IV ports a'workin', the great Gilberto Simoni (shut up, his grandmother sent him those drug-tainted candies!) has apparently gotten over his post-Giro di Trentino doldrums and agreed to grace the entirely inferior Damiano Cunego with his presence at the Giro d' Italia one more time. The mountains are yours, Gilberto--dai, dai, dai!

The Mark Cavendish Image Rehabilitation Project

Ok,Cav. I was actually about to tank this one due to your recent comeback victory, but closer review of the footage revealed that you had, in fact, right smack in front of your giant-paycheck-providing sponsor's logo no less, indiscreetly told the entire planet to !@#$ off. I know, you've been ill and in pain, you've had some probs with your love life--we love you, and we understand. But when your typical bragadoccio descends into outright wankishness, it's time to act. Ergo, our short, sweet, and entirely doable Mark Cavendish Image Rehabilitation Project:

1. Pain Management: first things first--I think this is really dragging you down. It's called a Therapeutic Use Exemption, doofus--if UCI can let 86% of the peloton snarf asthma meds like St. David Millar sprays tears for the cameras, why can't your docs manage to make the case to those hypocrites for some serious narcotics? Sure, you'll piss off your colleagues whacking half the other sprinters off their bike at the line weaving like a colossal drunk, but it's not like that !@#$'s gonna improve your *performance*!

2. Beer: fine, you hate Andre the Inferior, he hates you. But HTC's basically *said* they're gonna kiss your !@# all season and discard Greipel like a gacked-up lougie, so why not be the better man and apologize for the tiff over a nice pint? In public. With a widespread advance tipoff to the press as to time, pub, and the precise barstools you'll be sittin' on. Hey guys, surprised to see you here. Why don't I buy you all a round? Sure, we'll pose together with our glasses cheerfully hoisted!

3. Drop the Green Jersey Whining Already: of course, Thor Hushovd's a god, so this suggestion is born out of personal bias as much as helping you. But it does do that, and that's what counts. Cav, Thor beats you out for the green jersey at the Tour de France every year because he's just a better tactician than you. Ain't nothin' wrong with 5 or 10 stage wins instead. No harm, no foul--no lookin' like a crybaby jerkface. And when you *do* win it, compliment your rivals for their hard-fought competition and let the jersey do the talkin'. See how easy that was?

4. Cocky Fine--Acting Like a %^&*, Bad: Yes, you *should* be proud of yourself--you've earned it, even if not quite yet this season. And for some reason, folks *love* when sprinters preen like some man-candy supermodel for the photographers and press. And hey, if a little adrenalin makes you celebrate a bit much--*not* insult someone's mother--at the finish line, who can begrudge that? But for heck's sake, keep it to a flash of those pearly whites and a pumped-up-yet-modest expression of exuberance and concurrent gratitude to your team--we *know* you won, we *already* admire you for it!

Well Cav, start out with these handy basics--now, !@#dammit!--and we'll see if you need a fix-it (or several) from there. Meanwhile, go do something conspicuous for a hard-up children's charity, heal those 8,000 teeth, and we look forward to seeing the New You in July!

Robbie McEwen Weighs In; and, Right On Levi!

Aw, *Man*: All right, I'll pony up: I think there's no freakin' way Alexander Vinokourov is riding clean, unless, perhaps, you consider him on a sliding scale relative to, say, Valverde. Allegedly! But when a guy who I love specifically because he's been known to head-butt rivals at the line, go absolutely snarling wingnut at the press and routinely smack down other riders as scumweasels says Vino's paid his dues, apologized humbly, and deserves to be back and lauded for his win unmolested by continued accusations, I concede, such gentlemanly behavior does give me pause. Except the part about the humble apology. Unless "!@#% you!" means "mea culpa" in Kazakh?

