I really should avoid redistributing shit like this, but it sure beats trying to write your own comedy while recovering from the Masque of the Red Death. As the NYVelocity crowd noted via Twitter, “Oh fer chrissakes there’s another Toto outrun by reality.”
Joe Lindsey has tweeted a call for questions to be posed to TCWSNBN, and some of the offerings are worth a look. If you are of the Twitterati, look for hashtag #questionsforlance. Hell, kick in a few yourselves. Everybody dance.
Will he or won’t he?
From Juliet Macur at The New York Times. Discuss.
The yellow leaves are fading fast and falling to earth. There’s a metaphor here somewhere; I’m sure of it.
Now we wait. The UCI has announced that it intends to disclose its course of action in USADA v. TCWSNBN on Monday, but tonight the object of their intention is addressing a gala hoedown marking the 15th-anniversary of Livestrong, once known as the Lance Armstrong Foundation, which remains its official title.
This means that ink-stained and pixel-pocked wretches worldwide must postpone the drinking of lunch, dinner or breakfast until Big Tex either (a) says, “It’s a fair cop, but society is to blame,” or (2) re-enacts the Hitler-in-the-bunker scene, but this time in first-person Texican instead of German and without the postage-stamp ‘stache. Either way, the poor bastards will have to file something, which will only make them bilious and vengeful come Monday.
I already did my little bit of business this morning, fielding a few e-mails from editors and watching a vanity not get installed in the downstairs bathroom (see “Return of the Shit Monsoon“). So I left the revelation watch to others and took the All-City Space Horse out for a pleasant 90-minute ride, which seems to be just about my speed lately,
I had been prepared to be critical of the bike, because I had noticed some knee discomfort while riding it that didn’t occur while astride anything else. The pedal-shoe interface seemed without fault, as I have Shimano SPDs on several other bikes.
Finally I broke out the tape measure and checked saddle height against two other bikes that weren’t bugging me and lo and behold: The Space Horse was way off. I’d sack that mechanic if he didn’t know me so well. Dude reads my mail and knows all my passwords and is wearing my pants as we speak. So much for my chops as a fount of velo-wisdom.
Now I’m back at the ranch and enjoying a delicious glass of dinner because I’m not the guy who has to write the story, when and if there is one. And my knees don’t hurt, either.
• Late update: A standing o’ for The Boss and no fresh revelations. A third option (iii) that I hadn’t even considered (see “fount of velo-wisdom,” above). Still, it’s good news for me. The last time I lost a bet on a Big Tex story I had to dress up as Betsy Andreu for a week.
The UCI has scheduled a press conference for Monday. Five will get you 10 they’ll announce they’ve found something suspicious about Big Tex’s bike.
Think Big Tex will suit up on Friday?
Some folks are expecting The Cyclist Who Shall Not Be Named (TCWSNBN) to ‘fess up on Friday in Austin, during a fund-raising hoo-hah marking the 15th anniversary of Livestrong.
Alas, while Bob Dylan famously noted that “even the president of the United States/Sometimes has to stand naked,” I don’t see The Boss pantsing himself in front of all those yellow rubber bracelets. Anyone who wants to see that hard ass in the cool breeze is gonna have to take an active role, and they’d best pack a lunch, ’cause Big Tex plays for keepsies.
My fabulously uninformed opinion is that he’ll use the occasion for yet another spirited defense of the indefensible, maybe launch a line of yellow rubber crucifixes, and fight a bloody, noisy delaying action until the last lawyer sprawls dead at his feet. I don’t see surrender. I see the Alamo.
Let’s assume for argument’s sake that he’s as guity as a yellow dog caught collar-deep in a trash can full of chicken bones, bacon grease and Benjamin Franklins. Where’s the percentage in coming clean now? The UCI has yet to weigh in — Fat Paddy and Lyin’ Hein are still trying to get their big-boy pants screwed on, I expect — and then there’s always the Court of Arbitration for Sport.
And besides, the only people who would buy a weepy mea culpa at this point are the Walking Deadstrong, that hard core of soft brains who, if they saw him mainlining EPO in a porta-potty at a sprint tri’, would blame Greg, Betsy, Tyler, Floyd and Obama, in that order.
I’ve been wrong before, and often in spectacular fashion. But I don’t see Big Tex coming clean until the End Times are truly upon him, which will be when the money runs out. Then he’ll “write” a tell-all book, hit the rubber chicken/morning talk show circuit and get back on that gravy train.
I hear Big Tex is circlin’ them yaller wagons a his’ns. The Testosterone Apatches mus’ be on the warpath.
The United Airlines flight that vanished without a trace. We were told Herself was booked on this one, but subsequent inquiry revealed that UA, as usual, was completely full of shit.
If humans were meant to fly, we would have wings, plus pouches for carrying those itty-bitty bottles of in-flight hooch.
And thus we would have even less use for United Airlines, which yesterday managed to disrupt the travel plans of yet another O’Grady. Back in March the bastards got me, but this time they discomfited Herself, who managed to fly all the way from Kailua-Kona to Honolulu despite having booked a flight to Bibleburg via Los Angeles. (Editor’s note: They got her in March 2007, too.)
I Photoshopped this image after Herself took a beating from United in 2007, en route from Bibleburg to Knoxville, Tennessee.
I can’t fault United for the original problem, some class of mechanical that required diversion to Honolulu for repairs.
I can and do fault the anonymous fuckwit in Honolulu who told Herself that she had been rebooked onto a flight leaving at 11 a.m. local time Tuesday — a flight that vanished mysteriously shortly after I confirmed this reservation with United customer service, which as you will recall is operated out of Spaminacanistan, Lower Intestinopolis, or some other exotic locale in which the native tongue is Squinch and the English competency limited to the phrase “I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir.”
