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 … [Read more...]
Archives for November 2012
On Waving…
We've long experienced this situation, and when I say "we," you know I mean the ones that matter. Not the CATs. Not the championes le Sabato. Not the middle management. You. The Superissimo. We wave. If you don't wave, go to a different place now. This squadra Internationale and friend of Superissimo said it best in their summer ride etiquette manual. My own personal esperienza and the recent osservazioni di JVA have fanned the fiammes of an … [Read more...]
Bugno? Bugnyes.
Aside from 2 World Championschriefen, a Giro of the Italians GC Numeri Un 1990, and San Vito lo Capo Maglia Bagnato Chest Hair King 1988-1994, Gianni Bugno was always riding in shadows. He had his time. He reigned. He still has an incredibly dense hairline, which is much more a chrono-longo palmare than a colour maillot. But as a cyclist after le Francs, he was always up against the meat grinder. Indurain. Like the smaller of Jupiter’s two … [Read more...]
The Attack
With night still holding on to the fog, the parking lot seemed quietly alive. Dome lights put glow to the air in each man's car, marking his territory and hinting at each's preparedness. My layers were in tact and the helmet perched. I had left but to shake my sporte mixe. He approached me, trying to suave himself as he clopped slowly. He should have been in sock feet. Nobody can suave in shoes like these, not off the bike. This fool's pomp … [Read more...]
The Stem
I used to bear down into the wind with resentment. I was 15. The only climbs that could be had from the northern reaches of Indianapolis were headwinds. So I'd climb them. I'd buckle down, staring at my stem as if it were a friend. It said Cinelli. Milano. You've stared at it, too. In those days, the early 90s, the stem that had become my friend said to me: Alyssa. Milano. One will go to imaginative lengths to stay on board during a Hors Cat … [Read more...]
The Americans Jump Like Fleas
Brian 2, John 1, Mike 4, and Brian 3 were all on my back wheel ignoring the effort, playing child, pretending the dirty dishes would wash themselves. It's fine. There was a hill coming, and I could hear over radio exactly how quickly we were being reeled in. I wasn't tired. My legs were better. They took to my jump like a boy to parfum, and for no reason. It's as if they had never played this game. So I sat up. We let the rest consume us. I … [Read more...]