Oh, Water Beeyotch....Here, Water Beeyotch!: okay, before I get a ton of crap from a bunch of holier-than-thou tree-huggers, (1) I *have* hugged trees, so lay off and (2) green good, I heart Mother Earth, yap. But what the hell is this stupid lawsuit against a wunk of teams and some harmless schmo from Landbowkredit for polluting the environment by tossing water bottles off the road? First, if this truly *is* a disastrous scourge, how hard is it for you martyrs to just pick the damn things up yourselves, if the many roadside fanatics who actually beat each other senseless trying to claim one from their favorite rider as a prize don't get 'em first? Second, do you freaks know what this means? It means Klodi's gonna have to sling a 50-pound Hefty bag over his shoulder and haul it up the !@#damn Alps to the finish line every day at the Tour de France like some spit-covered garbage-toting Santa Claus! Oh, Klodi...

Or, we could just save the environment by having the team-car staff chug along in donkey carts. Hell, if the peloton *really* gets off the juice, the team cars'll even be able to keep up!

Give Levi a Grand Tour Shot Already!: meantime, over at the Gila Tour, look who's winnin'!:Woo-hoo Levi!

Want Freis With That?: over on the Planet of Dubious Accomplishments, I suppose some accepting-the-inevitable bonus points go to BMC dope-fiend Thomas Frei, who, wracked with guilt immediately upon getting busted by his A-sample, admits to micro-dosing EPO and being thwarted only because he failed to properly flush the evidence out of his system, which begs the question, if dutifully hitting the Gatorade is all it takes to successfully beat the tests, how many of these clowns active right now this season *do* have the attention spans to set their watches and grab their sippy cups? Whew, good thing UCI's been yellin' how the cyclists have completely cleaned themselves up nowadays--50-odd doping pozes into the season I was actually starting to have my doubts!

Don't Let the Door Hit You in the !@# On the Way Out!: last but not least, as Cav continues his Boonenesque downward spiral--without the fun of piles of blow, random club hookups, or playing F1 driver on the autobahn in his sportscar--current nemesis/beloved teammate Andre "!@#$-Race Winner" Greipel has announced his intent to find a team that'll let him ride some real races, specifically the Tour de France, next year, and given the squad's frankly nose-pickin' ennui in response, that team sure ain't gonna be HTC. Oh well, Andre, you tried--at least this way you can settle things with Cav at the finish line next year!

I Call Bull!@#$, Astana!

You're Freakin' Me Out, Vinokourov: okay, let's get my shameful hypocrisy out of the way first: I often rather love Vinokourov because although he's an unrepentant doping pig, he's at least honest (well, open) enough (despite today's uncharacteristic denials)to wholly embrace it on the grounds that so still are most of his serious competitors, so anyone who's whining about it can look themselves in the mirror while they're jamming a syringe in their !@# and screw. Plus--and unfortunately, no doubt because he's still (allegedly!) a doping pig--there's a certain Ullrichian imminent-catastrophe quality to his racing that is, to say the least, lively to watch. That said, is it too much to ask that (1) he not be so counterproductively ostentatious about (allegedly!) it that he doesn't leave Contador with a third-rate pile of Kazakh packfiller to domestique him at the Tour and (2) at least *one* cyclist gets to win *something* who's clean? In fact, if that punk Valverde weren't also up there at Liege today to obliterate any chance whatsoever of fair play and leave those of us who prefer clean sport to look so much farther down the ranks for a genuine podium, and if Jens Voigt didn't entirely distract me by being smashing to watch for most of the race yet again, I'd be a whole lot more !@#$ed off. Anyone else thinking that if Vino doesn't get busted in the next 13 days we might as well just tattoo the final maglia rosa on his chest before the Giro d'Italia even starts?

Don't Do It, Gibo!: meanwhile, after Simoni had an entirely understandable so go to hell shaky start to his season at the Giro di Trentino, I am flipping out at the possibility that, rather than lose on his beloved Zoncolan, he's going to hang up his jersey instead of dope-sma--I mean, sticking around to help bestest pal Damiano Cunego at least pull off a stage win. Come back, Gilberto--even when you're acting nice, you're still a much more fun interview than anyone else in the Italian peloton! Which brings us to another question: what the !@#$ happened to Pellizotti in Trentino--I mean, I know he's aiming at the Tour and all, but is he really going to let that Teen Beat darling Basso stomp all over him in front of fans and press who already discount him for the entire month of May? Pull it together Franco!

