Kontract for a King

It was at one of my infamous "Champagne and Helicopters" parties I throw thrice-annually at my private villa along the south of France that I befriended a number of top-class sports agents. Selfishly, my goodwill was solely motivated by the desire to be invited to the secret "Stars of the Stars" golf tournament that is held in a hyper-exclusive golf course that's been constructed under the Aegean Sea. The course is only accessible by Ferrari Submarine (yes those are a thing) and has been known to feature the type of hi-jinx that would make Dionysus blush. However I digress, it was through some of these sporting connections that I was able to get my hands on parts of the contract Marcel Kittel signed with Etixx-Quick Step for the 2016 season. The acquisition by Patrick Lefevre's team was certainly a windfall and no doubt will result in a flurry of victories. However, Kittel is a shrewd sportsman with even shrewder business savvy. As you'll see, he's a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to ask for it. Below you'll find a few of the more interesting highlights of his contractual demands. Enjoy.

1.     One (1) life-sized and/or to-scale full body poster of Ivan Drago (see: Dolf Lundgren circa Rocky IV (1985) to be placed in team bus before all races in which Mr. Kittel is present as well as (but not limited to) placement of said poster in any and all team hotel rooms wherein Mr. Kittel shall be sleeping in between races.

2.     The following list of nicknames are acceptable and, often, encouraged terms of endearment to be directed at Mr. Kittel:

a.     Ice Man

b.     Dolf

c.     Drago

d.     The Hair

e.     Val Kilmer

f.      German Cristiano Ronaldo

3.     A cellular telephone shall be provided to Mr. Kittel that has instant and immediate access to the following individuals for any pre or post race advice/motivation/pillow talk:

a.     Jan Ullrich

b.     Boris Becker

c.     Franz Beckenbauer

d.     Michael Fassbender

4.     During the Tour de France (2 July, 2015 – 24, July, 2015) a 2016 Porsche Targa 4S shall be provided to Mr. Kittel for all inter-stage transportation. Said Porsche shall be equipped with enough Orange Fanta to satiate two grown adults for a six (6) hour time period and a compilation of DJ Tiesto’s greatest hits shall be provided as well as a car stereo capable of going to 11 (eleven).

5.     Before races, four (4) tubs of Nivea Hair Shaping Cream shall be available and heated to the optimal 72 degrees Fahrenheit (22.2 degrees Celsius) temperature.

6.     At the conclusion of the 2016 season, a celebratory party shall be provided wherein one (or more) the following musical acts shall be booked as entertainment:

a.     Kraftwerk

b.     Rammstein

c.     Alphaville

d.     David Hasselhoff

7.     Prior to notable races while in the team bus, the only acceptable music that shall be played is the soundtrack to “Crimson Tide” (1995) and/or anything else from Hans Zimmer’s devastatingly powerful compositional repertoire.

8.     All team-sponsored activities will take place with a maniacal level of precision and timeliness. Any tardiness from teammates and/or team staff shall be punished by being forced to read the entire Braun Coffee Machine Owner’s Manual – in German.

9.     For promotional purposes, a shot-for-shot recreation of the infamous training montage from the aforementioned Rocky IV (1985) shall be produced featuring Mr. Kittel as Ivan Drago and Tom Boonen as Rocky. The ensuing mini-film shall be played continuously on the team bus as well as on televisions displayed outside the team bus for fans.


How To Do Things

I often find myself confused with how to do even the most basic tasks. Do I retrieve the peanut butter with a chopstick for my PB&J? Where do I affix the shipping order on this email? To combat such social stalwarts, I've created a few "How To" videos. Push play and enjoy.

A full examination process procedure for making the perfect coffee drink design excellence with informational How To steps. Enjoy.

And just in case you get hungry after all those chuppakeenos:

A so much informative view-take on how to produce a top-flight and so-damn delicious sangawich.



il Grupetto

I recently moved house and between finding a reputable haberdasher and a new source of platinum gilded golf tees, I found myself frequenting new local group rides. The group ride is an interesting beast indeed. Like a school of sturgeon responding to invisible cues, the group ride flows in a vaguely organic, sometimes erratic nature. Subtle clues can allude to substantial changes in its makeup and acceptance is rarely granted sans a primordial vetting process; the rules of which are shrouded in chamois cream and embrocation. As sure as you can rely upon the regularity of a different organized ride for every day of the week, you can rest assured that no matter where you turn the pedals you’re sure to interact with the same cast of characters. Like a traveling revival of Mama Mia, a fast group ride in Nice, France will have the same creepily familiar social makeup as a brisk jaunt in Sandusky, Ohio; just maybe with more fried Twinkies. So I present to you the troops of the group, those who take pride and pleasure in organized chaos, benvenuti al grupetto. Smells like your sister no?

The Lung The Lung is an older gentleman who’s tanned and experienced skin is surpassed only by his near endless supply of old race kits. The lung has a near preternatural ability to NEVER get dropped. He won’t win the group ride but you can rest assured that there is no terrain or tempo that will shake him. His face is either perpetually contorted in pain or void of emotion; each just as powerful. Upon further investigation you will find that The Lung is a former multi-mountain bike world champion from the early 80’s.

Who's up for a post ride sarsaparilla?

The Town Crier The Town Crier is fiercely concerned with group safety. He is first and loudest to call out any and every possible obstacle no matter how big or small its causal footprint. Calls of “SLOWING” or “GRAVEL” are bellowed with equal parts aplomb and audacity. This rider will not hesitate to chastise those who veer off course with “HOLD YOUR LINE”. Or the brazen individual who dares to not “KEEP BOTH HANDS ON THE BARS”. The manic nature of this individual is, thankfully, vacated once the pace increases. Just be sure to watch out for that “FALLING LEAF ON THE RIGHT” and may God have mercy on the soul of he who shows up not wearing a helmet.

Watch out for the shadow in 200 meters

The Reservist The Reservist is forever keeping it chill. At any given time he’s coming off of a life threatening sickness, tapering for the biggest race you’ve never heard of or keeping it reserved for reasons unknown to anyone but himself.

The Reservist: Yeah man I’m not trying to go hard today, got the big State Regional District Divisional Championships coming up, just wanna keep it Zone 1-2. Io: I am not familiar with this race. The Reservist: Yeah man it’s like I just had a combo bout of Mono, MRSA, and all the Hepatitis’s so gotta give the system a chance to regroup ya know? Like I might just little ring this whole ride. Not trying to go hard.

The Land Mine The Land Mine is a difficult character to spot, yet is extremely adept at catastrophic group dismemberment. The Land Mine can hold a wheel effectively in the flats and will defend his spot in the pace line with dedication and borderline aggressive resolve. You will resign yourself to merely staying behind him because passing takes more effort than its worth. That is, until the road goes up. With no warning, rhyme or reason the Land Mine physiologically detonates dropping his speed at a rate that seems unbounded by physics. This cycling IED causes havoc in the group as riders desperately hit their brakes and begin evasive tactics in order to not crash into the back of said rider. The pandemonium is further intensified by the guttural and disarming noises that come from The Land Mine post detonation.

The Waterfall The Waterfall is an unfortunate individual and one that should be avoided at all costs. Regardless of both ambient temperatures and barometric pressures, The Waterfall sweats – an uncomfortable amount of sweat. I have no problem with perspiration, it’s part and parcel as far as cycling is concerned. Unfortunately, The Waterfall includes anyone with the misfortune of riding behind him in this production. Sweat and whatever other bodily fluids the Waterfall creates are expelled with uncanny regularity. Like heat-seeking Scud missiles, these saline cast-offs will find your face with supernatural accuracy. More maddening is that the harder you try to avoid The Waterfall, the more you’ll find yourself behind his fluidic onslaught. Rain capes will do nothing to help your plight.

You will know his sweat

The Tri-Guy One would think Tri-Guy is instantly recognizable due to his tri-bike. Wrong. This particular iteration of Tri-Guy is cloaked in a road bike but, fear not, for there are telltale signs to aide in his identification. Firstly, look for the socks. Often times he will be wearing none or what the gentler sex refer to as “pedis”; socks which cover just the heel and toes. This, generally, is enough to out Tri-Guy, but continue up the subject in question. Ironman tattoo on the calf? Booty short length bib shorts? Sleeveless jersey with arm warmers? Bingo. While strong, Tri-Guy is erratic and unpredictable in the group. He’ll bob and weave, losing and regaining touch with the wheel he’s following with more frequency than a doping denial from Danilo di Luca.

This is your ride on triathlete

While these personalities may seem to be more bothersome than laudatory within the confines of the group ride, there is a certain comfort there. Quick identification is paramount, but once achieved, a familiar rhythm can be established. You know these people. You endure these people. You avoid these people. Yet you’d probably miss them if they were gone. Who else would you complain about at your post ride coffee stop? What better incentive is there to be fit and able to ride at the front than a face full of another man’s blood, sweat, and tears…literally. How else would you be able to interpret the nuanced lexicon of a peloton in full gallop? So ride forth with the knowledge of the informed and may The Waterfall always be at your back and the road rise to meet you.

il Hobbies

Finally, the road season is upon us. It feels the winters and off seasons that rip consistent racing from our trembling grasps are always longer than the last which inevitably leads to more free time than I’d like to have. Knowing full well that idle hands are the devil’s tools (my last bout of idle hands led to a foray into cyclocross of which we’ll speak nothing about) I took to several activities to keep busy during the darks months. Music

I’ve always loved music and armed with a passion for sonic concoctions and an acoustic guitar that’s sat slothful in the wine cellar for years on end it seemed only fitting that I write a Grammy caliber album. It took two weeks of hermit-esque solitude in which I retreated to the deepest chasms of my artistic soul to access the type of raw human emotion that transcends cultural boundaries and becomes the anthem of a generation inspiring young and old alike to march for a common cause and make a difference in the world. The result was a complete success and methinks you’ve heard the fruits of my labor more than a few times. Not wanting to place myself squarely into always warming glow of the limelight I passed off performance duties to a plump and affable Korean named PSY. The song was Gangam Style. You’re welcome. Also I did all the choreography. You’re welcome again. Also I am dismantling him as I type so as to never hear or see of this song again. You’re welcome a third time.

They owe me royalties

Cooking

I was enjoying a delicious bucatini all’amatriciana one evening getting lost in the ever-hypnotic conversational rhythm of Nina Agdal recount the rigors of bikini modeling to me when my near perfect supper was interrupted by the squawking of a rotund fellow demanding to see the head chef. The ginger hair on his head nearly matched the gristle stained ginger color of his Crocs and I knew exactly who was bellowing some nonsense about always using Himalayan sea salt as opposed to Kosher. It was Mario Batali. I had run into him once before at a charity auction to benefit albino panda babies and needless to say our exchange was terse. What ensued was a culinary joust that lasted the better part of the next three hours. There was a flurry of mincing and julienning that would have made the hair on Tom Colicchio’s head grow back if he hadn’t been so busy sending suggestive emoji to Padma Lakshmi. In the end, yours truly prevailed over the pony-tailed, tomato hued cook with a grilled lamb lollipop drizzled with a cilantro-mint crème fraîche that brought the entire restaurant to tears which, in turn, salted the dish to inexplicable levels of perfection. I’m told Batali will no longer be competing on Iron Chef effective immediately

Sweet hat Fat Bastard

Art

Italians and art go together like the Swiss and cold, calculated sex. So it was no surprise that after a leisurely stroll through the West Wing of my manor (also known as the Inspirational Wing and every now and then known as the Wing of Muffled Cries of Passion) I demanded that Valentino fetch me art supplies

Io: Valentino! Vieni! Valentino: Si, si signore, I am sorry I thought for sure today was just merely a “Inspirational Wing” day, the scented candles and edible oils are not ready. Io: No, no Valentino Ms. Biel already has returned home to her boy band boy. I am for to need my art supplies. Valentino: I shall call the local modeling agency for nude female models? Io: No Valentino I am thinking a cycling themed project is the order of the day. Make sure to grab my favorite Prada painting smock. Valentino: Certo signore, right away. Io: And go ahead and call the agency anyways. Valentino: I have them on speed dial sir.

