Too, I’m been chiming in during Charles Pelkey’s live updates from the Giro, for all the good it does him. And Herself and I celebrated our 22nd anniversary on the 12th.
So, yeah. Busy busy busy, especially considering that I remain seriously underemployed — and, as a geezer who earned his chops in a dying profession, am likely to stay that way. Well, that just means more time to ride, no?
So I go out and flog myself around the countryside for a couple of hours, followed by a bite of lunch, and by the time the day’s Amgen Tour of California stage rolls around I could give a shit. I mean, I like Peter Sagan and all, but four stage wins? For reals? And today brings the time trial in Bakersfield. Pass the toothpicks, someone, I need to prop my eyelids open.
Of course, with my eyelids propped open, I can’t not look at stupid shit like this, from Rep. Mike Coffman (R-Fuckwit). Jesus H. Christ on a flatcar. Most states in the Union put their crazy people in mental institutions. Colorado sends them to the U.S. House of Representatives.
I filled in for the lawyerin’ Charles Pelkey this morning at Live Update Guy, doing my usual half-assed imitation of the master.
While I was juggling video, comments, stats and what have you I nearly missed maglia rosa Taylor Phinney riding straight off the road and into the grass at high speed. This would be hairy enough on the average pro road bike, but this being the team time trial Phinney was on his TT bike — and he managed to keep it upright and get back on the road (though he would have less luck holding onto his leader’s jersey).
So, chapeau to young Mr. Phinney. Nobody will ever know whether he could have stayed in pink had not Roberto Ferrari taken him down with that stupid sprint of his. But I think we can all agree that he certainly would have had an easier time of it today.
Chapeau, too, to Garmin-Barracuda and Ramunas Navardauskas for winning the stage and taking the overall lead.
When I was a kid my folks had to use a garden hose to flush me out of bed if I were to get my newspapers delivered before the evening news came on. In college I tried to schedule classes as late in the day as possible because the night time was the right time, don’t you know.
As a dropout I worked a janitorial gig — total night shift, 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. And a couple years after I returned to college and got that old sheepskin my newspaper career settled down into shifts of mostly 4 p.m. to 1 a.m. on one copy desk or another.
Yap!
So, yeah. I don’t like mornings unless I can face them on my own terms. This means arising slowly, gradually, easing into the day as though it were an overly hot tub.
Alas, with Herself elsewhere, as she is today, that hot tub is more like an icy pond.
Herself does not object to mornings in principle. She gets up and gets busy, wrangling dog and cats and coffee, while I enjoy an extra hour or two of watching whichever movie happens to be showing on the inside of my eyelids. My participation in the morning ritual mostly involves sitting in the reading room, staring dumbly at the rumbling furnace register, as Turkish describes figure-eights around my ankles before leaping into the sink for a drink.
When Herself is in absentia, I have to assume a slightly more active role.
At dark-thirty Buddy sounds his version of “Reveille,” a single note — “Yap!” — as the imprisoned cats drag the hallway carpet underneath the basement door. Unless I want to hear it again — and again, and again, and again — I have to drag my big ass out of bed and chuck his little ass outside.
Next I liberate the Turk’ and Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who demand a hearty breakfast after their long, dark night of unconstitutional detention without charge or even probable cause. The former gets straight to work on a bowl of kibble while the latter enjoys an aperitif of heavy whipping cream before diving into the crunchies.
A depleted Buddy rejoins the party and gets his own bowlful of breakfasty goodness, after which I stumble downstairs to see what fresh horrors the cats have left in the litter box. After a nostril-scorching few moments of turd dispersal I totter back upstairs to get the coffee started, which involves a bit of dishwashing as some eejit forgot to run the dishwasher last night.
As the java bubbles, so does Buddy. Full of chow and good humor, he locates a toy and begins chomping on it rhythmically — squeaka squeaka squeaka — as I pour a cup and try to decipher the morning news. Squeaka squeaka squeaka makes more sense than pretty much anything being attributed to Those In Authority. The temptation to add a dollop of 12-year-old Redbreast to the coffee is nearly irresistible.
Happily, things begin to settle down and the whiskey bottle remains corked. It’s time for the post-breakfast nap. Mia snoozes in a donut atop the ’fridge, while Buddy beds down in his kennel. The Turk’ is last to fade. In his capacity as field marshal of the 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment he inspects the perimeter from various windowsills before finally settling down in the Tower of Power in the living room.
Man, did you folks see Roberto Ferrari take out Mark Cavendish and Taylor Phinney in today’s Giro d’Italia stage? Judas priest. Cav’ went down like someone shot him from the sidelines.
“I was doing my sprint. I didn’t see him,” Ferrari told Cyclingnews. “I don’t know what happened because it was all behind me, my foot slipped. I had to switch lines because another rider moved abruptly.”
Bullshit. He was trying to hit a gap that wasn’t there. Relegation was too gentle a punishment. Every rider on Team Sky, BMC or any other squad with a man on the deck should be permitted to queue up for a chance to kick Ferrari in the nuts.
Bravo to BMC for towing maglia rosa Taylor Phinney back to the bunch in stage 2 of the Giro d’Italia after a late mechanical left him off the back and in peril of surrendering his overall lead. And Mark Cavendish — well, what can you say about him that hasn’t already been said? Dude is the Joe Frazier of sprinting.
Finally, boo to the Giro management for permitting what appeared to be a pointlessly hazardous finale to an early sprint stage, when everyone’s already as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. With dudes bunny-hopping medians and a hard right-hander 500m from the line it’s a wonder more people didn’t come off in the final kilometers. I’ll look forward to reading what the experts on the scene have to say in that regard.
I gave Charles “Live Update Guy” Pelkey a hand with today’s coverage, as did the Fat Guy. Now it’s time for me to ride my own damn’ bike. Well, Cyfac’s, anyway. More later.
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