Sister Sister: speaking of Basso, I surprisingly see no mention on his twitter feed about his dear sister's impending trial for trafficking in sports-doping products, presumably because he had the discretion to seek out the good stuff from other sourc--that is, because they are now estranged over their entirely different philosophies with regard to good sportsmanship. Does it strike anyone else as curious that, a few unfortunate and minor-player exceptions aside, it's the wives and girlfriends that are always going down for this rather the jerks who actually take their stuff to win? Kill the messenger, whydontcha--I suppose it's a lot less embarrassing than having to clear the ranks of half the cyclists!

Fuyu Is Right: Team RadioSkank, of course, is still reeling from the colossal misstep of Clenbuterol-snarfing Fuyu Li, who ought to know at a minimum that he's not supposed to test positive until, like everyone else who ever (super)domestiqued for Lance, he's already left the One's precious fold. Like utterly-whipped repeat podium finisher Andreas Kloden *needs* to lose the one guy he could actually pull rank on to send back for water bottles? Arrrgghhh!

Like a Fine Wine, But She Can Beat You *Down*, Honey: finally, just an encouraging nod to the French, who have at least one rider they can count on not to suck year after year after year: yep, it's permanent French champ/new autobio author Jeannie Longo, reportedly considering what to do after her cycling days are over but who luckily has at least another generation to finalize her plans. Allez allez Jeannie--and for heck's sake, can't somebody take her to the Tour de France start line with the boys?

Alberto Contador Is Scr*wed! (Again)

Bad Move, Vinokorouv!: okay, so the Gibo (Giro, whatever) di Trentino is off, and who wins the introductory time trial with enough seconds left over to stop at Lago di Garda to admire the view, take a drink, have a nice snack, and take a photograph for a couple of tourists? That's right, exquisitely amoral erratic wingnut Alexander "I Heart Syringes" Vinokorouv. Now, I'm not suggesting there's anything *wrong* with this exactly--it is indeed a very, very, very fine result--but what I am saying is, what the !@#$ are you thinking, Vino?!?! Do you *want* Astana to get its !@# kicked out of the Tour? Do you *want* Contador's domestiques to be pincushioned into springing a thousand leaks from the unannounced 2 am doping controls every night for the next 10 weeks? Do you *want* those raging crybaby impotents at UCI turning their wrath on you and your squad because they're still pissed off they can't get Valverde? Well, *you're* the one who took advantage of Contador's less brainiac tendencies to keep him in his damn contract at steroid-stuffed brass-knuckled-goon gunpoint, so don't !@#damn go and !@#$ it up! Sigh. Tomorrow, Alexander, I think you are coming down with a severe case of stomach flu and laying low until the artificial rocket up your !@$ burns itself ou--I mean, until you have fully recovered from your unfortunate and unexpected ailment. Idiot!

Union of the Snake: elsewhere on the Trentino roster, of course, in addition to Gilberto Simoni (bow, beeyotch!), angel-winged press-flirt Ivan Basso and Franco "Why Does Everyone Keep Fawning Over Ivan When I'm King of the Mountains at the Tour?" Pellizotti, is Riccardo "Head for the Hills!" Ricco', replete with a spiffy new cobra-head bike and, of course, distinctly annoyed that for some utterly unfathomable reason he screwed his whole team out of an invite to the Tour de France, which he's ridden so miraculously well in the past. I gotta say, if I were him, I'd call bull!@#$ on this one as well. I mean, have you seen who *else* gets to ride the freakin' Tour this year?

The Chicken Comes Home to Roost: meanwhile, in a nod to a dear and highly respected reader who specifically requested that I *not* post a sleazy Danilo DiLuca-esque portrait of Tour de France winner Michael Rasmussen, I therefore post a quite un-Cosmo pic of our beloved Chicken, now out of competition due to "mono" and who, as he looks towards the faraway Vuelta for results, in *my* humble opinion ought to stop whatever the hell he's been (allegedly!) taking in his IV drip and start mainlining McDonald's Happy Meals instead. Never let it be said that we here at racejunkie don't respond to your concerns!

