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.
I know as well as any of you that I've been checked out lately, kind…
Peter Sagan has undergone quite the transformation over the years; starting as a brash and…
The Women's road race has to be my favorite one-day road race after Paris-Roubaix and…
Holy fuckballs. I've never been this late ever on a VSP. I mean, I've missed…
This week we are currently in is the most boring week of the year. After…
I have memories of my life before Cycling, but as the years wear slowly on…
View Comments
@sgt
More beautiful words have nary been spoken. Well done.
I'm just going to cheapen it now, but really what it comes down to is how exciting the racing is; how much of the v is being laid down? How exciting are they making it? Even with Pharmstrong, when he'd attack on the first mountain stage, at least that stage was fun to watch. Of course, the rest of the Tour sucked because all the suspense we used up, but that was better than the Indurain era, where he never even did anything outside the ITT (except when he dashed off with COTHO2 in, was it, '93?)? Zero suspense.
I love good bike racing, and rarely - if ever - think about doping while I'm watching them ride. All that occupies my mind is how exciting and beautiful our sport is.
And, I might add, Lombardia was like that this year.
@frank
as was MSR, P-R, Flanders, Wallone, the Giro, most of the Tour, the Vuelta, and the Worlds. Good year.
Beat me to it!
@Steampunk
Excatly. If you told me you were thinking of nodding at a YJA, I'd say "Oi, Frank, no ...".
@Steampunk
It was cold raining here yesterday, and I was inspired to ride as an hommage to Gilbert. I pulled out my rainjacket, which happens to be yellow. Strike one. I wore it while riding. The performance left a lot to be desired. Strike two. That's it, I am done with that particular jacket.
So, any recs from the community for a good, damp-to-wet weather jacket? I sweat like a pig, so it has to breath some, even at the expense of letting a bit of water in. And, it drizzles here more than it rains, so I'm not looking for a pure rain cape. More something to keep out damp and cold (nothing below 5 C).
Fuckin' A. Seven dotty jumpers will get you my admiration. He was a whiny bitch, so what? Give me passion!
@Nate
Get a nice, snug vest (I hate shit flapping) , some nice Castelli long sleeve jerseys or warmers and ride like a beast. Keep the core warm and you'll be fine. (I know... what does a SoCal sissy know about cold?) I did ride in the rain this weekend, so there.
@sgt
Well, I'm a NorCal sissy, so it's only slightly colder up here. A quality vest might really be the way to go. I hate overheating.
@Nate
In my experience, raincoats are shit. They never breathe enough, and you just end up getting wet on the inside. What you need, is something to keep the chilling effect of wind on wet fabric and skin at bay. I generally just go for either a wind-breaking vest or a wind-breaking jacket - compressibility is the ticket. I forget what it's called, but there's a great Castelli windbreaker that compresses down to a peanut and keeps the cold wind off you. It's perfect for rain and descending a long col.
@sgt
Ha! That's pretty much what I just said in the latest article. Crap minds think alike and all that.