What followed was an inspired foray into the often messy, often nude world of fine art. No medium went untouched from marble sculpture (which finally gave impetus to my marble cutter that Richard Branson insisted I would NEVER use) to oil still life on canvas (you’d be shocked at how still Kate Upton can pose for over an hour) to more modern multi media installation pieces (I knew saving all those old Pirelli F1 race tires would come in handy one day). What I was most proud of were the cycling themed canvases of champions both past and present. Simple and bold, they highlight the beauty and grit our dear sport breeds and more than anything they get me excited for yet another season of men greater than I looking for the wins they’ve trained so hard to attain.

Colors of excellence

If you’d like to see any of these grace the walls of your favorite cycling room or office or wine cellar or sensory deprivation chamber than don’t hesitate to get in touch with me. Until then please excuse me while I return to the Inspiration Wall where Kate Upton is still waiting for me in the exact pose I left her in.

 

il Wintertime

As I was sitting in the breakfast hall of my humble abode deep in the mountains of Annecy enjoying an opiate infused Oolong Tea I noticed something. The drafts in the chateau have started to increase and more and more winter clothing has had to be donned before mounting my bicycle for training rides. This can only mean one of two things; 1) The French government has labeled me a cultural liability and is waging climate based warfare upon me and my associates, or 2) It’s winter. Knowing full well the chasm of progressive military development the French currently reside in I’m inclined to presume it is indeed simply wintertime. My olive complexion and chiseled physique are obviously more suited to warmer climates but winter can provide a myriad of activities and practices that make suffering through blizzards and frost inducing nights a bit more worth it. Alcohol

During the racing season I make it a point to limit my alcohol consumption to merely champagne laden podium parties. However that steadfast adherence is dropped kicked out the window once winter induced off-season takes hold. When presented with dropping temperatures the decision to either put don another sweater or pour a delicious single malt Scotch should almost nearly always end with the glass. There’s a multitude of cold weather cocktails that will help warm the spirit and more than that are just fun to order. Hot Toddy, Irish Coffee, Rusty Nail, Sneaky Pete, Hot Buttered Rum, Conflicted Carl, Remorseless Gimlet, Mexican Standoff… those last three might not actually be bar “standards” now that I think of it. Pretty sure those were the whorish love children of an Absinthe fueled bender with me and Boris Becker. Anywho, so yeah, winter themed alcoholic beverages are fantastic. You get to slip slowly into the comfortably warm glow of a gentle buzz and more often than not you do so whilst clothed in some exotic fur and/or ostentatious boots. It’s a win win.

Winter Sports

When the roads are blanketed in the freshly fallen crystalline ground cover that is snow, riding bikes can seem about as fun as volunteering at the UCI Doping Hotline. Remotely. From an Indian call center. In the middle of monsoon season. That is unless of course you are the type of masochist that relishes all that Mother Nature can throw your way and your sense of quasi-psychotic pleasure is directly proportional to the amount of wet snow-mud you must clean from your bike and teeth at the end of the day.  If that’s the case there’s a 73% chance you enjoy Cyclocross and unfortunately we probably don’t enjoy the same off-season leisure activities.  However, for us roadies there are options. The road racing cyclist fears change for the most part. Whether that change is carbon wheels at a Spring Classic, a new formula of leg embrocation or simply not being allowed to wear spandex I have good news for you. There is a sport that essentially combines everything we love as road cyclists into a familiar looking package that shouldn’t frighten even the most skittish of roadies. I speak of cross country skiing. The equipment is expensive, the uniforms are skin tight, you can wear your same Rudy Project or Salice sunglasses, there’s an unhealthy amount of obsession over which type of ski wax to use and no need for helmets so your once retired head band collection can shine in the toasty limelight of glory once more. The VO2 max thresholds are similar if not better and as if that wasn’t enough motivation there’s even an option to ski around with a purpose built rifle that is completely ok to just whip out and shoot things. Targets mostly, but I have it on good authority the rabbit and venison stew served at most cross country ski lodges at the end of the day is fresh for a reason. All in all it’s a measured and comfortable departure from cycling when the roads get too icy and opens a whole new venue of nature to Instagram.

Snow Bunnies

I’m not talking about actual bunnies here. In fact if there was any part of you that thought I was talking about white rabbits camouflaged in snow drifts you obviously don’t know me very well. I’m mildly offended but luckily this photo below serves as a magnificent distraction.

It’s already well documented that women have horrific circulation on even the warmest of days. Any man who’s had the shriek inducing surprise of a lady friend’s frozen toes plunged under a leg in the middle of July can attest to this.

Female Companion: My toesies are cold. Io: What is a toesies? Female Companion: My feet silly! (Inserts feet under my perfectly shaved legs) Io: Che kazzo putana you have the feet of a corpse!! You have tried unsuccessfully to ascend Mt. Everest?! Female Companion: No I’m just cold Io: We’re on Safari in the Serengeti you harpy!

Where this suddenly becomes an advantage is that in the winter it’s not only their little piggies that experience the unbiased chill of Jaques Frosté but the entirety of their body. And what  better way to warm the mind and body of a fiery firecracker than next to… a fire. Every self-respecting handsome-man knows a woman’s best side is so often viewed fireside. A bold and syrupy bottle of red wine, a charcuterie, a bear skin rug and the crackle of an expertly prepared controlled blaze beneath the hearth can bring warmth to even the balmiest of nights.

Of course all the aforementioned activities become meaningless when you have access to a private jet and can travel to wherever the best weather is about as quickly as you can pack Dolce & Gabbana overnight bag. Now if you’ll excuse me I have an Australian beach to loiter.

Mi Ricordo...

In the short time that this blog has been alive I’ve become more and more acquainted with the online cycling community. I’ve also become more acquainted with Kate Upton and the private Twister Club that exists on secret yachts off the Amalfi Coast. It’s invitation only; I wish I could say more. The internet is a fantastic tool to utilize as a cyclist and consumer of fine leisure. It provides a venue for instantaneous devouring of race images, opportunities to pour over a near endless supply of bike parts and supermodels know how to use Instagram now. Which is fantastic. The internet also allows for the expression of opinions and an exchange of ideas the likes of which have never been seen before. The immediacy and efficiency of commentary is something that would have literally blown Alexander Graham Bell’s mind into a million pieces. Not Nikola Tesla though, that guy was definitely an alien from the future. Thomas Edison can eat shit. Unfortunately with this advance in communication comes the vitriol and overall exhaustive detritus from individuals who often times can remain completely nameless and faceless. It seems that there are few awesome things in this world that aren’t immediately castigated by interwebz trolls and deconstructed to a near manic level in order to display to the online masses why something is merda. It was while enjoying my morning cappuccino and watching Valentino wax my Ferrari 458 that I began to harken back to the early days on the bicycle. The days when bike rides were less about Strava KOM’s and average power output and more about sweet jumps and skid stops. The days when the only sprints that mattered were the sprints for the gelato truck and to beat stoplights. The days when riding a bike meant the freedom to explore the world outside your front lawn as long as you were home in time for dinner. Mostly the days when I didn’t need to worry what someone was going to say when I slapped a Cinzano sticker onto my top tube or attached Roberto Baggio trading cards to my spokes. Isn’t this why we all picked up bikes in the first place? I can still remember in vivid detail my first two-wheeled bicycle. It was a gray Huffy Armadillo and it came adorned with strategically placed plastic protective motocross’esque panels which made it 100% as indestructible as an armadillo. That bike was my motorcycle and my Doberman Spike was my dragon. Together we patrolled the grounds of the Ragazzo compound inseparable and unerring in our quest to dispatch of all intruders. What may have looked like a squirrel to the layperson was in actuality a vicious Griffin who had acid for saliva and shot fire from its eyes. The undulating hills at the foot of Mt. Etna were breeding grounds for secret hideouts and military strategy camps. On my Armadillo I was the fastest kid in the world. There was no jump too big and no distance too far. Unless Mama Ragazzo found out I went past the Enoteca Bridge by the creepy old man’s house on Via Baldesi. That was too far. Mama Ragazzo was the only foe that was never bested, her might and sorcery knew no limits.

La Mama: Pasquale, dove sei andato? Io: Nowhere Mama, to see Giovanni and eat gelato. La Mama: Are you for to be sure you don’t go near that house and the ponte? Io: Che cosa? La Mama: You threw rocks at the windows you did not? Io: But… I was sure there was no one to be seeing… La Mama: Deceive me again and you shall pay a hefty price. Io: But Mama… La Mama: No Nutella per due settimane! Io: Mama nooooooo, l’inferno è vuoto!!

There was a profound sense of excitement and exploratory innocence that that first bike instills in us as children. You’re suddenly free to explore, to go on treks, to discover the limits of your skills. I recently saw a group of kids racing full speed on their bikes to some imaginary finish line and the only thing bigger than the ill fitting helmets on their heads were the smiles on their faces. Unfortunately that sheer delight can get lost in layers of carbon fiber, compression fabrics and a murky mire of energy gels and bad attitudes. It’s imperative that we remember at the end of the day riding bikes is just plain fun. Saturday mornings as a kid consisted of waking everyone up in the house and bee lining it to the kitchen for the first of what would generally end up being roughly 4 bowls of either Cookie Crisp or Fruity Pebbles. Before a violent sugar crash threatened to derail my entire day Mama Ragazzo would shoo me outside to play where I would immediately mount my Huffy Armadillo and meet up with my neighborhood friends. The bike had two speeds; sprinting and skidding. There was no in-between. There would be races to the Tabacchi for Kinder, races to the football pitch to challenge the neighboring youth and races to community pool to see who was the fastest swimmer and the best cannon baller.

Not a whole lot has changed in older age. I still wake everyone up in the house mainly so that Valentino knows it’s time to make my cappuccino. Breakfast is now a sparser spread of assorted cheeses, fresh baked breads and cured meats; I still have it prepared in a bowl though. Mama Ragazzo always calls on Saturday morning to make sure I’m eating enough and find out if I’ve found a nice girl to settle down with. I still meet up with neighborhood friends only now those friends are Pippo Pozzato, Franco Pellizotti and Peter Sagan. We ride as fast as we can and stop at cafes for treats and coffee. Sometimes Robinho invites us to watch an AC Milan game and sometimes we head over to Elisabetta Canalis’ for a dip in the pool. Really life is pretty much exactly the same. Even 20 years after the fact taking my bike out for a ride with my friends is still one of the best things I could be doing on a weekend.

Bikes are fun. Hanging out with your amici is fun. Combining those two things and utilizing the transitive property of multiplication stipulates you will have roughly 4 times as much fun than if you are alone. It’s important for us to remember every now and again that waking up and sharing some road with the day’s first light can be a renewing experience. Descending perfectly paved roads through a light fog and emerging onto sun baked valley floors invigorates and awakens the soul. Sprinting for imaginary finish lines after a group trek through farm flanked rollers can be the best competition you’ll ever find. Recalling highlights of a day’s ride over cappuccino and pastries is the perfect end to a morning jaunt. The exhilaration that was felt on that maiden voyage atop your bike is still attainable all these years later. There aren’t a lot of activities that can claim that type of longevity. Well, I mean, I suppose there’s a few others but Kate Upton would kill me if I said too much.  And if all this isn’t enough to remind you how sweet bikes can be, watch this video below. If it doesn’t make you smile and awaken an inner jubilation that perhaps was once dormant, you’re a heartless savage and/or a remorseless sociopath. A dopo amici.

http://youtu.be/0qmQrEM5rVA

 

L’Interbike

The first time I ever went to Vegas was by accident. I was judging a Flawless Diamond competition at the De Beers mansion in Antwerp and started drinking Absinthe with Silvio Berlusconi and Javier Bardem. Next thing I know I woke up to the soprano incantations of a Venetian gondola operator as I lay out front of a jewelry proprietor. The light looked strange, the air smelled like stripper and the people were all demonstrably recalcitrant to my demands for explanations. It was only after being manhandled by some of the strangest carabinieri I’d ever seen that I realized I was somewhere that was very much NOT Venezia.Io: Ho there, you, in the red tunic! Where is this place?? Vegas patron: The buffet. Io: What buffet? Who is the chef? Where is the suckling pig and sexy women passing out prosciutto and melon? Vegas patron: I got a yard of Banana Daiquiri. Io: Che cosa? You measure drink volume in distance here?? Vegas patron: Cirque du Soleil. Io: What is this infernal wasteland!!? I am in Dante’s purgatory!!!!!  