Sins of the Fleche: finally, it's off the remainder of the Ardennes Classics, baby, as Contador gets to ride possibly his last race of the season thanks to his dimwit boss, Cadel pegs Amstel Gold champ Philippe Gilbert for the win, and the Schlecks, Cunego and Valverde look for vengeance after a crash-bonk-and-ash-cloud-marred start to the week. The profile: ouch, especially over the Mur de Huy. All right, I get they're saving themselves for Liege, but allez allez Schlecks--after your crap start to the season, you need some confidence ahead of July!

Adventures in Doping Excuses

And Atmospherics, Too!: Yes, doping's evil, no, I don't support it. And, I don't normally worry about weather conditions, unless to enjoy a miserable freezing sleeting Classic from the comfort of my couch and a nice hot toddy. But one can't help but notice--if one's morals lean towards the, well, flexible--the fantastic opportunity this giant Icelandic volcanic ash cloud presents to the peloton this weekend, particularly that freakishly high percentage of superstars who are surprisingly afflicted with life- and career-threatening asthma only within 1 kilometer of the finish line. I mean, if pure mountain air or a flat stretch of bucolic meadow is damn near gonna kill ya--and, coincidentally, require the immediate ingestion of a huge amount of oxygen-flow-improving asthma meds--imagine how much of that !@#$ you boys can justify taking *this* weekend when you're breathing in ginormous amounts of the exact same crap that smothered the entire city of Pompeii! Better, this sounds a hell of a lot more plausible than even the beautiful Bjorn Leukemans "Love Machine" defense a few years back. Opportunity knocks, skeezeballs--just don't say I told ya so!

Il Grande Giro is Right, Baby!: yes, after months of exhortation, and a bit of a sidetrack into developing scandal, our glittery fairy-princesses at Lampre have finally signed we love peerless peloton smack-talker/2-time Giro king/general avenger of injustice Gilberto Simoni to ride the Giro d' Italia one last time. Now, for *my* money what's interesting is whether a still-young, clean (and no, pretty-pretty as Ivan is, and despite the enormity of my lingering geek-crush on his crack legal team, I'm not *entirely* sold on that "attempted doping" bull!@#$) Basso can continue to pound, in the high passes at least, a damn-old Simoni. Sorry Ivan, but just out of nostalgia that Gibo grievously impugned your manhood then had to hastily retract allegations that you tried to bribe him off a stage win at your last big match-up, I've got to go with Simoni on this one. Next up: the Giro del Trentino, where he'll open a can of whup-!@# on such perpetual inferiors as Riccardo "Wuss-Baby" Ricco', (excellent Classics rider, who to be even fairer is still coming off a stomach ailment) Damiano Cunego, and even endlessly diverting wingnut Vinokorouv. Forza Gibooooooooooooooooooooo!

Goldmember: finally, as we look for baby Schleck to make the peloton shriek in pain at Amstel Gold this weekend with the aid of big bro/new dad Frank, let's first note that Euskaltel made Alberto Contador cry like a two-year-old at Vuelta a Castilla y Leon today, and then let's take a look at the Amstel course profile: Allez allez Andy!

Your Philosophical Question o' the Day

Could Fabian Cancellara Win the Tour de France?: No. Next!

Dancing With the Podium Babes: yes, for those of you getting bored of drunken frat-boy vomit-fests, starving desperate corporate-drone dilettantes eating rats in jungles, and skeezy hyper-gelled spray-tan-addicts caressing their own biceps in the mirror, there's a great new reality show in town that's actually relevant to cycling: Be a Giro d'Italia Podium Babe! Dutch arm-candy will be tested on subjects including Italian culture and language, and, let's be honest, pulchritude. No word on when the "Be a Women's-Giro d'Italia Podium Man-Babe!" show is starting, but I'm confident it's soon. Hell, gives Di Luca and all those other unemployed doping-ban male cyclists a way to stay involved in the sport!

