Tag: Super Spaniard

Slouching toward Paris

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
Steelman Eurocross
The other day I rode my old Steelman Eurocross for the first time in a long while. It was a nice change from watching other folks ride.

Well, the Tour is sort of ambling toward the barn, and I guess I’ve officially lost interest.

Zoom-Zoom has more than five minutes on everyone now, and boy, wouldn’t this be an interesting race if he were not in it, with second through fifth separated by 47 seconds?

Not even a double helping of L’Alpe d’Huez and a bit of the bonk, exacerbated by a smallish fine and even smaller time penalty, could rattle Zoom-Zoom and his merry men.

Nor could today’s tough-on-paper stage, made tougher by a heavy rain that may have dampened the blue touchpaper back in the GC group as Rui Costa timed his attack perfectly and won his second stage. Saxo-Tinkoff is said to be focused on team GC now, since Super Spaniard apparently left his cape and tights in his other phone booth. This is right up there with kissing one’s sister.

Tomorrow brings a 125km hump from Annecy to Semnoz, the final summit finish of this Tour, and Sunday serves up the traditional Who Gives a Shit? parade stage, a festival of jackoffery that this time around will conclude in the evening, a brainstorm cursed roundly by the photographers who must shoot the race in the Parisian twilight and then try to file, eat, drink and sleep in a timely fashion.

Ah, well. Come Monday we will have our own bikes and (God willing) the time and legs to ride them. My ass is taking on the shape of this office chair, and it is an unfortunate combination, as neither has ever been a thing of beauty.

Charles Pelkey and I will be calling the final weekend of the 100th Tour over at Live Update Guy. Pop round and get your minimum daily requirement of snark while it’s hot.

¡Ay, Chihuahua!

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments

Ohhhhhhhhh-kay.

I thought Super Spaniard had this one in the bag. He was flat railing those downhill corners. Bobsledders, skydivers and fighter pilots were getting motion sickness just watching him.

And then Zoom-Zoom ambles on in after an ill-timed bike swap in the rain and croaks him by nine seconds.

You could read Super Spaniard’s face like a marked deck: “Hijo de la gran puta.” He shook his head ruefully and smiled with the lower half of his face, the way one does upon being cheated at five-card stud in a strange town while unarmed.

I don’t know what to think, myself. I’m deeply suspicious of this sort of dominance — call me irresponsible — and I don’t like it one bit that Zoom-Zoom is already trying to play the patrón without even having won the fucking race yet.

Bjarne Riis called him a pussy, but he sure doesn’t ride like one. In fact, I’m starting to think Zoom-Zoom can take Mr. 60% in a straight-up Huffy toss.

Well, that’s it, then

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments

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.

Some showdown

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments

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.

Meanwhile, Radio Shackstrong has hired a criminal defense attorney and begun body-checking random pedestrians and manhandling photographers. Now that’s what I call some cycling action.