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ysobelleI'm watching Sandy Casar in the lead four breakaway, when Phil Liggett mentions Nelson the Dog.
Oh, my G-d.
One thing you have to know about the Tour-- actually, probably one thing you DO know if you've ever seen more than two minutes of it-- is that it gets CRAZY out on the road. Absolutely, positively, batshit crazy. This isn't a sport played in arenas or parks, with every spectator forking out $50 for a seat and $8 for a beer. This is a sport of the people, and it's played out on their streets, in their villages, and up and down their mountains.
So of course, they come out to watch. And since the peloton goes by pretty quickly, your average savvy spectator has learned a few tricks. The most popular? Climbs. As the riders go up the mountains, they're not flying, they're fighting. They're working for each meter, sometimes struggling painfully for them. And they're going comparatively slowly. So if you want to actually see your favourite rider's face, and not just a flash of his jersey as he leaves your sorry ass in the dust, you go sit in wait on a mountain.
Over the years, as humans do, they've turned this opportunity to spectate into an opportunity to spectate and party. While some will drive up in their Fiats and Citroens, some ambitious folks will rent RVs and do it up in style. Of course, these are narrow, two lane roads, and it's usually wise to get there early to claim your spot. Sometimes, days early. So here you are, up a lonely mountain in your RV with a few hundred of your closest batshit crazy friends. What do you do? That's right. You party.
I've seen things out on the road that I swear no sober man ever thought up. In the Giro, there ran alongside the cyclists a man in sneakers, running shorts, and a football helmet with a six-foot spread of longhorns. We assume he was there to show his cheerful support of Texan Lance Armstrong. I've seen men-- women seem to be too smart for this-- in thongs and European flags and little else. I've seen a guy in a bear suit. And, of course, nothing can beat The Devil himself, Didi Senft, a fixture on the mountaintops since 1993, in his red lycra suit and black cape, with his white beard and pitchfork, looking like some deranged Santa.
And it's not just the mountains where people tend to congregate and schmooze. The flat stages offer some beautiful scenery, and perhaps easier parking. So sometimes, you know, you're out there a few days, you've had a few beers, and maaaaybe you're not the sharpest you've ever been. Maybe you're in the lycra suit, or maybe you've just had a slight lapse of judgment. Like, maybe you brought your dog, say. But you forgot to put him on a leash. Because honestly? Nothing else but too much beer can explain such stupidity.
You see where this is going, right?
2007. Early in Stage 18. Francaise des Jeux rider Sandy Casar and Liquigas rider Frederik Willems are part of a small, early breakaway. They're speeding down a flat part of the stage, with spectators cheering on the verges. These men are all going hell-for-leather. And here comes Nelson.
Nelson was-- is, one assumes-- a big, happy, black lab mix. Nelson is also completely unaware, as dogs are, that perhaps he's chosen a particularly bad moment to cross the road. Nelson does not see the riders. The riders see Nelson-- but too late.
Exactly what you would expect to have happen happens. Nelson goes under Casar's bike. Casar goes down sideways, spinning out and shredding half his jersey, and taking out Willems, who goes ass over teakettle into the spectators. Willems, worryingly crumpled, does not immediately get up. Somehow, Casar and the dog both do. Nelson, somewhat startled, slinks away in one direction, evading capture, and Casar, looking equally startled, regains his bike-- somewhat painfully, one imagines-- and speeds off in another. He will go on to win the stage decisively, his tattered jersey fluttering when he pumps his arms in the air as he victoriously crosses the line. He is ecstatic. He is over the moon. And all anyone wants to ask him is, "What happened to the dog!?"
Nelson suffered no injuries, we were assured. He did not, however, place in the stage. You'd think, for all his trouble, he'd at least get a yellow bone or something. But no. Willems apparently did get back up, but did not make it back to the breakaway. No bone for him, either. And best of all? It wasn't the only dog crash that year. Stage 9 saw German T-Mobile rider Marcus Burghardt hit a yellow lab who completely totalled both his unbelievably expensive wheels-- though not, miraculously, either his skull or the dog.
So flash-forward to today, and there's Sandy Casar again, out in front as part of a small breakaway. This time, perhaps, our batshit crazy spectators have learned their collective lesson, and there are NO STRAY DOGS. Which is good, because once again, these guys aren't screwing around. They've been away for quite some time, attacking each other, and whittling a medium-sized breakaway down to four-- including Casar. There's also Luis Leon Sanchez of Caisse d'Epargne, Vladimir Efimkin of AG2R, and Mikel Astarloza of Euskatel Euskadi. It's again a game of chess at speed as these men test each other, attacking and defending, and it's incredibly exciting to watch. The rest of the pack is stretched in groups down the mountain, everyone making sure the main GC contenders are safe and no one's pulling anything too adventurous. Everyone's watching big favourite Cadel Evans especially, but every time he tries to attack, he's caught. Still, don't expect him to fold.
