Photographs trigger memories and emotions within the human psyche that last a very long time, and remind us of where we were, what we were doing, and how we felt at any given moment of our lives. The above image, although still fresh in the time/space continuum, nonetheless brings back happy times for myself.
It reminds me of Australia, of my friends, as we watched the late-night telecast of Stage 8. It reminds me of the banter between us, with one member of the viewing audience vehemently trying to defend the merits of Armstrong’s challenge for an eighth win. He was systematically taken apart with vigour, backed up by the performance unfolding on the road before us.
Astana was on the front of the peloton, with Tiralongo driving a frantic pace as they hit the base of the climb to Avoriaz. There was a dark figure sitting on his wheel, with a look on his face that said he was already well into the red, but knew that soon his time would come to up the intensity a notch further and put the other teams a little bit deeper into the box of hurt. I wasn’t sure who he was, but he was soon to be a new hero when he buried himself for kilometre after kilometre in service of his team leader. Daniel Navarro was a stud that day, and for the days to follow.
The heat of the day was intense, and I commented on how the riders must just be about cooking themselves, with whatever enhancements were flowing through their veins adding to the risk of their blood boiling and their hearts exploding out of their chest cavities. I was excited beyond belief; it was top-fueled racing, almost like the old days. But this time, it was Armstrong who was feeling the brunt of a dominant team working against him. I was almost screaming at the tv as he struggled to keep the furious pace being dished out at the front. “Go on, bend him over and fuck him, like he’d do to you!” is a pretty close approximation of the words I used. Did I mention I was excited?
When Pharmy crashed the first time, he was done. He chased back on with all his old vigour, but you could see that the effort had taken its toll on his aging legs, and when Astana turned up the heat again, his Tour glory days were fading rapidly in the rear-view mirror. By the time the above scene took place, he was a well-broken man, a shadow of his former self, an empty shell going through the motions, taking his team mates down with him as he threw in the towel like he’d never even contemplated before.
I wonder if, as he stood there in the middle of the road, without any urgency or desire to get back on the bike, that his famous words were swilling inside his head; “Pain is temporary, quitting is forever”.
Adios, Huevo.
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I love the disdain on his face, the "Are you fucking kidding me? Do you even know how to ride a bike?" If his eyes were laser beams, Euskatel-Euskadi would have had two riders heads explode that day. There's the evil eye, which I deliver to cars and riders that are idiots, and then there's the eye that Armstrong delivered here. It took it to a whole new level.
We call it stink eye, in Hawaii. He was giving it with both eyes that day. Previous to the picture that day, does anyone have the story of why he was coming out of that roundabout sliding on his back at 50 kph? I know he had hit the inside curb, but what caused it? Did one of his domestiques take him to the curb, by accident? My guess was the team rookie lead him into the curb.
That was probably one of the most depressing things I had ever seen in my short history as a cycling fan. As soon as I saw him standing there with his hands on his hips, I thought "That's it, he's giving up on the tour."
Couldn't watch the rest of the stage after that.
By the way, I'm in the process of having a stylized Roman Numeral 5 ( V ) made up as a tattoo for my left calf.
Has anyone figured out where Velasco's head disappeared to?
@Geoffrey Grosenbach
That might explain the look on Huevos' face ...
@Omar
On the contrary, oh how I laughed at this scene. Still gives me a chuckle looking at it now.
I watched this on my DVR again and again and what seemed like a long look was really a fleeting glance of probably less than a second. However it was seen by everyone and was as it appeared.
@Geoffrey Grosenbach I kinda thought that was the inspiration for the title of this post.
Navarro was a DOMestique this tour - and that says a lot, considering my hatred of Astana AND dudes who don't wear bibs. Many wasps knew what it was to be eaten by Navarro that day I can tell you!
I felt pretty bad for Janez, too - who had to help the old man into town.
What's that in the lower right corner of the photo, a fucking chalk-bot graffito? That would be ironic.
@ben
The no-bibs thing is a falacy, methinks. You just can't see the suspenders, the newer style bibs, like the sweet Castelli V-kit, have suspenders that sit a lot wider of your nipples. Check out Huevo's here for an example...
and here you can see the suspender...