Cav Strikes Back: so in the wake of his calling BFF teammate Andre Greipel a "!@#$-race" winning, no-talent loser, and his boss' subsequent mild admonition that he expects teh boys to play nice when they're told to, *and* the inexcusable failure of some female non-cycling journalist to fawn over him, sprint king Mark Cavendish has gone postal yet again over how tough he has it, whining that he was screwed out of (repeat winner Thor Hushovd's, so suck it!) green jersey in one of the "two worst calls" in all sporting history, Brad Wiggins has no right to criticize his egomania 'cause Wiggo's a no-talent loser too, Greipel is *still* a loser, and people are mean, mean, mean to him! Yes, Cav, as a civil rights lawyer I see this *every* *single* *day*--boy, you are *oppressed*! One of the (justly) most celebrated athletes in the world, a huge cash-cow of a contract at an age when most of your contemporaries are living in their parents' basements or grubbing away desperately at some unbearable crap-paying cube job, adulation, fame, the power to go off on anyone at any time virtually without repercussions--and on top of that indignity, SOME PEOPLE DON'T COMPLIMENT YOU EVERY SECOND! Oh, the injustice of it all....

The Why the Hell Isn't This Getting More Press Coverage Freak-Out o' the Week: wah, it's gonna take Bjarne ten more minutes to find a sponsor willing to tolerate their logo being flashed first at every finish line by Fabian Cancellara, wah--what the !@#$ is this about we love Euskaltel-Euskadi having sponsorship troubles? Aiiiggghhhh! Samuel Sanchez, say it ain't so--I can't *stand* to see another great Basque climber defect to RadioSkank!

Breaking News in Italian Cycling: no, not some penny-ante inquest about widespread doping at Lampre that threatens to drag it down the toilet, you fools--the *important* issue, natch, is whether Pozzato's radical-yet-paradoxically-old-school black tricolore kit at last weekend's Paris-Roubaix is sartorially appropriate. Luckily, our dashing Pippo will be relieved to hear, style of course has won out over strict technical propriety, and he remains indeed on both the best-dressed and future race start lists. Whew, glad we got *that* earthshaker resolved!

Golden Boys: last but not least, there is in fact actual racing going on, and as we wish allergy-whacked Alberto Contador a healthy and successfully Vuelta a Castilla y Leon (if only to watch him irk Lance Armstrong), even more bitchin' is that we can see we love dear little Carlos Sastre back in action at the Ardennes Classics this weekend as he preps to take out the two remaining Italian GC contenders not already banned out of contention at the fabulous Giro. Allez allez Carlos--nice to have you back!

Tom Boonen's Quote o' the Race

Boonen, on his stupid compatriots blowing the win at Paris-Roubaix by refusing to chase: "There was no co-operation. If you ride with three guys then you close that gap, even on Cancellara; it's not just that this year he has jet engines installed up on his arse." So sweet. Even if Flecha *did* screw you, we still love you, Tom!

A Gentle Plea To Our Victors: look, Cancellara earned it, and deserved it. Even if Thor I'm sure *could* have kicked his !@# with just a few days more recovery time. But much as (American) football has banned those prancing-pony post-touchdown spikes, tennis has cracked down on the primal screaming, and hockey--well, hockey's too busy beating their opponents bloody to put the stop to the occasional adrenalin-driven stick-raise, so must I call for an end, however exuberant and spontaneous, and even by so fine a gent as Cancellara, to the monstrously obnoxious Cav-esque double chest-point:Honey, we *know* it's you!

The Orange Revolution: elsewhere, it was the Klasika Primavera, baby, and, along with such former champs as Heras (shut up!), Sastre, Valverde and Cunego, look who won today!:
And in a dandy touch, big Schleck was in the house. Watch out for July, Valverde--if your ban don't get you, Samuel Sanchez will!

!@#$-All, Quick Step!

What. A. Crushing. Disappointment. Boonen breathes--and yes, flakes--for ten seconds, and it's over because, Stijn, he's got no !@#damn support. Still time for the podium, Thor!

Lookin' Good for the Hell of the North, Boys!

Especially 'Cause There's One Big Threat Less of You Now: yep, things are lookin' even better and better for the smashing Paris-Roubaix this weekend, particularly our big-fave studpuppies-o'-pain Boonen and Hincapie (no, I'm not mentioning Cancellara, !@#dammit, I still feel sorry for Tommeke), as 2008 World Champ Alessandro Ballan is suspended by current squad BMC for his (alleged) involvement in the spankin'-new Lampre doping scandal. Me, I think this is an egregious witchhunt--I mean, everyone knows cycling's cleaned up its act since that 2006 Operacion Puerto nightmare!