(There is a fairly large man in the crowd today in a large polka-dot skirt, little white hat, and bright red wig braided into pigtails. He is holding a little white stuffed dog. I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. There's also a young man in a party-store knight costume, with a wooden shield, waving a plastic sword. I KNOW I don't want to know.)
The approach to the end is coming. There's an awesome shot of Columbia rider George Hincapie, formerly Armstrong's right-hand man, bridging the gap from one chase group up to another. He's an unbelievably skilled descender, but seeing him crouched down with his nose tucked behind his handlebars-- and I mean that literally-- as he flies down a mountain is bewilderingly scary.
But back to the front, and we've switched to the front-end cameras: they're closing in on the line. It's been an intensely long day for these four, and they've been working together-- mostly. Not entirely, because they know they're far enough away to not get caught, and thus one of them will win this stage.
Down to the line, and I have to admit, I'm cheering for Casar. I know Sanchez is a great rider, but I'm not above rooting for the Dog Wrangler, himself a highly talented rider. It looked, several times, like this breakaway would drop him, but over and over, he's fought his way back in. It's inspiring to watch. And for a moment, it looks like he's found a burst of speed-- will he-- well, no. Sanchez has just an ounce more power left in his legs, and he just tips Casar on the line.
One thing I will say is that today's coverage is generously peppered with Astana interviews. Johan Bruyneel, Levi Leipheimer, Contador himself, and Lance. And reading between the lines, one thing is VERY clear: Contador was not riding to plan yesterday, and he got thoroughly bitchslapped in the team meeting this morning. His showy finish yesterday, which forced his own team to react, was not a smart move. Team plan was to control the race but NOT fight for the yellow jersey. It's too early in the race, and they don't want to have to defend it. Would they have taken it if it were easier? Maybe. But they had no plan to push for it. Contador may have wanted to prove his mettle, but what he's really proved is he's a prima donna, and not a good team player.
Anyway. Excellent stage today, and some truly gorgeous scenery. Thor Hushovd has grabbed the green points jersey from Mark Cavendish, and Rinaldo Nocentini has retained the yellow jersey.
Tune in tomorrow.
Oh, my G-d.
One thing you have to know about the Tour-- actually, probably one thing you DO know if you've ever seen more than two minutes of it-- is that it gets CRAZY out on the road. Absolutely, positively, batshit crazy. This isn't a sport played in arenas or parks, with every spectator forking out $50 for a seat and $8 for a beer. This is a sport of the people, and it's played out on their streets, in their villages, and up and down their mountains.
So of course, they come out to watch. And since the peloton goes by pretty quickly, your average savvy spectator has learned a few tricks. The most popular? Climbs. As the riders go up the mountains, they're not flying, they're fighting. They're working for each meter, sometimes struggling painfully for them. And they're going comparatively slowly. So if you want to actually see your favourite rider's face, and not just a flash of his jersey as he leaves your sorry ass in the dust, you go sit in wait on a mountain.
Over the years, as humans do, they've turned this opportunity to spectate into an opportunity to spectate and party. While some will drive up in their Fiats and Citroens, some ambitious folks will rent RVs and do it up in style. Of course, these are narrow, two lane roads, and it's usually wise to get there early to claim your spot. Sometimes, days early. So here you are, up a lonely mountain in your RV with a few hundred of your closest batshit crazy friends. What do you do? That's right. You party.
I've seen things out on the road that I swear no sober man ever thought up. In the Giro, there ran alongside the cyclists a man in sneakers, running shorts, and a football helmet with a six-foot spread of longhorns. We assume he was there to show his cheerful support of Texan Lance Armstrong. I've seen men-- women seem to be too smart for this-- in thongs and European flags and little else. I've seen a guy in a bear suit. And, of course, nothing can beat The Devil himself, Didi Senft, a fixture on the mountaintops since 1993, in his red lycra suit and black cape, with his white beard and pitchfork, looking like some deranged Santa.
And it's not just the mountains where people tend to congregate and schmooze. The flat stages offer some beautiful scenery, and perhaps easier parking. So sometimes, you know, you're out there a few days, you've had a few beers, and maaaaybe you're not the sharpest you've ever been. Maybe you're in the lycra suit, or maybe you've just had a slight lapse of judgment. Like, maybe you brought your dog, say. But you forgot to put him on a leash. Because honestly? Nothing else but too much beer can explain such stupidity.
