Where to start.
Ulle is out (but at least he's got a bike line). That's too bad. I really liked watching him flog himself into shape over the course of the season, pulling it all out of his butt at the last minute for Le Tour. He definitly got shafted - guilt and innocence aside (did any charge ever officially get brought?). Basso's got a lovely contract with Disco, Levi and George to ride for him, and Jan has got nothing to do but eat schnitzel. What the hell. I meant, Jan suffered. He toiled and labored after belatedly realizing that he'd screwed up, again, year after year. It was fun. It was entertainment. Basso rode away with the Giro like he's shot an ounce of Pot Belge through his toes. Jan clawed his way into form at the Tour de Suisse and looked like he was sacrificing an ounce of flesh at the altar of the gods of cycling every morning to do it. He was tormented and talented. Basso had a certain chemical smell. Not that anything stuck to him, either, so good on him for still riding, but it was a hell of a lot less credible than most other rides I'd seen. At least Jan was entertainment. Now he's going to get fat and fade away. All we've got is some hairy Italians dancing around the alps like Ferrari's dogs. I wanna see someone pull themselves up a mountain by rope made of their own guts, not espresso and a needle. Or at least make believe. Sheesh. Where's the show?
Last night was a toggle-fest between the last stage of the ToCali and the Oscars. It was quite apt. Ennio Marcone got some award and I found myself on Amazon and soon the proud owner of no less than three discs of spaghetti western music - including the full soundtrack to The Good, The Bad, And the Ugly. Nice. It went real well with watching a break dangle in front of a pack and get chewed up again. Like a gunfight with Clint: long, drawnout, and inevitable. Maybe it was the beer, but it sure meshed well to me.
Dominguez winning in front of all the Euro sprinters was wicked, too. Domestic races sure breed some fast finishers. Haedo proved it last year, and I was stoked that the big guys got mostly shafted. Ballsy stuff.
Oh yeah - the TT sucked. I was flat. Rode well below my limits but just couldn't get the gears to turn over to go much harder. That'll teach me to take the days off when I need them, and open up like I'm supposed to.
O'Grady on Jan
Sharpton and Thurmond - weird.
Ulle is out (but at least he's got a bike line). That's too bad. I really liked watching him flog himself into shape over the course of the season, pulling it all out of his butt at the last minute for Le Tour. He definitly got shafted - guilt and innocence aside (did any charge ever officially get brought?). Basso's got a lovely contract with Disco, Levi and George to ride for him, and Jan has got nothing to do but eat schnitzel. What the hell. I meant, Jan suffered. He toiled and labored after belatedly realizing that he'd screwed up, again, year after year. It was fun. It was entertainment. Basso rode away with the Giro like he's shot an ounce of Pot Belge through his toes. Jan clawed his way into form at the Tour de Suisse and looked like he was sacrificing an ounce of flesh at the altar of the gods of cycling every morning to do it. He was tormented and talented. Basso had a certain chemical smell. Not that anything stuck to him, either, so good on him for still riding, but it was a hell of a lot less credible than most other rides I'd seen. At least Jan was entertainment. Now he's going to get fat and fade away. All we've got is some hairy Italians dancing around the alps like Ferrari's dogs. I wanna see someone pull themselves up a mountain by rope made of their own guts, not espresso and a needle. Or at least make believe. Sheesh. Where's the show?
Last night was a toggle-fest between the last stage of the ToCali and the Oscars. It was quite apt. Ennio Marcone got some award and I found myself on Amazon and soon the proud owner of no less than three discs of spaghetti western music - including the full soundtrack to The Good, The Bad, And the Ugly. Nice. It went real well with watching a break dangle in front of a pack and get chewed up again. Like a gunfight with Clint: long, drawnout, and inevitable. Maybe it was the beer, but it sure meshed well to me.
Dominguez winning in front of all the Euro sprinters was wicked, too. Domestic races sure breed some fast finishers. Haedo proved it last year, and I was stoked that the big guys got mostly shafted. Ballsy stuff.
Oh yeah - the TT sucked. I was flat. Rode well below my limits but just couldn't get the gears to turn over to go much harder. That'll teach me to take the days off when I need them, and open up like I'm supposed to.
O'Grady on Jan
Sharpton and Thurmond - weird.
No comments:
Post a Comment