The finale, a 15km time trial in Verona, was something of a snoozer, since Ivan Basso could have pretty much run the course with his bike slung over one shoulder and still won the overall. But I got paid for watching it and posting news and information about it, so I have nothing to complain about.
Meanwhile, this just in from the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic: Bill “McBeef” Baughman finished 41st in Geezers 55-64 with a time of 3:03:45, trailed by Michael “Dr. Schenkenstein” Schenk, who crossed 63rd in 3:22:39. The Bride of Dr. Schenkenstein, Susan, took 24th in Geezerettes 45-54, finishing in 3:40:30.
Chapeau to all the Mad Dogs who made it to Silverton. I didn’t even make it out of the yard yesterday.
I participated in small-d “democracy” yesterday, having been summoned to jury service in El Paso County’s Fourth Judicial District.
Now, I ain’t lyin’ to anyone here. I spoke very many bad words — and loudly, too — when I got the summons. I repeated them, albeit in different order, when I rang up the court Wednesday night and found out that yes, I was required to appear at 8:30 a.m. Thursday.
I walked downtown instead of cycling (you don’t have to lock up a pair of Sauconys, wear a helmet or carry a pump and spare tube). En route I saw a cat perched on a rooftop, a bathtub full of flowers and a bottle of Arrogant Bastard Ale perched upside down on a brick wall. When I walked into the jury room “There Must Be Some Misunderstanding” was playing. All omens, no doubt. Of what, I had no idea.
Three judges had cases on the white board, so I read a little Zen while cooling my heels (“A day of no work is a day of no eating,” said Huai-hai, first to establish a Zen monastery in China). A clerk erased first one case, then a second, and I was thinking I might get sprung in time to enjoy a nice long bike ride.
Nope. The third case was the charm, and our jury questionnaires went upstairs. After a bit half of us were cut loose and the rest of us paraded upstairs for a grilling by the judge, the prosecution and the defense.
We numbered 14 and the case (driving under restraint) only needed six jurors, so I figured my chances of liberation were still pretty good, seeing as I am a journalist of dubious repute and a renowned scofflaw with a long, well-documented history of traffic violations, all of which I cheerfully confessed.
Nope. Selected. Balls, I thought. The way this is going I’ll wind up foreman on the sonofabitch.
While some last-minute legal maneuvering took place, the six of us chatted in the jury room. Besides me, we had a Spanish teacher, two construction types (one unemployed and recovering from a workplace injury), a telephone-company retiree and a mortgage-loan person, our lone female). We discussed our jobs and the lack thereof, injury and recovery, TV shows, kids, spouses and pets, bicycling.
And then the judge popped in, doffed his robes and told us we were free to go. Seems the trooper who cited the defendant had made an audio recording of the traffic stop and neglected to mention it to the DA’s office. Judge, prosecution and defense all listened to it, the defense said it couldn’t proceed, and shazam: Continuance. Off you go.
Six hours after I walked into the courthouse I was walking home in 90-degree heat, thinking about what the judge had said. He told us that it’s easy to feel cynical about the state of the nation, to be discouraged at the incessant mudslinging that has replaced political action, to wonder when you vote whether it really makes any difference.
When you serve on a jury, he said — even if you don’t actually get to hear the case — you are participating in an act of patriotism, small-d democracy in its purest form, the sort envisioned by the Greeks. A group of strangers convenes on behalf of the common good, listens, decides and disperses. There is no question that your vote makes a difference, your voice is heard.
True, the process was cumbersome. A couple dozen folks had their schedules upended for an hour or two — or six — and driving under restraint is not exactly the stuff of a “Law and Order” episode. The defendant looked vaguely disreputable, the way I did not so long ago; ponytail, beard, sunglasses.
Still, it was a reminder that the the least of us can go toe to toe with The Man if he has the balls for it, and that the State is not infallible. Call it a six-hour civics refresher. I even got a diploma. They misspelled my name.
The celestial sprinkler system went off this afternoon.
