I’m prima loco about the scratches Cipo left in the flesh of cycling. It’s not a blind dedication like the throngs of numb who feel they must lie at the feet of fallen jesters. It’s an informed, balanced, and litigated loyalty.
I’ve considered it all, I assure you. If you think he’s a train wreck, then I am in the dining car enjoying a grappa. He’s LE Coq Sportif. His gigantic flag of ego, his uniforms, his form en velo, his velocity, his lack of charm–I don’t care. If he’s actually a vulnerable person hiding behind a display of self-infatuation, then it’s a great show. If I could get a chariot ride into work I would do it in a second, and I’d throw a bottle at anyone even thinking about getting in my way.
What of these thoughts? No, they are not new. They’re not insightful. There just ruminations. They’re another chewing over of some of cycling’s finest cud, and proudly. Ponder the molecular makeup of macho. Throw bottles. Be Superissimo.