I’ve been getting my info in spits and spurts, but it wasn’t until the fifth stage when my panties got all in a tingle, because for years and years, my favorite of all the Classics is the Paris/Roubaix, and this stage promised to be the best Roubaix yet.
Not even a little bit was I disappointed. It had the rain, and the suffering, and the thrills, chills and spills that any decent Hell Of The North has ever provided.
So much so in fact, the the Tour’s hopeful, Chris Froome was chewed up and spit out like yesterday’s gum.
And as I was looking for an image to include here, I found this, which is way better anyway;
I love this image for a ton of reasons, but upon closer inspection, I love it most especially for this Dick Van Patton looking guy;
He’s pretty much my spirit animal.
Anyway, Froome is out, which didn’t change the fact that it was a battle for the ages that saw casualty after casualty,
-and grimacing faces that generally are reserved for the beginning of April;
And a win by the hands, feet, and skill of a cyclocross racer;
Photo via Belkin Pro Cycling.
From my perspective, the fifth stage offered everything I love about speedcycle racing in both spades, and in shovel loads.
And as long as we’re sort of immersed in the process of race reporting, do you find yourselves tiring of the same old boring news feeds about the race? Then by all means, you should re-read (or read for the first time) my coverage of last year’s stage 1-7, stage 8-13, and stage 13-21.
It really was some of my finest work.
While texting with Joe Parkin (Has Nice Hair) during Wednesday’s segment, he noted that he could see no reason at all that it isn’t the two of us who should be donning polo shirts and providing expert commentary there on the TV.
I replied that if we could bring Dr. Steve Brule into the fold, we would change the way people viewed the race forever;
No slight to Paul, Phil, or the rest, but if this is something that you feel would be of a benefit to our Tour coverage, then by all means, begin your letter writing campaign to NBC Sports today.
As usual, I thank you for your time and consideration on this matter.
Now then… Let’s get back to the meat of the Monday and discuss whatever the hell it was that happened this past weekend.
For any who have been out of the loop, we descended upon Minneapolis for the number whatever in a series, Swobo Folsom Fist Fight;
There were a ton of events occurring in and around the Twin Cities over the course of the weekend, like the All City Championships, a Bandit Cross race, some Nationals bike polo shenanigans, and probably some other stuff.
We did our best to assimilate, or co-conspire, or piggyback with the other events, and while the one we had in Colorado has to be the biggest to date, Minneapolis held down the fort, and the good citizens were hugely supportive despite how full the city’s dirtbag biker dance card was.
Lost in the dust of battle, I got confused, so instead of thinking about too much, too often, I simply cracked a can and began taking photos which resulted in a better telling of the story than I could muster anyway.
After a quiet evening with an old friend on Thursday in an attempt to emotionally prepare for the onslaught, day one began looking something like this;
It’s appropriate that the final image is blurry. Because so were both my own, and everybody else’s eyeball balls.
It stands to reason that after all of that heathenry, I should burn a little bit of the blue flame with this guy;
So after all was said and done, and after debauching as mightily as I could in derbies, bike drag races, alley cat registrations, team relays, kid’s races, parties, after parties, pre-party parties, and so on, I circled back around to the innocence of rolling with my little buddy.