I was in Las Vegas, at the Venetian. Vegas is a strange and disarming place that promotes debauchery and consumption to excess yet will leave you penniless, alone and glassy eyed with equal amounts of speed and conviction. In other words it’s like poker night at Pat McQuaid’s place. Recently I attended the annual cycling expo known as Interbike in this city of sin in hopes of finding the next best thing and something to do with the $50,000 worth of chips from the Bellagio I found in my pocket the other day.

Quick Takes

• The entrance to Treasure Island smells like Eau de Whore mixed with a failed Glade scent mixed with vomit. And broken dreams. • There is no viable coffee option within the quagmire of hotels on the strip. In order to avoid supreme catastrophe it is imperative to bring a portable espresso machine. Have the porter install a Marzocco GS 3 in your suite before arrival. • The women on the advertisements being handed out by the “card snapping” individuals on the strip don’t actually look like that. Trust me. Dear God please trust me. • “Bud Light Platinum” is Anheuser-Busch code for “Triple Filtered Urine Runoff”, • The grand prize on the Ghost Busters slot machine is not a gigantic Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. It’s just a bunch of stupid money. • Two story display booths allow for the perfect clandestine getaway when certain needs must be met with certain female accomplices. • More booth babes. Seriously. I know a guy.

Ció che mi piace

• I am a self-admitted Campagnolo addict, that is no secret. So I ordered my minder to direct me to their booth immediately upon entering the show floor. The Super Record EPS gruppo truly is a sight to behold. It’s gorgeous and shifts brilliantly. Apparently most installation issues can be remedied with high quality olive oil and a 10-minute cigarette break. What was also interesting to see was the Athena EPS. Being their entry level gruppo the price point on this is sure to be attractive. I put in an order for 400 complete gruppos to throw into the gift bags for my house warming party at my new flat in Monaco this December. • The BMC Timemachine TMR01 is gorgeous. The finish and design is flawless. I’m told a custom made Tissot watch is hidden somewhere on the bike upon purchase. I want one and am willing to endure an Andy Rhis investment presentation in order to have it. • Reynolds has some very tasty wheel options on offer including their RZR crazy light and crazy awesome “super wheels”. According to Reynolds their RZR 92 rear wheel is faster than a disc. These would have come in quite handy when I had to escape the Saudi principality on my TT rig after getting caught in Princess Jasmine’s quarters by Sheikh security guards. • The Cipollini bikes were stupendous looking. The booth was minimalist save for the sure-to-be-nominated for best foreign short film at the Oscars “Cipollini Bond” video that played non-stop. I have to admit, when Mario told me he was going to start producing carbon racing bikes I thought it was another one of his Brunello and steak Florentine fueled ramblings but the bikes seem to be getting more and more popular and look damn fast. Mario himself actually showed up to the conference so it should be interesting to see how many women will be naming their children “Vegas” in about 9 months time.

Ció che non mi piace

• Time didn’t have a booth at all. Look was there and their offerings were attractive to say the least. The 695 in Mondrian livery with Campagnolo EPS was on full display and I’m about 90% positive I saw Richard Virenque wallowing in a darkened corner listening to “The Freshmen” by Verve Pipe as the tears flowed freely down his face. I would have liked to have seen a new RXRS Ulteam in person, not to mention I’ve heard there’s an onsite baker pumping out fresh baguettes when Time does actually set up a booth. • The depressing lower level of booths no one was visiting. The cycling industry is tough no doubt. There are countless purveyors of highly specialized products and it takes great quality and great marketing prowess to achieve success. It was painful to see a lonely booth hocking the latest and greatest energy drink hydration system to no one in particular. Part of that could have been booth placement, part of that could have been the flavor options of Desert Cactus and Salted Cod. Equally as hard to watch were the substandard “booth babes” offering to take photos with the attendees only to be resigned to standing around forlornly in an ill-fitting bikini. • The swag. I was fully anticipating walking away with a complete gruppo, frames, wheels and numerous pairs of bibs. Sadly the only free things that found their way into my hands were energy gummies, the worst pair of cycling socks I’ve ever laid eyes upon and Celine Dion’s personal cell phone number and her itinerary for the next 2 weeks. All of which do nothing to enrich my life.

All in all the show was impressive. I saw things that I liked and saw things that I hated. Vegas attempted to bequeath unto me a bevy of salacious temptations and I actually emerged a richer man than when I arrived. For tax purposes I can’t elaborate on how much I actually made only that it all rests safely in a Cayman Island account, cheers Mitt.

La Vuelta

August is a month in my life that is generally reserved for olive oil harvesting at the villa and hanging out with Fernando Alonso in between European GP races. After Alonso’s unfortunate crash at Spa-Francorchamp we were nursing our collective wounds over a bottle of Dom Perignon and calf’s milk pedicures when he asked if I had been watching the Vuelta. Fernando: Pasquale hai visto the Vuelta yesterday? Io: What is Vuelta? Fernando: The Spanish Grand Tour. Io: I am not familiar... Fernando: Pasquale I am been talking for you about how exthited I am to see it for like 2 weeks now. It is the race of my homeland. Io: Fernando… you’re Spanish?

I consistently forget Spain even hosts a Grand Tour mainly because nearly every time I tune into the race it appears they’re competing in a 3-week circuit race around Sicilia. However, Fernando insisted this edition was shaping up to be something special and refused to try any of the caviar canapés I’d ordered until I promised to watch the race. I relented and was treated to one of the most exciting Grand Tours I’ve watched in awhile. Also Fernando threw up from eating too much caviar.

Why the Vuelta was Fantastic This year’s Tour de France was boring. It had all the excitement of a Led Zeppelin reunion tour fronted by Sammy Hagar sponsored by Ensure. Sky dominated, Wiggins can TT and Chris Froome has uncomfortably skinny arms. The only bright light from an otherwise dimly lit Tour was Peter Sagan signing boobs without provocation. Oh and him winning stages too. The Vuelta was interesting to watch from the first stage. All eyes were obviously upon Contador to see how he would fare post-suspension and he did not disappoint. Even more exciting was the GC triumvirate that Contador occupied with Alejandro Valverde and Joaquim Rodriguez. I have a completely newfound respect for purito, I always knew he had explosive late race power (in addition to explosive late race bowels…allegedly) but his grand tour prowess has been a revelation this year in both the Giro and the Vuelta. Valverde was equally impressive and I had to remind myself that he too was returning from a suspension. It seems his regimen of 14,000 sit ups and 640km per day during his suspension paid off.

Contador I’ve never been a big fan of el pistolero, something about him always just rubbed me the wrong way. Perhaps it was his links to Liberty Seguros, his obnoxious pistol, his tainted meat defense or maybe it was because he tried to hit on Doutzen Kroes when she and I were dating. All that aside, this edition of the Vuelta changed all that. He rode like riders past. He rode with heart and conviction and cojones grandes, WHICH you should never order as a side dish with your eggs in the morning after a particularly rigorous night of Sangria and bull fighting. Trust me. Contador was expected to show up and pound the other riders into submission yet he appeared fallible and his normally crushing attacks were consistently being pulled back. That is until Stage 17. On paper it didn’t seem like a stage that would seal victory, in fact on paper it didn’t seem like anything since my Spanish is almost exclusively limited to what I do and do not want in my paella. Contador escaped and thanks to the help of other riders, namely Paolo Tiralongo (to whom a first born has most certainly been promised), he was able to put enough time into Rodriguez and Valverde to secure the leaders jersey. It was a ballsy move that could have backfired spectacularly but it made for sensational racing and proved having the sack to actually take risks can pay off. Kindly take note Tour hopefuls.

Podium Girls It’s no small secret that podium girls share a special place in my heart. I’ve waxed poetic on the talent of the women of the Giro and decided to learn French solely so I could chat up the Tour ladies but I was more or less left mouth agape at the Vuelta podium girls this year. There were times when I wasn’t sure if I was watching a podium celebration or a casting for the new Kanye/Jay-Z music video sponsored by Cirac and Durex. The women were beautiful and appeared to be more than happy to be doused in copious amounts of Cava Gran Ducay. There has to be something in the agua in Spain right now. World Cup, Euro Cup, Rafa Nadal, Fernando Alonso… maybe it’s all the siestas. More than likely it’s all the Spanish Fly.

All in all the Vuelta was fantastic this year and rest assured I will be rearranging some of my schedule to find time to attend a few stages come August of 2013. I’ve already dispatched Valentino to set aside a few crates of Brunello and risotto so I don’t die of thirst and hunger whilst visiting. All that’s left now is to figure out how to say “You should come see my Italian villa after you get off work, I’ll send the helicopter for you” en Español.

 

le Bevande

I'm spending some time summering in Los Angeles and, shockingly, it's hot. So hot that I have to wear sandals around on the teak deck of my sailboat; the tan lines they produce are regrettable. When it's hotter than a Vinokourov sweat lodge on a hunting trip in Siberia, riding becomes a test in thermal endurance and hydration takes on a new level of importance. I'm not going to go into the science of on the bike hydration because to be honest I drink whatever Valentino mixes in my bottles before I head out the door everyday. No, the imbibing we'll be highlighting is an infinitely more important variety. One rooted in the saccharine pursuit of fulfillment. I speak of course of that post ride beverage whose immediacy is nearly as important as its nutritional makeup. The libation we'll be discussing is the post ride carbonated recovery drink. The post ride carbonated beverage is the opposing bookend to the obligatory morning coffee. After hours spent on the bike there is literally nothing that tastes as mind-numbingly satisfying as an ice cold bubbly drink. Trust me I've tested a myriad of other drafts in a fruitless attempt at seeking out a more delicious option. Sourced glacial runoff water, cheetah blood, Kombucha made from the tears of royal infants, nothing else is as adept at satiating the fluids and energy lost after a rigorous cycling outing than the carbonated beverage.

Io: Valentino mi passa something delicious to drink. Valentino: Certo signore, here you are, carbonated and cold. Io: Kazzo! What is this drivel? It tastes like fermented Campagnolo grease and formaldehyde. Valentino: Signore it's Perrier. Io: You're fired.

San Pellegrino Anything The French love Orangina. The French also love mimes and that's where San Pellegrino comes in. My first foray into their delicious world of carbonated concoctions was Aranciata. It's more bitter than Orangina and feels like I'm actually drinking a carbonated orange. In addition to Aranciata there is Limonata, Pompelmo, Mandarino, Aranciata Amara and the oh so delicious Aranciata Rossa. Also there is Chinotto but Chinotto is weird and I don't trust it. Your Italian grandmother probably loves it though. All of these flavors serve to satiate the most discerning of palates and there is bound to be at least one in there you would knock over a child to get for free. My personal favorite depends on my mood. When I'm feeling dapper and nostalgic I reach for an Aranciata. Sassy and short, pass the Limonata. Brimming with frivolity: Pompelmo. Sexual and violent: Aranciata Rossa. Frustrated and confused: Mandarino and Amara in the same glass. In addition to being delicious and intensely quenching there is also a protective foil sheet atop the cans which keeps out dirt and dust and also makes you feel like you're undressing a woman. Bravo San Pellegrino.

Coca-Cola On more than one occasion my life has been saved by a can of Coca-Cola. I've used it to barter for freedom from an Azerbaijani prison, purchased my way onto a Ford Models booze cruise along the Mediterranean and obtained nuclear codes from an ex-Soviet war lord while he was momentarily distracted by the bright red can. It's also delicious. I know pros will request flat Coke in their musettes from time to time but personally that carbonated burn feels like I'm giving myself an esophageal chemical peel leaving me both refreshed and sexier. Coca-Cola has that magic mixture of bubbles and sugar to help aid the body in recovery after an exceptionally tough day in the saddle. In addition to being extremely easily obtainable, cheap and tasty the red can really brings out the tan on your legs when seated cross legged at a cafe.