Ow, My Stomach!: in what I'm sure is a total coincidence, meanwhile, Lampre big-shot/Classics man Damiano Cunego has pulled out of the Vuelta a Pais Vasco with a disgusting stomach ailment, which means either (1) he's got a disgusting stomach ailment, or (2) 90% of Lampre is going to quit racing entirely in the immediate future with 'stomach ailments'. Guess which! And, because I'm genteel, and genuinely don't want to be unkind to someone in the uncomfortable throes of wholesale intestinal explosion, I won't even mention the potential amusement value of the fact that Cunego's been known to sport a giant "I'M DOPING FREE" tattoo on his arm: Aw, *I* believe in you, Piccolo Principe!

Who *Was* That Masked Man?: over in Narc-land, a pack of jailbait Ukrainian sell-outs, I mean whistleblowers, have apparently given up the goods to the French on the latest masking agents for EPO, which means, I suppose, that if anyone else ever turns up with Danilo DiLuca's Giro d'Italia Princess Bride testosterone levels at any future races, the officials won't just buy that he accidentally mistook his girlfriend's birth control pills for Tic-Tacs. Um, is anyone else thinking these guys are lucky the peloton's too busy with the Classics at the moment to schlep all the way to Ukraine to find 'em and give 'em a major beatdown?

Roubaix, Schmoubaix: finally, lest we all get bogged down in some silly cobblestone thingie coming up on Sunday, let's take note of what *really* matters: we love Samuel Sanchez took Euskaltel's first win o' the year right in its home stomping grounds in the Vuelta a Pais Vasco! Here's how his first blow in the fight for the podium at the Tour de France (yeah, that's right, he'll be there baby!) landed:

Lessons In Love...

...From Doping Investigators: so yap, there's another giant doping scandal involving 54 skankmasters in Italy, yap, Lampre's a giant easter-egg-colored pack of drug-snarfers, yap, but more interesting, in my view, is that the rat in this case is a woman and hospital employee close to alleged head pusher Guido Nigrelli, who, according to gazzetta dello sport, acted out of twin motives of "passion" and "economics." Which leads us, class, to *two* important life lessons: (1) never piss off your woman, and (2) never, ever stiff an employee. After all, just think of the poor sweet cheating scumlords whose palmares will be destroyed by such careless folly!

The Man With the Golden Arm: man, can Alejandro "Bloodbag" Valverde's life *get* any more charmed? Not only is he allowed to ride everywhere unrestricted except (and for the hilarity factor on this one, see above) Italy, and not only did he genuinely win the stage today at the Vuelta a Pais Vasco, but he even "won" the opener there yesterday when we love Oscar Freire was !@#$ed and relegated in the sprint. First, judge for yerself. Second, Oscar could bodily whack Valverde off his bike with a giant medieval battering ram and I'd still pick Freire, so the actual merits are moot. Gee, if *I* install a permanent IV port in *my* !@# and hire top-flight legal and publicity goon squads, will someone pay *me* a gazillion euros a year to be a doping cheating dirtwad?

Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing: meantime, over at Columbia-HTC, the boys are getting along just great, as Andre Greipel discreetly suggests that he'd've been a better pick than an off-his-form Mark Cavendish for Milano-Sanremo, and an excruciatingly polite Cav rather begs to differ, opining he's happy to ride on the same squad with such a talentless assclown as Greipel and that there's no way in hell Cav's gonna let that loser ride on his Tour de France squad. C'mon, Andre, take the high road, apologize, kiss, and make up--that is if Cav doesn't chew your face off with those giant teeth of his first!

Tweet o' the Week: yes, this one's a two-fer, as amiable George Hincapie takes on Podium Cafe wisenheimers who tell him he blew Flanders by using completely the wrong wheels for the cobbles, and righter-of-wrongs Robbie "Head-Butt" McEwen comes to his chivalrous defense. Damn, George is like 8 feet tall and Robbie could beat the crap out of even all of Cadel's enormous entourage with both arms tied behind his back--good thing no-one reads *this* drivel!

