Christ, it’s been a long week. Deadlines and related editorial chores out the wazoo, the basement remains very much a work in progress, and we’re slowly furnishing, piece by piece, our second house back East (east of our driveway, that is).
Planning a visit to our scenic dingbatopolis? Forget that seedy Motel 6, folks, we have substandard accommodations for you right here, the Robert A. Heinlein Memorial Crooked House®, with all the comforts of home — a table, a chair, a bed, and crazy drunkards with guns right next door. There’s even beer in the ’fridge. We’ll leave the light on for you.
More good news today for the Radio Shackstrong crowd.
First, in The New York Times, another former teammate has detailed “some of his own drug use, as well as the widespread cheating that he said went on as part of the Postal Service team,” all of it allegedly performed with the “knowledge and encouragement” of Texus Maximus his own bad self.
Second, at VeloNews.com, former Gerolsteiner honch’ Hans-Michael Holczer — who is pimping a book, “Guaranteed Positive” — charges that Levi Leipheimer was blood doping during the 2005 Tour de France. Holczer said he would have pulled Leipheimer from the race but feared losing his title sponsor, otherwise known as his meal ticket.
“I was caught between a moral obligation and a legal threat,” Holczer said. “After (Danilo Hondo’s positive) we were sitting on an economic landmine. I was facing total bankruptcy.”
Neither Big Tex nor Leapin’ Levi seems eager to discuss these latest allegations with the press. They know that when the phone rings, it’s not some hack calling to ask how nifty it feels to win a bike race, because they’re not doing much of that sort of thing these days. It’s either Juliet Macur, Jeff Novitzky or one of their lawyers, and who wants to chat with that lot?
Or it’s some executive veep for marketing over at The Shack calling to ask, “Say, remind me, can you, exactly why the fuck did we get into this sport again?”
• In other news: Gubernatorial candidate Dan Maes (R-Batshit) is getting plenty of attention following his dire warnings about the Hammer and Cycle transforming Mile High into Mao High. Uh, Dan — they’re laughing at you, not with you.
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.
While we’re speaking about shit, Texus Maximus appears to have stepped in some. It’s tough to keep knocking ’em out of the park when the press has finally benched the fat teenager slow-pitching the softballs and brought up the major leaguer with the rocket-propelled arm. Am I an owner? A rider? Christ, ask me something about cancer, can’t you?
Hell, I can’t remember what I was doing 15 minutes ago, much less in 2004, and nobody from The New York Times is asking me about it, something that tends to peg the Fear needle at redline. I immediately channel the late Richard Pryor berating a fanboy snapping pix of him during a standup. “What you taking my picture for? Who you gonna show it to?” he demanded.
Call me cynical, but I expect that RadioShack’s PR flacks will be the ones dodging the beanballs going forward. “Ms. Macur? Hello, I’m Fullo Schidt, Mr. Armstrong’s intern for Media Ax-Grinding and Agendas … how may I be of assistance?”
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.