Fanta Fun fact: Fanta was invented due to difficulties importing Coca-Cola syrup into Nazi Germany during WWII and the name "Fanta" was derived from the German word "Fantasie" when the drink's creator Max Keith urged his team to use their imaginations in coming up with a catchy name. But before you go off and start thinking that with every can of Fanta you crack open you're supporting the rebirth of Nazi Germany you should know the Coca-Cola plant in Germany at the time was never under Nazi control. Ok, so now that that's all out of the way let's get some other things straight. Firstly European Orange Fanta is the only acceptable version of the drink that can be consumed. The Sunkist wannabe that's hocked in the US is a pitiful offering that sadly has tried to infiltrate our vending machines for some time now. The orange Fanta sold in Europe has a much more mild flavor and does wonders for hangovers. The only good thing to come from US Fanta were those Fanta girls... just don't make the mistake of telling Pineapple Fanta you'll call her back, it took me 6 months to replace all the sod in my backyard she ruined.

Alcohol Of course the best beverage in the world after a hard ride is the bottle of champagne you spray all over supermodels flanking you on either side of a podium whilst you are celebrated and admired by a crowd of ecstatic fans. If champagne isn't available some ridiculously sized or shaped beer stein is equally as fantastic. And in the rare event that supermodels aren't present it's perfectly acceptable to find the hottest chick in the crowd and douse her too. She'll understand.

il Terrible Day for Cycling

So it finally happened. USADA's baffling witch hunt finally got its man. It's a sad day for professional bike racing and an even sadder day to me for cycling in general. Worse than stripping 7 of the most exciting Tour de France victories of recent memory, worse than any lifetime bans and worse than essentially nullifying an entire decade of cycling sport has been the reaction I've seen from cycling "fans".

The celebratory tweets and smug self assuredness brazenly gracing the cork board walls of the internet has left a far more bitter taste in my mouth than the Lance decision ever could. There seems to be this idea that now cycling can finally move forward, we can start to heal. Heal from what? Move forward from what? A era that took professional cycling from the European doldrums of sporting exposure and thrust it to the front pages of magazines and newspapers that are generally only reserved for yards rushed and ERA's? For any fan of cycling to say that the period of time between 1999 - 2005 didn't either introduce them to the sport in general or reignite a dormant flame deep inside is to listen to a liar. And even worse, a liar clad head to toe in spandex. And God help us if that liar isn't wearing Sidi's too.

Did Lance dope? According to USADA yes. According to the "secret" eye witnesses yes. According to every amateur cyclist who has ever ridden 150km two days in a row and thinks "Look man I've done a couple long days back to back and there's NO WAY these dudes aren't riding juiced. I was exhausted. And I could have gone pro in '92 if it weren't for all those Brett Easton Ellis books I read.". Anyone who follows the sport and realizes that Phil and Paul have been replaced with an online Phil and Paul soundboard operated by a NBC intern knows that doping was RAMPANT in the 90's and 2000's. It wasn't just a practice reserved strictly for the richest, highest profile stars. If you wanted to compete, actually if you wanted to finish professional bike races during that period of time you were taking something. Most of you already know that nearly everyone that was on the podium in Paris at that time has in one way or another been connected to doping. It was as much part of the sport as a teary Richard Virenque. Oh and remember what he was up to then?

Doping will undoubtedly make you a faster cyclist, no argument there. What doping won't do though is make you win the Tour de France 7 times in a row. A higher hematocrit doesn't instill in someone a maniacal drive to not just succeed but dominate. HGH doesn't help you climb back from the edge of near certain death and come back to the sport you love to not just compete but win. Corticosteroids don't lift you off the tarmac on Luz Ardiden and propel you to victory. All those things will make you faster, they don't make you win. Cycling is not some magical sport where as soon as a red blood cell agitating needle touches your vein you're vaulted into the ranks of legends. Cycling is like every other sport in existence, there are amateurs and professionals. The professionals are so much better than the amateurs that it is literally impossible for us to understand the scope of their competitive level. All of the pharmaceuticals in the world aren't going to turn me into a professional bike racer let alone a multiple Tour champion. There is a reason there are so few dominant athletes across the sporting spectrum. They all share a insatiable ferocity that equates losing with failure. It is not enough to just win, they must destroy. Jordan, Federer, Woods, Schumacher and Merckx (who tested positive let's remember) all athletes who relished the opportunity to exhibit the superiority of their talent. The list of sporting legends is short because becoming one is so damn impossible. Doping doesn't make champions otherwise I would have been on the cover of Wheaties boxes years ago.

Lance not only did something which has never been done in cycling but he also was the reason so many of you probably even know what the sport is right now. And rather than fading into mild obscurity only to emerge selling half decent bikes with his name emblazoned across the down tube like so many other past champions he funneled his fame and efforts into a cause that affects nearly each and every one of us at some level. Does doping change the fact that he beat cancer? Does doping change the fact that he decided he wouldn't die? Does cancer give a shit if he doped? And before you talk about how his inspiration was fueled by deception lets just remember that World War II was ended by an lifelong alcoholic and a rampant philanderer. They did know a thing or two about great quotes though.

So while it seems that so many of you are so happy with this decision and relieved that we can finally move forward I sit here (in a Hermes scarf and Dolce slippers of course) sad. Sad for the sport and sad for a great champion. Because this embarrassing USADA charade masked in "unbiased fairness" has done nothing to clean up cycling. It has sullied it further. It's the frothing at the mouth, pitchfork wielding mob who upon finally burning down the subject of their ire are left standing around a smoldering pile of smoke and ashes that lies on the front steps of their own house. Nothing will change because of this and if so many of you are so happy to see this outcome then I suggest you quit watching professional cycling altogether. It's not cleaner now than it was, the sport will always have cheats and the science will always be one step ahead of the piss cups. This is a black eye for cycling, let's just hope there's enough ice to stop the swelling.

 

Dopo la Vittoria

There's a reason cyclists train to the point of delirious exhaustion. There's a reason cyclists obsess over power profiles and outputs with the same intensity that Jonathan Vaughters strategically plucks his mutton chops. There's a reason cyclists admire a single digit body fat percentage with schoolgirl-like jealousy. Cyclists want to win. They want to cross the finish line before every other single rider in the race and sip the intoxicating and violently addictive nectar of victory. It's what motivates us to do roughly 85% of the ridiculous things cyclists do (the other 15% is loosely scattered between self adulation, female acquisition and European mimicry). It is important to note that once victory has been achieved there are certain actions and traditions that must still be adhered to, a general timeline of events that lets everyone know "I've been here before and intend on coming back". With that said let us delve into the world of post triumph decorum. Io: Valentino I have a race this weekend. Valentino: Certo, you want I should prepare the victory sacco? Io: Assalutamente, be sure you add the new Prada cologne and call Sidi about my new podium specific Ergo 3 Vernice's. Valentino: Shall we include the good champagne? Io: That's a ridiculous question, you know you should and please try to prevent Bernard Hinault from trying to hang out with us afterwards... there's a look in his occhi I don't trust.

Post Victory Salute Other sites have gone into great depth as to what is and isn't acceptable finish line etiquette (see Cycling Tips article for a refresher) so we'll bypass this and move straight into what happens immediately after that. It is imperative that the first thing you do is to find your soigneur. He (sometimes she) will almost always be clad in a much too tight team jersey or gilet, pale arms vying valiantly for any semblance of solar rays that may exist. The soigneur will have a backpack chock full of too many things the most important of which will be beverages. It needs to be carbonated, it needs to be full of sugar and it needs to be odd-sized. If ever presented with a 12oz can, spiking it into the tarmac is absolutely encouraged and applauded. 330ml is the most any canned beverage need ever be but extra points are awarded for non-commercially available sizings. Smaller cans are important because remember the cyclist is an inherently frail individual so any opportunity to exert power and dominance over an inanimate object should be seized upon with gusto. In the midst of the drink consumption and euphoric congratulations from your soigneur he or she shall inform you where you will be peeing into a cup shortly thereafter.

Dopo Drink Depending on the type of race a few things can follow after beverage consumption. Mountain top finishes are brutal and depleting assaults on the sporting physique ergo, collapsing in a dramatic heap of inspiring exhaustion is completely appropriate. The well seasoned soigneur will be nearby with foil blankets and possibly canned oxygen for maximum televised effect. Sprint stages are a bit different in that immediate congratulations of one's teammates is absolutely necessary. Within the scrum of laudatory praise from opponents and fellow team riders homo-erotic interactions are less the exception and more the norm. Cheek kissing, hugging, face clutching, uncomfortably close head locks, a little bit of crying and frantic lead-out man searching ala Rocky and Adrian; the self assured cyclist shies away from none of these pleasantries. In addition to inter-team celebrations there will be a media melange of near Papal proportions (note: this increases ten fold with Italian victories on Italian soil) and it is advisable to have a body guard of sorts who will utilize brutish physical force to rid the exhausted champion of the lecherous admirers who wish to touch him.

Dopo Embraces Being one step closer to actually gracing the top spot of the podium it is imperative to now get cleaned up. Stepping onto the victor's stage wearing the same jersey you won in is like the Brothers Schleck getting a GQ "Year's Best Dressed" award. Discarding the soiled race jersey for a fresh and camera ready new one is du rigueur in this realm. This is a time to show the sponsors just exactly why they decided to fork over their precious golden bounty so the adornment of crisp new kit is paramount. Cleaning of the face and body should be carried out by a team handler and done so exclusively with what I commonly refer to as "Paper Towel Hand-Mit Gloves". These little European gems not only cleanse the body of sweat and road grime, they exfoliate the skin and leave the recipient feeling refreshed and virile. Knowing full well that cheeks are about to meet lips a couple of Altoids and a spritz of good cologne can go a long way to determining where the evening may head.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwtsi1_1KkY&start=4889&w=640&h=360]

On The Podium Before receiving the fruits of one's labor it's important to prepare for a few things so as to avoid potential embarrassment. 1) Your trophy is going to be strange. If you have an irrational fear of plush toys, prepare to confront that head on. Experiment with what type of facial hair goes best with a Basque beret. Prepare for the possibility of being the proud owner of a Kangaroo or a St. Bernard. Most importantly though, just make sure you can lift the damn thing above your head. 2) You will be flanked by beautiful women whilst you wear not much more than a body sock. Determine beforehand if two or three cheek kisses is the local custom and if an answer isn't readily available, go for four. Flirt coyly and never forget to remind them of the legendary stamina professional cyclists possess. The ban on fraternization between riders and podium girls is weak willed suggestion; like not filing the lawyer tabs off your new bicycle immediately upon acquisition. 3) Know how to spray champagne. There's going to be bubbly and you're either going to look like a composed, seasoned pro or a floundering amateur attempting to harness a fire-hose. Giving the podium girls an early shower always makes for a fantastic photo-op and opens the door to offering them a free change of clothes. In your hotel room later.

The solitary triumph of winning a bike race is one of the most exhilarating and fulfilling achievements in sport. Pitting oneself against the mental and physical limits of others and arriving first is the most intense form of self validation for the countless hours of sacrifice we endure. The sharpest pain is evacuated instantaneously, the most focused frustrations of life are suddenly washed away replaced with the warming clutch of ascendancy. It is a time for celebration and the acceptance of adulation, a time to indulge in that which we shun. Champagne tastes sweeter, flowers are more piquant and the cheers of adoring fans are louder. So bask in the radiant gleam of dominion and let the memory sear a permanent motivational recollection in your psyche. And seriously be careful around if you're going to party with Hinault, the dude is intense.

il Sprint

Dedicated readers of Il Chat del Giorno will know that I have access to certain government agency "perks". Unfortunately when living a life of unparalleled luxury and enviable frivolity you become a target to some individuals who wish to exploit you. Due to these unfortunate circumstances I've become familiar with wire tapping and the finer nuances of the trade. In a previous post I happened upon a taped conversation between the UCI and certain other political heads of state that proved to be somewhat compromising. In the wake of "Ferrari-gate" I have happened upon another such piece of auditory evidence only this time, it's from microphones that captured the intra-peloton chatter leading up to the crash; apparently Mr. Murdoch has extended his Hoover'esque paranoia into the bikes of his riders as well. What follows is a transcript of the tapes.