Too Much Is Never Enough: finally, I see Lance has decided to bow out of the Ardennes classics, but lest any of you Armstrong fans are freaked you won't be getting a play-by-play update on how many times he picks his toes today, never fear: as our bike experts at the AP were quick to post, oh my god he's riding the Circuit de la Sarthe this week! Too bad we'll never find out the name of the rider who actually *wins* the thing, at least from the American press anyway....

Ronde and Ronde/What Goes A-Ronde, Comes A-Ronde

Swiss Army Knife: all right, I had no interest in counting Cancellara as a (oh, fair enough, the) favorite after he snipped at poor ol' Stijn Devolder, but he whomped our dear Tommeke fair'n'square so even I can't much begrudge that. But boy, you can't say the same for Matti Breschel, who, in the midst of trying to jack team leadership and huge wads of money from some other, post-Bjarne team, has now lit into his mechanics for giving him Stuey O'Grady's ride during a bike change. Shut up, Breschel--you should be *honored* to ride O'Grady's steed whether it fit you or not! Over at the women's Ronde, the weather was nastier and the race was a heck of a lot closer:
Nice score for Belgium by Grace Verbeke at least!

Alessandro, Alessandro, Alessandro: oh, Petacchi. First you have that idiot poz for huffing a liter of salbuterol, albeit after a sprint which is clearly the stupidest !@#$in' thing I've ever heard of. *Then* you bust your hand punching a team bus, Cav Boonen and even that jailbait little Bennati start kicking your !@# in every sprint, you get investigated for tax evasion in Monaco like everyone else in the peloton, the whole thing starts slipping away from your near-geriatric legs, and just when I was about to pull a Tom Boonen Image Rehabilitation Project on you, you get your form back, start not sucking entirely on the hills, *and* start grabbing stages in the Giro like it's 2004. So now your friendship with Bernucci, who apparently had enough drugs in his house to stock Team--um, forget it--for a week, gets you back in hot water? Fortunately, not only does Bernucci swear they belonged to his wife--and I'm sure she had good reason for taking 'em--nothing was found in your pad. Y'know, if it weren't for the fact that I'd then have to despise you for being a coward like Ricco', I'd say run away, Ale-Jet, run away! Man, I *hate* feeling sorry for sprinters--here we go, at least you can always be a supermodel like DiLuca if you have to!

Basque to the Future: finally, in loving memory of Iban Mayo's completely bull!@#$ trashed career (like it's any of your dang beeswax I'm still in denial?), it's the Vuelta a Pais Vasco all week, baby, and it's time for the still-winless Euskaltel (damn, guys, you're starting to look like a French squad, pick it up!) and the fabulous Samuel Sanchez to start instilling fear into the climbers of the peloton. Also bitchin'--both big and baby Schleck'll be there. Sure, it'll be nice to see if Andy's finally recovered, but aupa Samu--and watch out for him in the Tour, Armstrong!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Mean, This *Is* April Fools', Right?

Knights of the Round Table (And Their Sucker Soigneurs): remember all those stories about medieval English kings where some poor doomed bastard had to taste the food first to ensure that the lord high honcho didn't keel over poisoned from some wily assassination plot, only to himself die writhing in agony at his sovereign's sainted feet? Well, I'm still waiting for someone far less gullible than I to call bull!@#$ on this one, but is it me, or has Lance Armstrong finally veered off into certifiable coke-stuffed Columbian drug-lord territory by having enough A-Team goons, sniffer dogs, hermetically-sealed anti-tamper water bottles and double-secret-safeguards around him to grubstake the massive paranoia quotient of some reclusive tropical-forest megalomaniac cult leader ahead of not even the America-hatin' Tour de France but the freakin' harmless Tour of Flanders for !@#$'s sake? Hear those Rottweilers barking?--don't even *try* anything, Contador you twerp!