It just pissed down rain like a mad bastard for about 15 minutes and now the sun is shining. Good work, Yahweh. Saved me from having to water the lawn.
Big Tex has trotted out the traditional boilerplate via the Radio ShackStrong website: “We understand that responsible anti-doping organizations and governmental agencies have an obligation to investigate allegations of wrongdoing, even when those allegations are baseless, incredible, and made by people with improper motives.
“At the same time, much of what has been reported in the press is false, sensational and unprofessional. If any governmental or anti-doping organizations conduct a proper investigation, Lance looks forward to once again being totally vindicated after a fair investigation.”
That’s a big if. There’s a lot going on in the world these days, and whether Big Tex and his cronies were applying more than shaving cream to their legs seems like a case of the sniffles next to, say, pestilence, war, famine and death.
Still, there’s some gold in them thar molehills. What ambitious miner wouldn’t want to be the guy who comes up with that big nugget clutched in his grimy fist, the one with the seven yellow stripes? But there’s a lot of hard digging ahead and the sparks are sure to fly as the picks start swinging. Don’t touch that dial.
The Amgen Tour of California is finally over and done with, all praise to Cthulhu, may his (its?) tentacles grow ever longer. As tours go, it was not particularly captivating, but I did enjoy a couple of stages, including the last go-round of four in stage eight, the finale.
You have an untimely mechanical for defending champ Levi Leipheimer (RadioShack), U.S. national champion George Hincapie (BMC) off the front, Garmin-Transitions abso-fuckin’-lutely drilling it in the bunch for Dave Zabriskie, and a shitload of attacks from everybody and his grandmama on the final trip up to Mullholland Highway, all of which race leader Mick Rogers (HTC-Columbia) beats back all by his lonesome. Then a fast, scary descent to the finish with Garmin’s Ryder Hesjedal first across the line. Boo-yah.
Messy as hell, fun to watch, and if an Aussie won the overall and a Canuck the finale, so what? Tough shit. I like Aussies and Canucks. They’re kind of like Americans, only with bigger balls and better beer.
Now we can all go back to giving the Giro the attention it deserves. Anybody watch today’s stage? Count Vino’ looked like he was a quart low on the climb to Monte Zoncolan. Astana’s creature of the night finished fifth on the day at 2:26 behind Ivan Basso (yeah, no alarm bells there). Rainbow jersey Cadel Evans (BMC) was second at 1:19, and the difference between his climbing style and Basso’s was reminiscent of the Frazier-Ali fights.
Meanwhile, David Arroyo Duran (Caisse d’Epargne) still has the maglia rosa, but only in the sense that a clothes hanger holds a shirt until its proper owner slips it on. It’s a long way to the finale, with four more summit finishes en route.
Bill "Billy B." Baughman caught in a rare moment of surrender.
The notorious Bill “Billy B.” Baughman, a.k.a. Big Bill McBeef, was honored this evening at a reunion of his former cellmates who gathered over cheap wine and even cheaper jokes to recall their deep and often infectious relationship with the doddering old pervert in honor of what he claims is only his 60th birthday.
The highlight of the evening was this faded photograph of Billy B. surrendering to the authorities on a felony charge of Selling The Irish Weed Trimmers That Will Not Start Unless Billy B. Is Starting Them For You, You Drunken Mick, You. The snapshot was a keepsake provided by Patrick “Mad Dog” O’Grady, a former weed-trimmer customer and bunkmate who is believed to have been the first to “turn him out,” as the jailhouse parlance puts it.
“He got out in front of me on that weed-trimmer deal, but after that I only ever seed him from behind,” guffawed O’Grady, clapping Baughman on the back, which is yet another truly filthy and juvenile gag and one which goes just about as far as we need to take this particular line of humor this evening.
The truth is, Bill and I have spent a lot of time chasing each other around on bikes since the early 1990s, and if I only saw him from behind, well, it was because I could never catch the sprightly sonofabitch. A happy belated birthday to you, Bill, and may you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you’re dead. Slainte.