Cavendish: WHERE'S BERNIE?!!? Eisel: Mark I'm here, I'm here!! I never leave your side! Cavendish: Bernie you know I've got separation issues, I can't do it again after losing Mark! Renshaw: Mark I gave you heaps of notice I was leaving, I even introduced to you Eric Bana like you always wanted. Cavendish: Oh... hey Mark, didn't see you there. Yea you know whatever, I'm over it. Totally doesn't bother me anymore. You know I'm dating Peta Todd right? Pozzato: I have already had her. Haedo: Hola guys is this where to be for a sprint finish? I must try for a victory so as to not have to have sit down meeting con Bjarne for 45 minutos. So much uncomfortable eye contacto... so mucho. (Collective screams with a lot of "X"s in the speech) Phinney: What was that?? I had Velobeats on full blast in my ear piece. Hushovd: Euskatel just realized they were too far forward in the sprint, they all stopped pedaling to avoid crashing. Goss: Oy oy mates, bit of a sprinty we've got on our hands eh? Reckon it'll speed up a bit? We're having a party after the stage today, full barbie, free zinc lotion and all. You boys ever seen the film "Chopper"?? Emanuele Sella: Ciao tutti! Bravi to everyone for to be here in the final sprint, I'd like to take this time to talk to you about one of our sponsors Sidermeca... Vande Velde: Jesus, Savio has them running in-race sponsorships as well? Farrar: At least it's not for boosted cigarette cartons like the Katusha and Astana boys Astana rider: What's up bro you want Marlboro? Benson & Hedges? I got top quality product at good price bro, special for your because you're pro. Geraint Thomas: ...anywho, that's probably my second favorite recipe for Welsh Cakes but only because of the raisins. Bennati: Cazzo!! There is no lead out for me! Johan tells me I have Frank for final lead out man whenever I am for to need it. I cannot use him though! Pero the look in Johan's eyes... he tells me he knows where my children go to scuola... Vacansoleil Rider: ... so as long as no one actually SAYS "barbwire" out loud things are pretty mellow within the team. Theo Bos: IT'S SPEEDING UP, IT'S SPEEDING UP!!  Renshaw: Hands on the bars Theo just like we talked about mate. Cavendish: Shite this is getting dodgy, I shoulda tossed these pastries earlier... Ballan: Oh no... Geraint Thomas: What?!? Cunego: Porca putana! It is the sister of Ivan Basso! Goss: No! Renshaw: No!! Phinney: No!! Cavendish: Shit! Roberto Ferrari: ELISA!!!!!!!!! VADO IOOOO!!!!!! (Undecipherable noise and static, microphones cut out)

So there you have it. The allure of an Italian woman strikes again. Ivan Basso was unable to be reached for comment and no word yet on whether or not Elisa Basso even knows Roberto Ferrari. We can only hope the Giro organizers at least make sure she's wearing pasties the next time she decides to show up in a sheer Versace fishnet tank top at a sprint finish.

il Giro d'Italia

It is May which means two things at Ragazzo Manor. It’s the month of my birth (I accept any and all gifts so long as they're luxurious and tasteful) and, fittingly, it is the month of il Giro d'Italia. Il Giro marks the start of the year’s Grand Tours and it does so with the type of gusto and fervor only Italians can muster up. I could wax poetic about all the reasons I love il Giro but I fear we'd be approaching Dead Sea Scrolls territory so, for the sake of time, I'll abridge things for everyone. il Pink It's everywhere. The pink jersey, the pink banners, the pink cars, the pink underwear (trust me, they ALL wear pink in May). There's pink espresso cups, pink pastries, pink tubulars, pink shrubs, worryingly one year I pissed pink from May 6th till the 30th... into a pink urinal. Like it's Franco counterpart, the leader's jersey of il Giro shares its color with the pages of its leading sports daily La Gazzetta dello Sport. Unlike le Tour, Giro pink jersey wearers take the rosé application to a completely different level. It's as if a maglia rosa bunker buster has gone off in the team kit bag. Shoes, shoe covers, socks, bibs, jersey, gloves, helmet, glasses, frame, wheels, tape, tires, spokes, fingernails, eye lashes, saddles, water bottles, anything that is capable of being pink is and the race is better for it. Let us not forget the race takes place is the land of fashion, a place where mismatching one's Prada scarf with their Gucci glasses is punishable by a year spent in Zara clothing. With so many manufacturers in the pro peloton being Italian the zeal with which custom items are produced is unrivaled. Il Giro is a chance for Italians to show off one of the things they do best, style. Walking around the start line before any stage is like lingering backstage at a Dolce & Gabbana show during fashion week. Beautifully tan people roam the grounds like exotic animals preening for one another during mating season. By the way D & G designed the leaders jerseys this year, I’m told it’s infused with their signature cologne in the collar. I've spoken to riders who have literally built their entire season around the possibility of pinking out for just a single day, such is the draw of la maglia rosa.

i Tifosi Italian fans are unrivaled. Yes Belgium is arguably the center of cycling mad spectators but they view cyclists more like racehorses, ominously searching for physical clues hidden in riders’ muscle definition and fat reservoirs that will aid in their betting line. Cycling tifosi don't just watch professional racing, they live it. They are ardent consumers of its rich history and they NEVER forget a champion. Laurent Fignon lamented his countrymen turning their backs on him during his career struggles yet lauded the respect and reverence Italian fans always hoisted upon him. Italian fans love il Giro and they love the riders that compete in it even more. Throughout the 94 editions of the race Italian riders have worn pink on the final podium 66 times. Belgium comes in second with 7. Five of those belong to Eddy Merckx. It's an Italian race that brings out the absolute best in Italian riders and the fans thrive on this. Sports has always unified Italy and had il Giro and the World Cup existed pre 17th century methinks unification would have been sped up considerably. The veneration i tifosi have for the riders is plain to see. Grown men beam like school children in the presence of champions and you'll never see as much "fan assistance" up steep slopes for trailing riders than you see at il Giro. Watching cyclists stop mid-race in their hometowns for a glass of spumante, a local delicacy and a borderline dangerous amount of cheek kissing/pinching will bring a smile to even the hardest man's face. Contestants in il Giro needn’t worry about much as i tifosi are always keen to offer beverages, snacks, newspapers, fist pumps and the infamous word of encouragement “dai!”.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhQR1vrjUfM&start=794&w=480&h=360]

Il Route Every year the route for il Giro changes and every year it seems the organizers attempt to out-crazy the previous edition. Outrageously long transfers, unpaved roads, descents requiring special safety netting, it’s like the Italian version of The Hunger Games.

Organizer 1: Daccordo, so we first start with a 6k prologue through the sand dunes of Dakar then make our way back through the Dolomites descending from helicopter. Organizer 2: Si va bene, ma what about a mountain finish atop Mt. Kilimanjaro? If we are to be in Africa already then I am feeling this to be a beautiful spectacle. Organizer 1: No, while challenging and invigorating we must return to Italy to showcase our beautiful country, plus don’t forget we have the special velodrome we constructed within the crater of Mt. Vesuvius they will ride. Organizer 2: Si certo, I forgot. Organizer 1: I forgive you. Now, let’s map out the final circuit race through the underground ruins of il Colosseo…

Anche ci’sono… Le Ragazze It’s no secret Italy is home to some of the most beautiful women in the world and il Giro attracts them like Virenque to the newest edition of "Chicken Soup for the Emotional Soul". Giro podium girls look just as gorgeous on display atop the celebration platform as they do doused in champagne. The race organizers have even taken a page out of Moto GP’s book placing “grid girls” with the race leaders providing a litany of priceless photo ops. After shelling yourself for the better part of 5 hours climbing over 3500 meters in the process, getting kissed by two belle ragazze makes victory ever so sweet. Besides when else do men who weigh less than super models get the chance to take them home?

The Giro is a Grand Tour that is unmistakably Italian. It stirs fierce allegiance in the hearts and minds of its followers and always promises to deliver drama and excitement from start to finish. Any race where Mario Cipollini holds the most overall stage victories is 100% guaranteed to be a sexy and alluring spectacle. That’s fully supported and proven by science at the Mapei center. Sophia Lauren was there to corroborate the evidence. It is a race of attrition and national pride demanding the maximum effort of its participants. It is a race with its eyes always looking forward to the future but never forgetting to remember the champions and fallen heroes of the past. So brush up on your Italian, grab an Esta Thè and prepare for a glorious month of competition and circus. E non può mai dimenticare i caduti. Sempre con noi.

Sempre

il Short

I am currently in Portugal and whilst enjoying a bica and pastel de nata my assistant Valentino informed me of a video I must watch that was posted by the always insightful and thorough The Inner Ring. Valentino: Sr. Ragazzo, there is a video, a beautiful video you must watch. Me: Valentino please don't make me watch the video of my birth again. Valentino: No, no, a different video, a video for to inspire and for to remember. C'e il Pirata. Me: Cue the IMAX room.

It's one of my heros Marco Pantani suffering a mechanical during the the 15th stage of the 1999 Giro d'Italia then proceeding to literally and figuratively dismantle the entirety of the peloton. I became inspired and found it impossible to not write something, albeit a short something, about it.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=i-J2bIsPDH8#!]

This video does more than just get me excited about bike racing. It defines what the sport is down to the most minute details. Pantani flats, he receives help from the neutral Shimano support vehicle. Looking resplendent in la maglia rossa he calmly rejoins the race met first by almost the entirety of his team. One by one they turn themselves inside out, forging ahead with complete dedication and loyalty to their captain. There's the incredulous looks of his competitors as he deftly blows by them in his trademark off the saddle in the drops style. There's the speed in upward ascension that only the 90's could give us. There's a Campagnolo clad Bianchi being ridden to victory. There's the fanatacism that only the tifosi can foster. There's the sinking feeling of the inevitable and inescapable demise inherent to the predator/prey relationship. There's that bald head. There's Fiat's. There are no helmets. There are attacks that are both violent and ferocious in their dedication. There is the singular and undocked display of an athlete who is above all other competitors, a rider who has tapped into an inner fortitude absent in his adversaries. It is a form of cycling we don't see as much today which is a shame. Regardless of the scandals that tinted his life on and off the bike Marco Pantani was a member of an elite club of cyclists. A rider that could turn a race on its head at a moments notice. A rider who tackled races with passion and ferociousness. A rider whose mental endurance sadly didn't follow him off the bike. Grazie Marco per tutto, sei sempre nei nostri cuori.

il Nuovo Kit

Well ragazzi, it’s been awhile. For this I say mi dispiace, but please allow me to explain my recent absentia. The holidays are always a busy time for me, there’s extremely exclusive White Bengal Tiger exchange parties, the 2012 Super Model Draft, clandestine G8 geo-political subterranean bunker meetings and of course The Bachelor is back on TV. In order to wind down a bit from the hullabaloo I retreated to my favorite little secluded getaway, Chillon Castle in Switzerland. I holed up for the better part of a month with my personal chef Giorgio Locatelli, my personal trainer Dr. Ferrari, my personal stylist Valentino, my personal entertainer Martin Scorsese and my personal masseur Bar Refaeli. It was a inspiring and recharging sabbatical that saw me leave well fed, inspired, relaxed and feeling more sanguinely efficient than I’ve ever been. But the 2012 racing calendar is upon us and it’s back to business as usual and where better to start than le nuove maglie! Valentino: Pasquale, hai visto le nuove maglie? Pasquale: Valentino, I've been up to my eyes in the new fabric patterns you suggested for the divano in the lounge how can I have time for the new kits?!? Wait... is it time already? Valentino: Si, si certo, guarda! The magazine has the photos. Pasquale: Valentino this is a sketch book filled with page after page of my visage atop famous sculptures... Valentino: O dio, mi dispiace, non ti preocupare, I make mistake, this is the correct photo... hehe.