During a follow-up call I was told that Herself had in fact been rebooked on a flight due to leave not at 11 a.m., but at 7 a.m. By this time, of course, there was no way she could make it — a few hours earlier United had shipped her off to a hotel 10 miles from the airport and that 7 o’clock bird was practically taxiing as customer service and I chatted so enjoyably at the top of my lungs.
We discussed a variety of alternatives, some merely whimsical, others outrageous and physically improbable, to say nothing of deleterious to various internal organs should one prove successful, before I finally got Herself a seat on a 7:28 p.m. flight that should put her in Houston — Houston! — around 8:13 a.m. on Wednesday, and have her home by 10:40 a.m., a mere 24 hours behind schedule.
It goes without saying that Big Tex could have triathloned it faster. But then Herself gets around and about on nothing stronger than the occasional beer or glass of wine.
And of course, if you’re to be stranded somewhere, there are worse places than a Waikiki Beach Marriott. And I plan to suggest that United customer service go there directly, just as soon as Herself has the wheels down in Bibleburg.
• Late update: After double-checking the latest arrangements, I found that thanks to a late incoming plane out of San Francisco, Herself was now looking at a 90-minute delay exiting Honolulu. This meant she would miss her connector from Houston to Bibleburg and would have a tough time beating Jesus here, even if she drafted Big Tex. After a little more rooting around online I found a late-night Honolulu-Denver-Bibleburg deal, but trying to book it over the phone as The Boss cabbed it to the airport proved impossible (“I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir. …”). And thus I threw up my hands, told Herself to get a chokehold on the first English-speaking United agent she found in corpus and book that fucking flight. And lo and behold: The agent was helpful, if slightly uninformed, and once she had the 411 she even laid an aisle seat on Herself without any pressure applied to her carotid artery.
The Big Wheel has turned, as it will, and this time it ran over The Boss.
Big Tex decked it in stage eight when he clipped a pedal and rolled his front tire, and after a couple of Euskaltels spazzed out in front of him, forcing him to skid to a stop and unclip, (who teaches these E-E dickweeds how to ride, anyway?), you could see it in his face as he stood there for a moment, hands on hips.
“Fuck this shit.”
Johan Bruyneel said his man “effectively threw in the towel” after he realized a hip injury left him incapable of cranking out the watts to get back among the big boys. Texus Maximus almost looked relieved for a while once he’d made his decision, but when he finally crossed the finish line nearly 12 minutes down he looked pissed.
“It’s sad to see, but that’s sport,” said Bruyneel. And so it is. Now Phil ’n’ Paul will have to learn a name other than Lance Armstrong, and the chamois-sniffers will have to learn to appreciate a different bouquet.
The big dogs all stayed on the porch today as Quick Step’s Sylvain Chavenal took the yellow jersey back from Fabian Cancellara in stage seven of the Tour.
Texus Maximus predicts a selection tomorrow, and all the wiseguys are picking Super Spaniard for the stage win, as stage eight has about a bazillion miles of up in it.
French wine is the rule here come Tour time — but naturally, we have a Spanish red in reserve just in case you-know-who opens up a 10-gallon-can of whup-ass.
Regardless of who wins, this should be a fun one to watch, if you spare yourself the hours of tedium leading up to the final climb, to the ski station at Avoriaz, a Category 1 13.6km slog that averages 6 percent.
If you enjoy parking yourself in front of the TV (or the laptop) on a lovely Sunday morning, however, look for the contenders to have their goons beat on the pretenders on the Cat. 1 Col de la Ramaz (14km at an average grade of just under 7 percent). That should thin the herd to a manageable size.
I don’t have a dog in this fight, but I wouldn’t mind seeing Cadel Evans do well. The BMC man has done the rainbow jersey proud this year, and I’m kinda developing a soft spot for the little weirdo.
During the Tour we drink French wine at Chez Dog — actually, we almost always drink French wine here, and last night was no exception. I usually start with a glass of white, this time a 2009 Coteaux du Languedoc from Picpoul de Pinet. A rosé is indicated next; last night it was a 2009 Coteaux d’Aix-en-Provence from Bieler Père et Fils, in part because it was on sale and in part because I like it.
The finale, since I was grilling a flatiron steak, was a red — a 2007 Côtes du Rhône from André Goichot, which was also on sale and thus in my price range. It has to be a really special occasion for me to drop more than $15 on a bottle of wine.
Tonight we have more Languedoc chillin’ in the ’fridge alongside a 2009 Rosé de Pressée from Tariquet. The red is Lou Bar Rou, a 2007 from Ventoux (a climb not in this year’s Tour). And just because I’m a lazy sonofabitch, I’m gonna reheat last night’s leftovers for dinner.
Red meat, red wine, red eyeballs — that’s the Tour de France, doggy style.
Patrick O'Grady has been making stuff up since, well, forever. He started doing it for money in high school and didn't quit until he retired in 2022. (To be honest, if you waved enough Dead President Trading Cards at him, he might do it for money again.) Until then, this blog is his pro-bonehead work. For more on Your Humble Narrator, click the comic.
The Radio Free Dogpatch podcast, which has been enjoying a refreshing dirt nap for the past two years, has arisen from its foul grave, casting aside its moldering blankie of refuse, dog shit, and critical letters to the editor. It will shamble around and about as the spirit moves. Click the graphic for the latest episode.
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Hal Walter ranches burros, a teenage son, and words from his rancheroo high in the mountains of south-central Colorado. Click the pic to sign up for his Substack newsletter, which goes out to subscribers whenever he's in the mood.
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