Alberto Contador (Astana) is 28.5km from winning a Giro d’Italia he never expected to start.
The Spanish climber deflected a flurry of last-gasp attacks from arch-rival Riccardo Riccò (Saunier Duval-Scott) over the Gavia and Mortirolo in Saturday’s 232km mountain shootout to retain the maglia rosa and roll into Sunday’s final-day time trial with the narrowest of margins.
But four seconds might as well be four hours for Contador, who is favored to cement his lead in Sunday’s mostly flat race against the clock into Milano.
“I could never have imagined that I would be in the maglia rosa poised to win the Giro a month ago when my team called me,” a relieved Contador said. “To be in the maglia rosa in the last day of the Giro, playing in the time trial to win it all, it’s something unimaginable a month ago.”
Last day time-trials are always exciting, because you truly never know what might happen … just think about Greg LeMond’s performance in the 1989 Tour de France, when he was 50 seconds behind Laurent Fignon on the final day, with just 24.5 km to go until the finish. And yet, he managed to dig in and find 58 seconds, to win the overall by a mere 8 seconds. The closest, and the most exciting finish to the Tour de France ever, as far as I’m concerned.
While I don’t believe (at least at this point) that Alberto Contador or Riccardo Riccò are quite the same calibre of rider as LeMond and Fignon, despite VeloNews’ assertions that 4 seconds are as good as 4 hours, this Giro d’Italia is not yet over.
Contador could have an off-day … Riccò could put in the ride of his life to claw back those 4 seconds and all of a sudden, the accidental maglia rosa changes hands.
And maybe, just maybe, ASO will reconsider their ban of Astana from the Tour de France, which starts in just 5 weeks.
» by flahute in: Cycling on May 31st, 2008 at 21:35:22 UTC |
Longest ride of the season thus far for me … yeah, yeah, for most of you, this is nothing, but anyone who has been reading this blog over the last couple of years knows that I’ve been dealing with (unfortunately not very well) a lot of personal/emotional shit … so to me, the fact that I even made an attempt at Emigration, after going south into Cotton Bottom is an accomplishment.
Turned around after re-filling bottles at Ruth’s Diner, then dropped into Sugarhood for some Mexi-Coke and a banana at Liberty Heights Fresh, then took it as easy as I could on the way home down Highland, hoping that slight stabbing pain in the back of my thigh didn’t turn into a charlie-horse.
Still managed to just about double my biggest vertical day of the season thus far, as well as tacking on a few extra miles.
Home now, obviously, and about to jump in the shower to rinse off the salt. Then Advil. Then hydrate more, and a movie.
How do you define an epic? It’s a noun grossly over-used by sportswriters, particularly those who write about cycling. Through the years, European journalists have described heroic deeds by brave athletes on bicycles with gushing prose that was rarely deserved. They even titled road racing’s formative years The Heroic Era.
Admittedly, in the long decades before live radio and television commentary brought reality to the grand tours and classics, cycling fans only learned about races through the written word. And journalists depended on selling newspapers to make a living. The better the story, the higher the sales. It’s no wonder they turned ordinary performances into extraordinary feats.
On reflection, were the daylong slogs through blinding rainstorms on muddy roads any more heroic than what miners did in their everyday jobs at the coalface? How meaningful was, say, Tour de France contender Eugène Christophe’s carrying his heavy steel bike down the Col du Tourmalet and repairing the forks at a blacksmith’s forge? Or did the survivors of “epic” editions in Paris-Roubaix really deserve the lavish praise heaped upon them by an adoring media?
That’s not to say that the riders who excelled in harsh conditions were not deserving of their recognition as exceptional individuals. But a true sports epic is one in which, besides having to battle the elements, the contestants go to the limit of their physical and mental capacities while still competing for the victory in a major competition. All of those ingredients came together on June 5, 1988 on stage 14 of the 1988 Giro d’Italia.
Over the past couple of weeks, there has been an excellent series of articles celebrating the 20th anniversary of Andy Hampsten’s win in the 1988 Giro d’Italia, starting with the grueling stage over the Passo Gavia, in which Hampsten finished second on the day (behind the Netherlands’ Erik Breukink), but with the maglia rosa of the overall leader, which he held until the conclusion of the Giro several days later.