The beginning of any new race season brings big transfers, team camps in exotic locales, new sponsor equipment, awkward photo shoots and of course, new kits. As a consumer of fine fashion it is this presentation that catches my eye more than the other distractions and it is dissected and critiqued with the utmost attention to detail. As regular readers will know I’ve already waxed poetics on some of my preferred kit designs and key couture features that vault a team from the mundane to the revered. Taking that into mind lets jump into some of the highlights.

Quello Che Mi Piace

Katusha What was one of my most hated kits of last year has given birth to something that is quite fetching. Russians and tasteful fashion go together about as well as Pat McQuaid and Socialism. Typically if it says Gucci somewhere, can withstand crude oil overspray as well as shield from pesky UN business ethics investigators then it’s en vogue. Yet Katusha have impressed here, turning their backs on the “blue revolution” the red stands as a stark contrast in an increasingly monotonous looking peloton. It’s not overly complicated and I especially like the horizontal lined border on the bottom of the jersey. Good marks for resisting all that is hammer and sickle in their design here.

Omega-Pharma Quickstep Disclaimer: I am a sucker for baby blue. There is something about the color that immediately agitates my sensations with almost the same intensity and vigor as a Celeste colored bra on the floor of my penthouse flat. With that said, I can forgive OPQS for hopping on the blue wagon (a Skoda wagon obviously). Where I would normally always push for white bibs, the black they’ve chosen isn’t entirely awful in combination with the jerseys. The only down side (other than leaving Merckx/Campagnolo for Specialized/SRAM) is that the new color choice does little to shake the similarities between Leipheimer and Dreamworks’ “Megamind”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lampre ISD Rarely has this team upset me in a fashion sense. They’ve taken the Rabobank “If it aint broke don’t fix it” adage and mixed in a pinch of Brunello and a dash of la bella moda. The pink is aggressive and the blue is anything but subtle yet the staunch dedication to the colorway is decidedly Italian. It’s a bit like Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” video. Yes the Jaguar’s are dated, yes the hairstyle of David Coverdale is structurally unsound but to this day there is little in this world that would stop me from watching Tawny Kitaen writhing around on the bonnet of a speeding vehicle with power chords in the background. Extra points for the quasi homo-erotic Euro frivolity in this photo as well.

Quello Che Non Mi Piace

Sky The accuracy with which this photo depicts the Sky team is almost scary. There’s Bradley Wiggins donning his perennially moody Liam Gallagher mug, Cavendish looking resplendently stout in a disappointing World Championship kit and Luke Rowe as happy as a pig in shit to be surrounded by his fellow Brits. It would also appear that Team Sky held their winter training camp in Reykjavik. The sun isn’t your enemy boys, ask Fillippo Pozzato. The kit has changed little from last year and in all honesty it’s not all ugly, the lack of panache exhibited by its riders deserves chiding though.

Lotto-Belisol I’m mildly hesitant in saying bad things about this kit because there’s a 79% chance André Greipel will find me and Hulk-smash me into obscurity. When I first saw the livery I couldn’t quite explain why I didn’t like it then it hit me with the same obvious beauty of a well crafted Panerai… André light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Green Edge I like Australians. They’re overwhelmingly friendly, notoriously easy-going and their use of the word “heaps” never gets old. This kit though, it’s as if Earth escaped the Captain Planet design consortium, went rogue and took a Learning Annex class on how to use Photo Shop. Movistar have already demonstrated that neon green is best left to Liquigas. The lack of cohesion in the design is a distraction unfortunately, yet, I’d still love to enjoy a macchiato with every single one of these guys.

Nitpicking aside, this is shaping up to be one of the more interesting seasons on record. The concentration of so many dominating riders on fewer teams is bound to create drama and excitement. I purposely left out BMC because when your team is stacked like the Yankees everyone is going to hate your kits anyways, particularly when it's the back of them that they see most. Now if you'll excuse me I've got a private jet to catch, Clooney hates when I'm late to his Lake Como pizza parties.

Why I love il Campagnolo

While constructing a flawless cappuccino with my carbon fiber and diamond inlayed La Marzocco Strada MP machine the other morning my assistant Giovanni informed me I had a call on hold in the salon. After a brief yet vigorous chastising for bothering me with business before coffee I took the call and was pleased to hear the voice of none other than Valentino Campagnolo. Valentino: Pasquale, sono io Valentino, how is everything? Are you alright? Me: Valentino! So good to hear from you, yes, yes everything is fine I was just about to enjoy a cappuccino when you called. Valentino: Pasquale it is 4 in the afternoon. Me: 8 hour time difference Valentino Valentino: Certo, I always forget. Listen I have notizie incredibile. Are you sitting down? Me: Yes, in the Eames by Pininfarina Lounge Chair you gave me last Christmas actually. Valentino: Ah si, una bella sedia to be sure. Pasquale.... the electric is ready. Me: It is finally time? Valentino: You will be receiving a gruppo shortly. Me: Fedex? Valentino: Swiss Guard Me: Fantastico, a dopo amico. Valentino: Ci parliamo dopo. Ciao, ciao, ciao. Me: Ciao, ciao. Valentino: Ciao... ciao, ciao. Me: Ciao. Giovanni!! Fetch me my "Awaiting Parcel Robes"!!

The announcement of the new Campagnolo EPS Super Record and Record gruppos marks the official declaration from the storied Italian marque into the future of cycling technology. Many pundits denounced the delay of Campagnolo's late entry into the electric shifting realm having been soundly beaten to the punch by Shimano. Campagnolo actually started working on preliminary versions of an electric gruppo all the way back in 1992 with varying iterations popping up more frequently over the past 8 years. Still, it took more time than some would have liked for them to finally offer their wares to the masses and many are curious to see what Vicenza has that Osaka doesn't.

The news of an electric gruppo from Campangolo is nothing new but it did start me to thinking and as usual when I start to thinking I start to drinking. Riserva Chianti Gallo Nero in particular and nothing younger than 10 years old generally coupled with a choice cut of filet mignon. I love Campagnolo, plain and simple. It is a passionate and loyal love but not without its frustrations and infidelities. Like any beautiful lover my pocketbook has arguably suffered the most but the feeling that she gives me is worth every penny, every bag of Top Ramen, every unpaid electrical bill, every sub prime loan I've taken out and this is why.

Performance When I was a young bambino roaming around the local neighborhood chasing girls and taking espresso breaks in between nap time I happened upon a profound realization: there is always the right tool for the job. Recess to a 7 year old is the Pacific Theater in WWII, nothing else matters and you fight to the death to maximize every single second you have in that gloriously raucous controlled chaos. To that end one's choice of shoes was, undoubtedly, of paramount importance. Before my enlightenment I was toiling away in a pair of unforgettable Keds thinking I was taking full advantage of the consistent battle that was play time. Then... then I received a pair of Andre Agassi Signature Nike Sneakers and my entire world was flipped upside down. I was no longer peppering Japanese Zero Fighter Planes with an M1 rifle, I was manning the .50 Cal gun turrets on the USS Iowa. When I made the jump from Shimano Dura-Ace to Campagnolo Record 10 speed there was a similar moment of awakening. Shimano make a quality product, that point cannot be argued, but Campagnolo do it with more panache and artistry. Shimano is like sealing a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino with a screw top. Yes the wine will keep and age properly free of contaminants but where is the passion? Where is the artistry? The process of peeling back a layer of hand dipped wax and piercing the cork stopper with the business end of a corkscrew remind you that you aren't merely quenching a thirst but satiating a desire. Similarly Sram Red is analogous to attempting to shove a straw into the predestined hole of a grape flavored Capri Sun. The feel and tactile feedback of Campagnolo marries man and machine poetically executing shifts with precision and zeal. If Campagnolo is a Ferrari than Shimano is a Toyota Camry, both vehicles get you from point A to B but which one raises the hair on your neck? Which one would you rather take to a track day at Laguna Seca? Which one offers you matching luggage?

Design I love beautiful things. Beautiful women, beautiful cars, beautiful homes, beautiful panoramas, beautiful watches, beautiful clothes, the list goes on. It is no coincidence that the word Italians revert to 9 times out of 10 to describe something they enjoy is not "cool" or "awesome" or "sick" but bella. Beautiful. As the cliché goes life is beautiful ergo why not enjoy all the beauty it has to offer? Campagnolo understand this and it is reflected wholeheartedly in the pieces they produce. The lines of the 11 speed Ergo shifters exude a confident sensuality not found in other gruppos. Dauntless curves serve to entice the eyes and cradle the hands like a loving embrace. Aesthetics and ergonomics rarely share a romantic relationship yet looking at a Campagnolo rear derailleur lets you know the two aren't just texting each other about the weather. The lustful intentions Campagnolo illicit are no accident. Of course form follows function but why follow it down a tope hallway into a drab bedroom with two single beds and a window with a view of a paper clip factory? Italy is the land of style and the craftsmen in Vicenza haven't forgotten that. This is one of the key factors of Campagnolo fanaticism. The parts are sexy, they are intriguing, they look just as at home on a Colnago as they would in the pages of Vogue. A Campagnolo gruppo does to a high end bike frame what Ferragamo shoes, a Zegna tie and Cartier cuff links do to a Versace suit, distinguish it. It vaults something already beautiful and impressive into a different category, the kind of category that elicits curiosity from children, reverence from women and a tip of the hat from those in the know.

Flaws Those that dislike Campagnolo make no secret about it and are often quick to point out exactly why it is an inferior choice. Many times a legitimate rebuttal to their proclamations cannot be found and this is precisely why I love Campagnolo even more. Campagnolo are the purveyors of some of the most technically advanced bicycle technology in the world, yet they still have one foot (most likely shrouded in a Prada cashmere sock) firmly in old world European traditions. The issues that bother Shimano and Sram devotees only serve to engrain my loyalty further in the company. I hear ad nauseum about how Campagnolo is too expensive and not worth it, yet often times this is coming from someone atop a bike frame that is well north of $4000 with wheels worth more than most people’s rent. When 11 speed was introduced the only way to install or remove the chain was with a proprietary $300 tool only offered by Campagnolo. Critics, mechanics and pundits alike were furious at having to shell out that much coin and essentially nullifying their current chain breaking tools yet I just grew more enamored. Of course it’s annoying to not be able to use a normal tool to fix the chain but this is just another example of Campagnolo’s unwavering dedication to perfection. They took the time to completely overhaul the new chain so why not provide a tool that perfectly suits this new piece of technology? Many complain Campagnolo are too slow to react to market trends taking their time to debut new products and getting leap frogged by others in the process. I say that it’s merely a product of experience. Campagnolo takes its time, toiling away in the factory and test labs ensuring that when they eventually do release something new it is as close to flawless as can be. There’s no point in rushing out a sub-standard product just to satiate market fads and fluctuations.

Campagnolo has amassed a loyal and passionate following in its near 80 year history. They lay claim to 28 Tour de France victories and will forever be synonymous with bicycle racing at the highest level. Choosing to ride Campagnolo grants you entry into an elite club of gentlemen. A club that appreciates beauty, precision and design. A club that finds as much pleasure in a perfectly designed derailleur as it does in a perfectly aged Scotch. A club rich in both history and tradition. A club that that may take awhile for you to find but once you do, you’re a member for life.

 

il Quiz del Giorno

This is a first in il Chat history and depending on the amount of fiery hate mail I receive possibly the last. While sneaking out of a female companion's penthouse the other day in the south of France who shall remain nameless (hint: her name rhymes with Bar Refaeli) I slipped on what I thought was a strategically placed patch of black ice. Remembering that I was indeed in the Cote d'Azur I investigated further to find the glossy pages of an issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine staring back at me from the floor. Me: What is this? Bar: A magazine I'm on the cover of... where were you going? Me: Nevermind where I was going I'm taking this. Bar: Are you taking my heart with you? Me: Shhh....