Smells Like Team Spirit: speaking of the Tour of Flanders, it's only a few short days away, and not only are prime contenders dropping from the start list like Spaniards from...oh, why get my !@# sued?, but Quick Step guru Patrick Lefevere is going on the offensive to malign his own multiple-champ Stijn Devolder as a pathetic weakling, Devolder's wasting valuable energy (1) protesting his maidenly virtue and (2) trying to keep his rather handsome contract into next year, and even the preternaturally amiable Fabian Cancellara is dope-smacking the boy for not being enough of a doormat for Tom Boonen in the race. Y'know, I want Boonen to win as much as much as anyone, but surely this dandy performance deserves more than a *total* beatdown from Lefevere?:


I'm In With The In Crowd/I Go Where The In-Crowd Goes: meanwhile, as you've no doubt heard, the Tour de France team list is out, and I gotta agree with the reject DSes who are going all psycho over it, it is *complete* crap that 2009 mountain stage winner Brice Feillu (now of Vacansoleil) is out. I mean, not to be disrespectful or nothin', but not only is he one of the few French riders not to decisively blow in the last several years, which in itself makes him and by extension his squad an exceedingly valuable commodity, but *Cofidis* gets in over these guys? What the heck kind of justice is that?

And Baby Makes Three: so with Cav's announcement that he's not going to ride the Giro--because, to be fair, like most young sprinters he outright sucks in the high passes--and Boonen already in, by my genius math that's *two* Europeans outside RadioSkank to make it the Tour of California, and, as neither are GC threats, so far as I can tell Levi Leipheimer can stay home on the couch drinking lite beer and scratching himself and still take home, as he always does anyway, the prize. Sigh. Oh, Levi, I'd have *loved* to see in your rightful place on a Grand Tour podium again this year--too bad Samuel Sanchez is already scheduled to kick everyone's !@# if he rides the Vuelta!

A Friendly Plea to Our Pretty Pretty Pink Pals at Lampre: last but not least, a mild request for a bunch of Barbie lookalikes: you've got your ProTour license, NOW HIRE GILBERTO SIMONI FOR ONE LAST GIRO !##DAMMIT! Admit it, guys--it's not like Cunego's gonna take it anyway, is he? Aaaaiiiigggghhhhh! Aaaaiiiiggghhhh!

Punk-!@# Yap o' the Week

Me, Me, Me, Me, ME!!!!: now, I don't what the hell race *you* all were watching at Criterium International this weekend, but me, I saw heck-strong young RadioShack pro Tiago Machado take a really spectacular 2nd on the stage to boy-is-it-nice-to-see-the-French-all-not-suck-for-once Pierrick Fedrigo the day before the child also clawed his way to third on the overall, too. But if you were team leader/legend emeritus/noble nurturer of awe-inspiring future talent Lance Armstrong, in your 5-minute post-race press-orgasmatron with the fawning media so intent on capturing the brilliance and inevitable immortality of your every precious word that a mere mumble from you could make or break somebody for all human history, after a race you had no intention of being a contender in anyway, what *you* apparently saw worth noting that day was an in-depth exploration of your gastrointestinal problems, a thoughtful exposition of the weather, a detailed lecture on catching germs from little kids, and--in a truly Oscar-winning performance of total egomania--that "a couple of our boys were up front today." Generous! Man, just thank Levi Leipheimer for hauling your !@# up the Alps next July by kicking him straight in the nuts, whydontcha?

Millar Time: meanwhile, it was actually quite lovely to see the irksome ostentatious faux-wah-wah-king St. David Millar finally take a win, an interesting contrast given his post-doping tendency to blame the fact that he's basically stopped winning a damn thing because clearly everyone else but him is still on the juice (and giant bonus points to ever-diplomat we love Phil Liggett for delicately not pointing out the reason for the boy's loooooooooooong fallow period since then.) Not that I'm suggesting that the fact that he finally *is* winning means anything, particularly because Great Britain has notoriously plaintiff-friendly libel laws. I'm just sayin'. I mean I'm not saying nothin', nothin' you hear me!

An Encouraging Shout-Out to Tom Boonen: okay, he didn't win E3 Prijs, thanks to Flecha suckin' off him like a leech and Cancellara's perfectly timed attack. But he also hasn't been on a drug-fueled booze-blacked-out Ferrari-wreckin' bender this season, either, and he's really on fine form ahead of the big cobbles, so I think it's important he knows how very, very proud we are of him. You go, Tom--it's only a matter of time you big lug!