I’m actually surprised the Reverend Big Ring hasn’t posted a sermon about this yet … but he has been busy finishing the new chapel and preparing to move his wisdom from the Hells to the Golden ones, if all goes well … so I find myself in the position of leading the prayer service.
Let us pray:
I believe in Hampsten, the Climber Almighty,
the Creator of heavenly tours,
and in the Landshark of steel, on which he rode:
Who was conceived of the skinny legs,
born of the massive lungs,
suffered on the Passo Gavia,
was frozen, yet not buried by snow.
He ascended into hell.
The fourth day He arose again in the mountains.
He ascended onto Vetriolo Terme
and crushed the mighty Dutchman,
in the manner of the Cannibal Merckx.
I believe in the Big Ring, the holy cycling church,
the communion of riders,
the forgiveness of admitted dopers,
the resurrection of the clean riders,
and road racing everlasting.
Pity the nation whose people are sheep
And whose shepherds mislead them
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars
Whose sages are silenced
And whose bigots haunt the airwaves
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
Except to praise conquerers
And acclaim the bully as hero
And aims to rule the world
By force and by torture
Pity the nation that knows
No other language but its own
And no other culture but its own
Pity the nation whose breath is money
And sleeps the sleep of the too well fed
Pity the nation oh pity the people
who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away My country, tears of thee
Sweet land of liberty!
And speaking of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, there is a great interview with the legendary Beat Generation poet, publisher, and owner of City Lights bookstore in San Francisco at Democracy Now!, in a variety of formats including .mp3 podcast, .mp4 downloadable and streaming video, and RealMedia streaming audio and video, as well as a rush transcript.
» by flahute in: Life on May 29th, 2008 at 13:37:32 UTC |
… that some of my behavior, blog posts, and comments on other people’s blogs is making some people uncomfortable, or even “freaked out”, as one friend put it.
For that, please accept my most sincere and humble apologies.
I was stunned, and extremely embarrassed by how my actions and words are, and have been interpreted. It was certainly never my intention to make anyone uncomfortable.
I know how difficult it can be to change people’s perceptions, so I’m not going to ask any of you for a second chance.
Instead, I will let my actions going forward speak for themselves, and if I am deserving of another chance, I will have earned it.
» by flahute in: Music on May 28th, 2008 at 03:38:44 UTC |
PENNYWISE - THE WESTERN WORLD
We are the dregs of the western world
The steroid boys, and video girls
We are the viral internet stars, and the anchormen can’t stop crying.
We are the dead with the dreaded disease,
Delivering our songs for you and me
Let’s go, alright, alright let’s go
What the fuck are you saying?
No, I don’t wanna live here anymore (Gonna watch it burn)
We are the best, and we fight ’til the death,
There’s nothing left worth fighting for
In the western world (Hey, Hey x 4)
This is the end of evolution’s rise,
The feeding frenzy of the a civilized,
The paparazzi parasites,
And the vultures can’t stop feeding,
This is the face of a vanity
The tabloid death of inhumanity
Let’s go, alright, alright let’s go
What the fuck are you saying?
No, I don’t wanna live here anymore (Gonna watch it burn)
We take the best, and we spit out the rest,
And always leave ‘em wanting more,
In the western world (Hey, Hey x 4)
We are the dregs of the western world
The steroid boys, and video girls
We are the viral internet stars, and the anchormen can’t stop lying.
We are the dead with the dreaded disease,
Delivering our songs for you and me
Let’s go, alright, alright let’s go (let’s go)
What the fuck are you saying?
No, I don’t wanna live here anymore (Gonna watch it burn)
We are the best, and we fight ’til the death,
There’s nothing left worth fighting for
No, I don’t wanna live here anymore (Gonna watch it burn)
We take the best, and we spit out the rest,
And always leave ‘em wanting more,
In the western world (Hey, Hey)
Hey, We got nothing to do (Hey, Hey)
In the western world (Hey, Hey)
In the western world
In the western world
Over the past couple of weeks, there has been an excellent series of articles celebrating the 20th anniversary of Andy Hampsten’s win in the 1988 Giro d’Italia, starting with the grueling stage over the Passo Gavia, in which Hampsten finished second on the day (behind the Netherlands’ Erik Breukink), but with the maglia rosa of the overall leader, which he held until the conclusion of the Giro several days later.