Nestled amongst the proclamations of "10 Beauty Secrets Sitting in Your Fridge" and "We Test the New Dirty Dishwater Cleanse!" there was an advert for a quiz. This quiz promised to inform you as to which kind of lover you are simply by answering a few questions presumably developed and tested by a collective of scientists specializing in the field of coital deciphering. Upon taking and completing the quiz I became inspired (Editor's Note: I am a voracious and complete lover who finds inspiration in passion and relishes the opportunity to share real feelings. Ladies consider yourselves warned.) That being said what follows below is the Il Chat del Giorno "Which Pro Rider Are You?" Quiz Extravaganza. Simply answer the questions presented to you recording your answers for analyzation upon finishing. Use of #2 pencils is encouraged and remember there is no incorrect answer, just stupid questions.

1. Finding yourself in a breakaway of 6 riders, 2 of whom are world class sprinters, with 5 km to go and a climb averaging 5.5% 2 km from the finish, do you: a) Crush the last of your water, violently throw the empty bidon into an unsuspecting fan group and proceed to turn yourself inside out in hopes of a legendary victory all while cursing race directors for their stupidity. b) Bide time until a group sprint whereupon you time the leadout to perfection, cross the finish line first looking resplendent and tan then get both podium girls phone numbers for later. c) Lament the situation you find yourself in, consider retirement, bawl for the remaining 5 km then give an overly emotional press conference saying how you tried your best. d) Proceed to turn out 870 watts for the duration of the race foiling the sprinters and soloing in for a dominant victory. Also your hair looks fantastic.

2. Transfer season is upon you. You are forced to decide whether to stay at your current team who supported you since you were a neo-pro or jump to a bigger team with higher salary and more pressures, do you: a) Curse your agent for bothering you with unimportant questions in the off season and interrupting your training. Then later call him back and ensure that plucky young American will be eradicated from your squad. b) Go for more cash drafting a kit clause in the new contract stipulating you have full reign to design your own TT skin suits in Grand Tours. c) Take the bigger contract then when local media lambast you for your lack of loyalty hold a teary press conference apologizing to the masses. d) Switch to the bigger team not for more money but because the bikes on your current team keep breaking under your immense power output.

3. You are designated team leader yet a teammate of yours is in a better position to possibly win, do you: a) Create an internal mutiny requiring allegiance from other teammates of similar national origin sabotaging the underling privately whilst publicly lauding his chances. b) Sleep with the teammate's girlfriend c) Accuse the younger teammate of pharmaceutical enhancement in a teary press conference. d) Secure in your talents, do all you can to help the younger teammate including "learning" him to TT more efficiently.

4. You have a big race in two days but are being lured into going out for a night on the town by friends, do you: a) Physically assault your "friends" for their irrational requests and poor influence getting the proper sleep and training required to be prepared to inflict damage on all rivals. b) Go out with friends waking up the morning of the race to your race director knocking on the door of an unknown female companion whose bed you are currently sharing. c) Spend a night at home crying in the shower with your clothes on over the difficulty of making a decision. d) Inform your friends that time simply won't allow such frivolity in the most neutral way possible then settle in for a night of deep hair conditioning.

5. Your team sponsors have come up with a cycling kit that is universally despised by the team. Owing to your position of influence fellow riders look to you to inform the top brass of their mistake, do you: a) Slap all your teammates for their insolence in what you interpret as a "labor strike" informing them that the jersey isn't what wins races but the ferocious spirit and endless attacking. b) Assure your teammates they have nothing to worry about since you already had Dolce and Gabbana design a secondary kit for just such a situation. c) Buckle under the pressure of your teammates requests breaking down at the team service course into a teary heap of disappointment. d) Take everyone's concerns one at a time while adopting a neutral stance on the matter then produce a proposal to the team informing all of the concerns of the riders. Then ride 40K alone in under 30 minutes.

Please tally your answers and find out which professional rider you are below!

3-5 "A" answers Bernard Hinault - You are a fierce competitor who can't be bothered with the bureaucracy of the sport. Attacking within a race is second nature. You are a traditionalist who sees anyone that stands between you and victory as a personal enemy. Your French attitude is palpable and you have a seemingly irrational hatred for labor strikers. You anger easily.

3-5 "B" answers Mario Cipollini- You are a flamboyant and polarizing figure who takes just as much pleasure from Victoria's Secret models as you do from race victories. The finer things in life are not to be ignored and neither is your raw talent. Victory is nothing if not done in style. You have an incredible tan and an award winning smile.

3-5 "C" answers Richard Virenque - You are an overly emotional mess. You lay claim to ample amounts of natural talent but are too internally unstable to realize any of your true potential. You appeal to house-wives the world over as they see your weepy outbursts as "humanizing". You own too much hair bleach and will throw friends under the bus.

3-5 "D" answers Fabian Cancellara - You are a methodical and dominant rider that breaks the competitors around you with outrageous displays of physical prowess. You are a loyal teammate, enjoy being surrounded by formidable natural borders and can hold impossibly high sustained power outputs. You have a Tissot tattoo and an incredible head of hair.

I hope this quiz has been both informative and entertaining. Stay tuned for next week's installment where I tell you about 5 products sitting in your medicine cabinet that will increase your climbing speed by 20%! (Special thanks to Bad Fish Good Fish for photo help)

il Bike Shop

In addition to pre-ride coffee shops and post race champagne/money/podium girl parties there lies another institution that rests comfortably within the pantheons of the cycling umbrella. I speak of your nearby bike shop. The local hub that draws cyclists from all disciplines uniting the two wheeled community in their universal thirst for components, chamois cream and carbon fiber. With the now burgeoning online e-commerce market taking over the cycling community it is becoming more and more rare to actually make substantial purchases at bike shops. Online proprietors often have new products sooner and at much lower prices than neighborhood shops. Yet what ebay and PBK.com will never have is the constant cast of characters that frequent a shop creating a Cheers-ian tragicomedy complete with running laugh track and end credits. While all shops are different, similarities in the casts run deep and methinks you'll be able to recognize a few, if not more, of the characters listed below.

Latin Mechanic Latin Mechanic hails from somewhere you can't remember in South America. His is rarely referred to by his actual name instead going by some nickname like "Maestro" or "Pancho Villa". His skills are unrivaled and inexplicable at the same time. He doesn't use tire levers when replacing a punctured tube and he owns lubricants and greases that may very well be homemade. Latin Mechanic can true a carbon wheel with a Pez dispenser and has questionably believable connections in some way to professional cycling. Almost always Latin Mechanic has another completely unrelated business on the side that you'll probably never know about.

(Phone rings) Shop Boss: Hello? Yes I'll accept a collect call from Tegucigalpa. Latin Mechanic: Hola boss, it's me Conquistador! Shop Boss: Oh hey Conquistador what's up, where have you been? When are you coming back? Latin Mechanic: Oye boss I'm away visiting family, I'll be back in dos meses! Hasta luego! Shop Boss: Wait, hold up...

Cheers Drink of Choice: Numerous scattered half finished Coca-Cola bottles

Bike Shop Nerd Employee Bike Shop Nerd Employee is a supremely helpful individual who thrives on providing top notch customer service generally when it's not wanted. Bike Shop Nerd Employee many times doesn't even ride a bike preferring, rather, to just be immersed in the culture. He is most helpful to customers new to cycling and quite adept at excitedly talking about products that you read about on Cycling News 2 months ago. Bike Shop Nerd Employee is universally accepted as a nuisance but is such a genuinely nice person it is literally impossible to be mean to them lest you be labeled a sociopath. The resemblances to Stacy from "Wayne's World" are striking but there's a very real chance Bike Shop Nerd Employee will probably save your cycling hide one day when you've flatted 60 kms from the nearest form of civilization.

Bike Shop Nerd Employee: Hey bud! Couldn't help but notice you got a flat out here in the Mojave! Need a hand?!? You: Oh hey, uh, yea...yea I do man. Bike Shop Nerd Employee: Man have you seen these new CO2 cartridges? So easy to use, easy to store and effective too! You: Yea, yea I have seen those. Hey what are you doing out here by the way? Bike Shop Nerd Employee: And only $5 a piece at the shop! Hey you like my Fat Tire jersey?

Cheers Drink of Choice: Blue Powerade

Old Foreign Guy Old Foreign Guy is, shockingly, both old and foreign. Commonly from a traditional European country, Old Foreign Guy is almost always adorned in a complete cycling kit from at least 15 years ago and tends to hang out near the service counter communicating (poorly) with Latin Mechanic. He used to race as a junior and still rides a steel lugged Colnago. He pulls income from an unknown and seemingly endless source and it's nearly impossible to ever actually see him ride a bike on the road. Old Foreign Guy constantly references old race results and still eats a raw egg during his cold shower every morning. Old Foreign Guy likes to make borderline uncomfortable references to your current form and physique which you'll do well to just chock up to his being old and foreign.

Old Foreign: Ah, yes, I see your legs looks aggressive and supple. Very provocative, very provocative indeed. You: Heh, yea, thanks Angelo. Old Foreign: Yes very slim, very slim. Good to be young and virile no? (cue slow exit to the cashier's desk)

Cheers Drink of Choice: Whatever he keeps in that old tin Campagnolo bottle he always has.

Fixie Riding Employee Fixie Riding Employee would appear to hate his job nearly as much as he hates mechanical shifting. He can be found trolling HipsterTits.com nearly as much as he frequents Facebook on the shop computer. Hilarity ensues when an unsuspecting customer has the audacity to actually ask him for assistance with something in the store. Fixie Riding Employee is usually still in school ergo exercise supreme caution in the month of September lest you get threatened with a U-lock.

Unsuspecting Customer: Excuse me, could you tell me the difference between this dual suspension MTB and that, uh, "Si-nelli" bike thingy there? Is that how you pronounce it, "Si-nelli"? Fixie Riding Employee: (pinching bridge of nose while simultaneously Tweeting frustrations) Fail...

Cheers Drink of Choice: A super exclusive micro-brew you've probably never heard of.

Local Pro Local Pro rides for a small elite-amateur/professional team and specializes in mid field crit finishes and blowing the legs off of unsuspecting riders on the weekend group rides. He is impossibly fit in comparison to a normal human with a work schedule. His tan is rich, his marital morality stance questionable and his inclination to helmet application whilst riding absent. Local Pro appears to live a life of luxury yet little is actually known of his personal or domestic orientations. He is usually waited upon with bated breath and revered with blind acceptance walking about the local bike shop with near regal authority. Upon further investigation no one can actually remember Local Pro's last win.

Local Pro: Are these the new Power Bar gels? Shop Owner: Yea! Yea you want some? Take some! Just have em you can totally take some! Local Pro: Throw them in the bag, I've got a personal training appointment I can't miss. Shop Owner: Classic! Good luck this weekend champ!

Cheers Drink of Choice: Whatever your wife drinks.

Bike Fit Advocate Customer/Entrepreneur Bike Fit Advocate Customer/Entrepreneur relishes the opportunity to speak to you about your current position on the bike. He has watched far too many physiological videos on You Tube and is violently ergonomic. He carries extra cleat shims in his wallet and plumb wires in his fanny pack. He trolls the cycling shoe section of the shop waiting for the opportune moment to pounce on the unsuspecting customer and inundate them with kinesiology catch phrases. His affiliation with the shop is not entirely known but he does drive around a Scion xB with his company insignia emblazoned on the side. You will have his card.

Bike Fit Man: So like what's your pedaling style? You: Huh? Uh, I dunno, effective? Bike Fit Man: Like are you pedaling squares or circles dude? C'mon! You: I don't know I'm just trying these Sidi's on. Bike Fit Man: You need a shorter stem bud and lower your ankles on the climbs next time. Here's my card, you're welcome.

Cheers Drink of Choice: Water for its ability to take any shape gracefully.

The bike shop is finding itself in a current state of flux, a once reverential institution now struggling for a solid foothold on what was once a stable foundation. The internet and social media have issued significant first blows but the bike shop is not an opponent to lie down so easily. Online commerce certainly has provided a forum for near instantaneous selections, impossibly low prices and unrivaled inventory. Yet. Yet, there is something soothing about walking into your local shop and seeing Virenque get shelled in the '99 Tour de France on the TV for the 276th time. Something reassuring in passing the signed USPS jersey framed on the wall near a vintage 7-11 poster. A sense of calm when making your way around the beach cruisers featuring a new Paul Frank iteration along the fenders. A familial hand of guidance in the never changing selection of bar tapes gracing the particle board display walls. A palpable sense of community in watching the social ballet of shop regulars interact with one another. The local bike shop fits like your favorite pair of summer bibs and gives you that certain qualcosa you can't find online. Cause making your way in the world today takes everything you got and sometimes you just wanna go where everybody knows your frame.