You see where this is going, right?
2007. Early in Stage 18. Francaise des Jeux rider Sandy Casar and Liquigas rider Frederik Willems are part of a small, early breakaway. They're speeding down a flat part of the stage, with spectators cheering on the verges. These men are all going hell-for-leather. And here comes Nelson.
Nelson was-- is, one assumes-- a big, happy, black lab mix. Nelson is also completely unaware, as dogs are, that perhaps he's chosen a particularly bad moment to cross the road. Nelson does not see the riders. The riders see Nelson-- but too late.
Exactly what you would expect to have happen happens. Nelson goes under Casar's bike. Casar goes down sideways, spinning out and shredding half his jersey, and taking out Willems, who goes ass over teakettle into the spectators. Willems, worryingly crumpled, does not immediately get up. Somehow, Casar and the dog both do. Nelson, somewhat startled, slinks away in one direction, evading capture, and Casar, looking equally startled, regains his bike-- somewhat painfully, one imagines-- and speeds off in another. He will go on to win the stage decisively, his tattered jersey fluttering when he pumps his arms in the air as he victoriously crosses the line. He is ecstatic. He is over the moon. And all anyone wants to ask him is, "What happened to the dog!?"
Nelson suffered no injuries, we were assured. He did not, however, place in the stage. You'd think, for all his trouble, he'd at least get a yellow bone or something. But no. Willems apparently did get back up, but did not make it back to the breakaway. No bone for him, either. And best of all? It wasn't the only dog crash that year. Stage 9 saw German T-Mobile rider Marcus Burghardt hit a yellow lab who completely totalled both his unbelievably expensive wheels-- though not, miraculously, either his skull or the dog.
So flash-forward to today, and there's Sandy Casar again, out in front as part of a small breakaway. This time, perhaps, our batshit crazy spectators have learned their collective lesson, and there are NO STRAY DOGS. Which is good, because once again, these guys aren't screwing around. They've been away for quite some time, attacking each other, and whittling a medium-sized breakaway down to four-- including Casar. There's also Luis Leon Sanchez of Caisse d'Epargne, Vladimir Efimkin of AG2R, and Mikel Astarloza of Euskatel Euskadi. It's again a game of chess at speed as these men test each other, attacking and defending, and it's incredibly exciting to watch. The rest of the pack is stretched in groups down the mountain, everyone making sure the main GC contenders are safe and no one's pulling anything too adventurous. Everyone's watching big favourite Cadel Evans especially, but every time he tries to attack, he's caught. Still, don't expect him to fold.
(There is a fairly large man in the crowd today in a large polka-dot skirt, little white hat, and bright red wig braided into pigtails. He is holding a little white stuffed dog. I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. There's also a young man in a party-store knight costume, with a wooden shield, waving a plastic sword. I KNOW I don't want to know.)
The approach to the end is coming. There's an awesome shot of Columbia rider George Hincapie, formerly Armstrong's right-hand man, bridging the gap from one chase group up to another. He's an unbelievably skilled descender, but seeing him crouched down with his nose tucked behind his handlebars-- and I mean that literally-- as he flies down a mountain is bewilderingly scary.
But back to the front, and we've switched to the front-end cameras: they're closing in on the line. It's been an intensely long day for these four, and they've been working together-- mostly. Not entirely, because they know they're far enough away to not get caught, and thus one of them will win this stage.
Down to the line, and I have to admit, I'm cheering for Casar. I know Sanchez is a great rider, but I'm not above rooting for the Dog Wrangler, himself a highly talented rider. It looked, several times, like this breakaway would drop him, but over and over, he's fought his way back in. It's inspiring to watch. And for a moment, it looks like he's found a burst of speed-- will he-- well, no. Sanchez has just an ounce more power left in his legs, and he just tips Casar on the line.
One thing I will say is that today's coverage is generously peppered with Astana interviews. Johan Bruyneel, Levi Leipheimer, Contador himself, and Lance. And reading between the lines, one thing is VERY clear: Contador was not riding to plan yesterday, and he got thoroughly bitchslapped in the team meeting this morning. His showy finish yesterday, which forced his own team to react, was not a smart move. Team plan was to control the race but NOT fight for the yellow jersey. It's too early in the race, and they don't want to have to defend it. Would they have taken it if it were easier? Maybe. But they had no plan to push for it. Contador may have wanted to prove his mettle, but what he's really proved is he's a prima donna, and not a good team player.
Anyway. Excellent stage today, and some truly gorgeous scenery. Thor Hushovd has grabbed the green points jersey from Mark Cavendish, and Rinaldo Nocentini has retained the yellow jersey.
Tune in tomorrow.