Posts Tagged ‘Super Spaniard’

Slouching toward Paris

July 19, 2013
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!

July 17, 2013


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

July 25, 2010

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.

Time waits for no one

July 24, 2010
Pretty Boy didn't topple Super Spaniard, but he was faster than this dude.

Pretty Boy didn't topple Super Spaniard, but he was faster than this dude.

Some showdown

July 22, 2010

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.

With your shield, or on it

July 21, 2010

This just in: Pretty Boy will attack Super Spaniard on the Col du Tourmalet.

Well, like, duh. That’s like calling a press conference to announce that Lennard Zinn is tall, or that Senate Repuglicans are assholes. Some things are self-evident.

I don’t have a dog in this fight. Still, tomorrow’s stage should be amusing. There’s talk of evil weather, which always enhances the pleasure of watching skinny leg-shavers scale and descend two Cat. 1 mountains before tackling the off-the-charts Tourmalet. And eight seconds is not much of a lead, unless you happen to be Greg LeMond gleefully watching The Professor ride into Paris.

I’ll be up and plugged in early on behalf of, and here’s hoping they fed the server-farm hamsters well this evening. All you cube farmers put a lot of stress on their wheel when you pop round for the word on who’s doing what to whom, and sometimes they get cranky and bonk.

Whaddaya think? I’m guessing Saxo Bank and Astana bring the pain from the get-go, trying to croak as many people as possible over the Col de Marie-Blanque and Col du Soulor before the survivors eat each other alive on the Tourmalet. If it’s done right, it should make the Donner party look like a Napa Valley wine-tasting.

If it’s not — say, if everyone rides piano until the Tourmalet — then we’ll feel the pain common to fans of American football, who learn over and over again that the Super Bowl is almost always the worst fucking game of the season.

• Editor’s note: Incidentally, we’ll be tuning up for the stage this evening by watching “Lewis Black: Stark Raving Black.” He’s a big softy, like Your Humble Narrator, and always puts me in a good mood.

Fire on the mountain? Not hardly

July 20, 2010

Yawn. A cease-fire in the Pyrénées as Radio Shackstrong gets sixth out of a nine-man break.

“Is this fucking thing over yet?” asked one of my colleagues. “They should be paying us to watch this shit.”

“They are,” I reminded him.

“Not enough,” he replied.

After a rest day, then, it’s the big boy — stage 17 to the Col du Tourmalet, otherwise known as Schleckalecka’s Last Stand. Then it’s one for the sprinters, one for the time trialists and the interminable parade into Paris.

The wiseguys all seem to think that Pretty Boy needs a boatload of time on Super Spaniard going into that final time trial, but it beats me where the hell he’s going to find it. They seem evenly matched in the hills, and Saxo’s tow truck Jens Voigt laid it down at 70 kph again yesterday, enhancing his scab collection.

“Fortunately, I didn’t land on my face this time and I’m still alive,” he quipped. That there is a very hard individual, that Jens Voight fella. Dude probably broke the road when he went down.

Bertie gets booed

July 19, 2010

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.”

They booed Bertie at the podium ceremony in Bagnères du Luchon, and I don’t have a problem with that, either.

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.

Shall we dance?

July 18, 2010

Another ho-hum stage in Le Tour. At one point on the final climb, Super Spaniard and Schleckalecka were practically track-standing, doing an Alphonse-and-Gaston number. I thought that at any moment they might actually leap off their bikes and dance the tango. It must be fun for the Astana boys to tow Contador all over France to watch him play footsie with Schleck in the mountains and wait for that final time trial, when he won’t need any help to kick that skinny Luxembourger’s ass.

Big props to Carlos Sastre for trying to relive 2003. Also to Christophe Riblon for continuing the fine French performance in their national tour by winning the stage. Likewise to Denis Menchov and Sammy Sanchez for ripping their legs off in a battle for what seems certain to be the third step on the podium, just below the dancing masters.

But the Mad Dog propeller beanie is most definitely not lifted to either Contador or Schleck. Not yet. One of these guys has to show some panache or I’m buying a set of golf clubs.

Boom, Schleckaleckalecka. …

July 13, 2010

Another day, another detonation — that’s life at the 2010 Tour.

Yellow-jersey-for-a-day Cadel Evans went boom after breaking his left elbow in a crash on Sunday; he and management decided to keep it a secret, the team worked like draft horses for him, and it ended badly.

“We decided not to tell anybody because we didn’t want anybody hitting us on the first climb,” BMC team manager Jim Ochowicz told VeloNews. “We controlled the race and we were going to see what the outcome was … you saw the outcome.”

Indeed I did, and I felt badly for Evans, who really has done the world champion’s jersey proud this year only to get a steel-toed Sidi in the ’nads from Fate. And given the carnage thus far, I wonder whether Andy Schleck — the latest in a series of yellow jerseys — might be tempting fate by saying that the race has boiled down to a two-man race between him and Super Spaniard.

Don’t let your mouth write no checks your ass can’t cash, son. I don’t see no Champs-Elysees yet.

Meanwhile, speaking of mouths, asses and checks, it seems that Scott McLobbyist, the Repuglican candidate for governor of Colorado (The Slightly Less Grotesquely Fat Than the Rest of the States State), has been accused of lifting bits for his series of “Musings on Water” pieces from the works of Gregory J. Dobbs (no relation to Fred C. Dobbs), now a justice on the state Supreme Court.

According to The Denver Post, the Hasan Family Foundation paid McInnis $300,000 to do speaking engagements and “research and write a monthly article on water issues that can be distributed to media and organizations as well as be available on the Internet.”

Instead, McLobbyist took a gig at a law firm, jobbed the research out and now blames the researcher for the alleged plagiarism, which he says is “a non-issue.”

“Voters don’t really care about this issue,” he told a Denver TV station. “They care about jobs, getting back to work.”

I’ll bet they do. Hell, I’d like to find a job like that myself after three decades trying to draw some sustenance from the dusty, withered teat of journalism. Getting paid $300,000 for two years to steal someone else’s words when they’re just sitting there waiting for you in a corral? Sheeyit, that’s about as sporting as shooting puppies at the pound. My words are all free-range, and take some hunting down.