A Fly on il Wall

In addition to spending summers at Donatella's villa at Lake Como and taking ski holidays in the Swiss Alps with Fabian I also am fortunate enough to have friends seeded deep in multiple government intelligence agencies. Because of this I know who shot JFK (Sinatra on a dare), where the Holy Grail is kept (currently being used as Cheney's pacemaker) and what goes on at Area 51 (200 square miles of end to end trampolines). Owing to these high placed connections I came into possession of a surveillance tape taken from inside UCI President Pat McQuaid's secret lair. Unfortunately it's just audio but this does little to dilute the juiciness it contains. What follows is a select excerpt from the confiscated tape, keep in mind I am risking both reputation and well being posting this highly sensitive material so I hope it's worth it.

Pat: Hello gentlemen please sit, get comfortable, welcome, welcome. Thank you for joining me today and offering your help with our current "situation" regarding the riders, director sportifs and their reluctance, we'll say, at following our rules. I've literally gone red in the face trying to communicate with these fools and I'd appreciate some outside perspective on the subject. Mr. Verbruggen I'd like to defer to you at the moment and hear what you think would be most efficient at showing these insolent cyclists that what we say goes? Hein: Erm, well, uh, you see when I was in charge, uh, you must talk to the riders and uh... so they can understand... there's important uh, you know, um, elements... Pat: Hein could you please stop counting that stack of non-consecutively marked bills in the Nike bag and please pay attention to the business at hand? Hein: Right sorry, side tracked. I don't see the problem in all honesty, can't you just order some third party investigators to produce a report stating everything is copacetic? I've got a third party investigative company I own, I'll give you a great price. Pat: No Hein, I thought of that already, it's not that simple, you see the riders are starting to... organize. (collective gasps followed by unintelligible murmurings) Pat: Gentlemen, gentlemen please! Calm down, now I think we can still stay ahead of this. Silvio: Che ridicolo! Pat you must organize a distrazione to pull the attention away from the subject, you can make a beautiful program on the television with pretty ladies in not much clothing dancing and singing and dancing and laughing. I have some women you are sure to be very happy with. You have a TV network no? Pat: No Mr. Berlusconi no I don't. Silvio: Newspapers? Pat: No. Silvio: Internet machine? Pat: Do you mean a computer? Silvio: Is that the box with the beautiful women not having clothing with very low ages? Pat: Jesus, ok let's try to keep moving forward here. Zomegnan: 22 climbs with an average gradient of 23% in the next edition of Paris-Roubaix. Pat: Angelo that's physically impossible and what would that solve?! Zomegnan: For a more beautiful sport. Pat: Angelo I can't say I'm surprised about your sacking, now honestly gentlemen we keep getting side tracked and I just really need you all to... JESUS CHRIST VIRENQUE DROP THAT FUCKING TWO WAY RADIO RIGHT THIS INSTANT OR SO HELP ME GOD I'LL SHOVE IT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU'LL BE COUGHING UP RADIO STATIC!!!! (muffled sobbing ensues) Pat: Somebody give Richard a tissue please. Now, an idea I did have was to spring the Badger on any rider or DS who goes against us publicly. Hinault: Sacre bleu! It would be mon plaisir to dispatch of those that wish to sully l'image of cycling. Lawyer Man: Mr. McQuaid you cannot incur physical violence against the riders or directors, it's far too easy to trace back to you. Pat: But the Badger's thirst for blood is insatiable! Lawyer Man: Irrelevant. There must be a different solution. Rupert Murdoch: Threaten the sponsors. Pat: Jesus! Mr. Murdoch I don't even see you, where are you? Rupert Murdoch: Heard your conversation over the wire tap decided to teleconference myself in. Threaten the sponsors. Pat: As usual Mr. Murdoch your genius knows no bounds, threaten the sponsors we will! I'll pen a letter, sign it and send it off clandestinely, it will be impossible to trace! Meeting adjourned!

Shocking stuff to say the least. Here's to hoping I'm not asked to take any car rides to the country to pick up some cannolis.

Adagio for Der Kaiser

Being that it is October and perfectly legal to imbibe copious amounts of beer with little regard to proper liver function I decided it was fitting to focus on one of the greatest cyclists to come out of Germany. And before we get started let me make it brutally clear we will not be talking about Jens Voigt, if you wish to scoff over "Jens'isms" kindly make your way over to Pez Cycling where I believe there's an article about travel bike couplings you might like as well. The German I speak of is an entirely different beast, one who sprinkled others broken dreams over his corn flakes before drowning them in the tears of rivals bested. A man whose penchant for time trialing in the big ring was surpassed only by his love of strudel. A man whose legs sparked fear into even the most gifted riders and looked to be sculpted by Michelangelo himself. The German I speak of hailed from the school of hard knocks where inspiration was found in every brick of the Berlin wall, where muted Earth tones were considered risque and a sense of pride was felt in a well organized appliance manual collection. I am speaking of Der Kaiser, Jan Ullrich.

To describe the riding style of Der Jan is a difficult task. Take the no shit attitude of Hans Gruber, mix in a healthy pinch of the terrifying visage of Oliver Kahn plus the efficiency of a Luger pistol and you have a rough idea of what Der Kaiser could do on a bicycle. Ullrich was a pure rider whose natural talent was violently apparent to those with any idea of what professional cycling requires. The root of this talent can be traced back to the infamous East German Sport Schools where athletically superior youth were plucked from the masses based on criteria bordering on the mystical. Stories have been told of cyclists being forced to ride rollers in front of a brick wall for hours on end in order to strengthen the mental spirit. They were a regimented institution with a work ethic bordering on the demented and a morality structure about as sound as the Hindenburg. Erik Zabel used to have a normal haircut before graduating from the East German School of Sport wherein it was deemed the most aerodynamic hair style a sprinter could have and was perpetually trained into its current incarnation. Jan excelled winning championships behind the shadow of the Berlin Wall until he was finally introduced to life on the other side a few years after our cowboy actor president called for its demise. As many know Jan burst upon the scene as a 22 year old relative unknown with Team Telekom when he aided Mr. 60% himself to his first and only Tour de France victory showing flashes of brilliance in the process and prompting Big Mig Indurain to predict future Tour victories from the German. Indurain can count on one hand how many times he's been wrong and this was not one of those instances, Jan went on to win the '97 Tour holding off a charging Pantani and dispatching of the sniveling school girl Virenque becoming the first German to wear the yellow jersey in Paris.

Und now... we party.

What followed this glorious achievement is where things start to get fun. Many stated over the years that Jan was a far more gifted natural athlete than Lance whom he was never able to defeat in Le Grande Boucle. What Lance capitalized on was his borderline insane level of dedication and preparation for the race whilst Jan, well, Jan enjoyed life. It became common place for the entire peloton to comment on Der Kaiser's fluctuating weight in the lead up to the biggest race of the year. Upon hearing such idle chit chat the Great German decreed "I have seen many lean riders in the peloton but very few Tour winners" to which Virenque ran off arms flailing crying for un tissu. Jan fell victim to what I like to call "Berlin Wall Fever". Having spent most of his formative years behind the stifling visage of the Great Wall he was thrust upon the mainstream world as a rising sports star with a voracious appetite for all things new, all things indulgent, all things strudel. Fast autos und pretty fräulein were at the top of Jan's list and I for one cannot blame him. Germany is a glorious country where the beer flows like wine and with the utmost precision to boot ... das boot. Having done what no other German before him had accomplished Jan suddenly found himself squarely within the spotlight of an adoring country quick to hoist praise and gifts upon his shoulders. He had found a team that was being formed around him and a new friend with whom to share his successes, Andreas Kloden.

Jan: Klody! Turn up zat Tiesto ja? Andreas: Ja ja Jan of course! Und what are we doing tonight? Jan: First we get mein Porsche up to 200 kph, then we find a discoteque und then we Safety Dance! Andreas: Uber fantastische Jan! But vat about the Tour of Deutschland tomorrow? Jan: Don't worry Klody the first stage is a time trial und mein sensations are strong to quite strong. It will be nicht problem! Boris Becker: Baron von Slam vants to dance. Jan: Ja Boris we know, und das ist why we are going to ze disco! Boris Becker: Baron von Slam vants to party. Jan: Ja Boris we know, und das ist why we have zeez pills! Andreas: Jan are you sure about this? You got these pills from a man wearing quite a bit of leather und sunglasses at night. Jan: Klody don't be such a Gerdemann! All ist good und you know what Boris is like if he doesn't get vat he vants. Andreas: Ja I know, but will these pills make me any less handsome? Jan: Nicht Klody, your good looks are impenetrable, like a Panzer!! Andreas: Jan you're too much, let us prost! All: Hasselhoff!!

It was no secret Jan enjoyed a good party now and again, and again aaaaaand again. In 2002 he had his license revoked for a drunk driving accident and then tested positive for amphetamines which he said was the result of taking ecstasy at a club. Shockingly no one else thought this story was more awesome than awful and consequences ensued. Suspended from Team Telekom he found a temporary home at the quite stylish Team Coast which then became Team Bianchi. Interestingly enough it was after all of this that he came closest to usurping the Uniballer in 2003 losing out on a second victory by only 61 seconds. More notable though than his near success was a display of sportsmanship towards his greatest rival that gave us a glimpse into what kind of man Jan really was. After Armstrong's tango with the infamous musette, Jan and others up the road waited for the maillot jaune to regain his bearings and rejoin the gruppetto. A display of respect that unfortunately has gone missing in recent years. Jan made his way back to Team Telekom which now was called T-Mobile and spent the next few years trying in vein to grace the topmost spot of the Parisian podium.

Jan was part of an era in cycling that gave us some of the most exciting and interesting racing on record. In a peloton dominated wholly by a single man Jan still garnered the same if not more attention than the 7-time victor. To watch Der Kaiser time trial on a rebranded Walser was a thing of rare beauty. His famous legs churning out a slow and deliberate cadence swallowing the tarmac at an alarming rate. The tri-stripe Adidas bibs mated to the day-glo pink T-Mobile jersey assaulting your corneas. The infamous Uvex TT helmet extending nearly to his tailbone behind which the eyes of a legend lurked. All these things combined to strike fear into the hearts of lesser men, I've even heard certain pros began doping just to keep up with Jan on coffee shop spins. Jan wasn't afraid to do things how wanted, in the face of one of the sports greatest Tour riders Jan stuck to his guns, double Golden Guns I think, maybe RCP 90's. He wasn't afraid to grab an extra bear claw before a training ride or head butt the rear windshield of his team car the day before a race. If Boris Becker wanted to charter a private jet to Oktoberfest and get lost in the hoppy glow of a beer tent for 4 days straight, Jan wasn't going to be the guy that said nicht. If Oliver Kahn felt like racing around the Nurburgring in matching BMW M3's blindfolded singing Ace of Bass at the top of his lungs, Jan wasn't going to be the guy to tell him to turn it down. If Andreas Kloden wanted to blow off Alpe d'Huez intervals two weeks before the Tour to spend 3 days at a world renowned beauty spa complete with full body mud baths and all natural facials, Jan wasn't going to tell him he'd already bought a jar of Neutrogena. Regardless of his preparatory prowess, or lack thereof, Jan still showed up to every single Tour demanding respect from would be GC contenders. To rule Jan out as a serious competitor was to predict Germany would be asking Greece for a economical bailout in the future... foolish. He tasted the sweet nectar of Tour victory once but never made excuses for his shortcomings. Jan Ullrich was a great campione but more importantly a great sportsman, displaying the utmost graciousness and poise when others would have thrown a fit and blamed their problems on a Spanish cow. Danke Jan.