It's quite a hike to this trio of hot-springs pools — about 10 minutes to go a quarter mile. But they were worth the walk.
Here’s where I’ve been after a few days in the VeloBarrel, a Bicycle Retailer deadline and a primary that seems proof positive that the Republican Party no longer exists as such. If Barry Goldwater saw his party today, he’d ask Curtis LeMay bomb it back to the Stone Age. Or maybe forward to the Stone Age.
Whatever. After finishing my chores and viewing with alarm, albeit in private, I fled Bibleburg for a place with hot water a-plenty but without wi-fi, cell service and black helicopters. More later.
Oh, by the way … I already own a blue helmet, a nifty Rudy Project with a visor and everything. I’m gonna have to get creative with some press-on white lettering, which I just happen to have on hand.
Texus Maximus tries to make it all about him again, but alas, instead of riding the finale in some black Yankee-football-style kit ostensibly honoring the 28 million worldwide said to be living with cancer, The Boss and his bitches have to settle for wearing it while collecting the team prize, which nobody ever gave a runny shit about until, um, this year. Imagine my surprise.
Sorry, Pop, says the UCI, 23rd at 39:20 doesn’t carry a lot of weight around here these days. Pull on the usual gear or go home. Better luck at the Ironman. I hear they let fat fucks wear Speedos in Hawaii.
Long story short, Super Spaniard gets the V, Pretty Boy gets the virginal white, Albuterol Petacchi gets the green (let’s see how long he keeps it), and Anthony Charteau gets the spotty shirt. Maybe for next year he can borrow some heels from a podium chick so he doesn’t have to stand tippy-toe to stare at their tits.
Well, that was … unimpressive. Pretty Boy waits until 10km to go to “attack,” Super Spaniard rides his wheel to the line and gives him the stage win, all wrapped up with a pretty little bow on it, then it’s time for a hug. Ick. Bernard Hinault and Sean Kelly probably just threw up in their mouths a little bit.
Pretty Boy better find himself some snap if he ever wants to beat this dude. Trying to ride Alberto Contador off your wheel on a mountain stage is like trying to drop a tattoo.
Technology is not our friend. And neither is Super Spaniard, if your whizbang drivetrain happens to bite you in the ass while you’re sharing a mountain with him and he covets your pretty yellow shirt.
I don’t have a problem with Bertie latching onto Denis Menchov and Sammy Sanchez if they’re moving forward despite the yellow jersey’s mechanical. But Bertie was driving that train, and he knew exactly what he was doing when he lit it up from behind the spazzed-out Schleckalecka. He was thinking, “Here’s a cheap way to score myself a half-minute from this hill-climbing fool.”
I do have a problem with the friggin’ heat in these parts lately. We’ve been about 10 degrees hotter than normal lately, in the mid-90s, which sucks, frankly. I was sweating like a ditch-digger before I ever threw a leg over a top tube this morning, and on the climbs I was wearing my shades upside down in my helmet to keep the lenses salt-free, just like the big boys.
Jesus, it’s 84 inside the goddamn house. A refreshing glass of white wine is indicated. And I know just where I can find one.
There ain’t nothing like that first week of the Tour, boys and girls. And this has been a particularly bad first few days, what with various other chores coinciding with my need to work five days a week for three weeks at VeloNews.com.
After 20 years of cracking lame cycling gags I occasionally find myself with a nasty case of writer’s block, and wouldn’t you know it? This was one of those times. And me with deadlines at Bicycle Retailer & Industry News (two columns and a “Shop Talk” cartoon strip) and VeloNews (editorial cartoon).
Never get out of the fuckin' boat!
I pushed the envelope so far it turned inside out, creating a wormhole that took me to an alternate universe containing a Patrick O’Grady who was still about half funny. Happily, when I showed up my dopplegänger was asleep under his drawing board with an empty bottle of tonsil polish in one limp paw (some things transcend time and space), so I appropriated his work and returned to my own universe just in time to beat my deadlines.
But is this my universe? Lance Armstrong is not winning the Tour — far from it, he sits in 18th place, 2:30 behind Fabian Cancellara, and is getting heckled by spectators calling him “dopehead” and “cheat.” And Mark Cavendish is getting his ass handed to him in the sprints. The renowned sprinter Andy Schleckhas more points than Cav’, f’chrissakes.
Shit. I should’ve listened to Chef. “Never get out of the boat.” Not even to beat a deadline.
Mad Blog Media 