New Year’s Resolutions — AI Edition

Introduction

It’s that time of year again, when you start planning out how you’ll be better this year. This can be really annoying, especially when you have to read about “SMART” goals even though you know in your soul that “DUMB” ones are better. And now you’ve stumbled across this post. Well, fear not – I’m just as fed up as you, and will try to make this as painless as possible.

As with everything now, I will consider the topic through the prism of Artificial Intelligence. That satisfies the “T” in “SMART” because it’s timely—and for this I apologize. But I must press on, because there are many ways in which we could resolve to use AI better, more responsibly, or less annoyingly. I’ve managed to winnow this post down to five key resolutions.

Resolution #1: Do not pass off AI work as your own

This recommendation probably seems self-evident, and yet it needs to be said. How many times have you read something ostensibly written by a human but obviously ghost-written by AI? It’s kind of amazing to me how brazenly people will paste straight from ChatGPT or another AI chatbot and think they can get away with it. Only an AI could fail to spot the nuances that betray AI-generated text.

Even if AI worked perfectly as a ghost-writer, by using it you would suffer from the neglect of your own intellect. There is an intrinsic value in learning to represent your ideas in your own words, just as you would do when speaking. Ideally, over time, by doing your own work, you will develop a writing style—a unique voice—and this is what makes you you, and ought to keep you from being easily replaced by AI. And the more you write, on your own, the better this voice will be developed, and the better you will do at in-person communication, which is almost always ad hoc. This capability ought to take precedence over the convenience of outsourcing to AI.

I asked ChatGPT to weigh in on this matter, and it said, “If AI helped draft, summarize, or rephrase something substantial, acknowledge it—especially in professional, academic, or published contexts. For your blog, this might mean a light disclosure like: ‘Drafted with AI assistance; final edits and opinions are mine.’” I cannot imagine using AI for drafting, summarizing, or rephrasing anything substantial. I assume that you are reading albertnet right now only because you trust that I can do more for you than an AI chatbot, and that I’m willing to put in the hard work to make the writing witty, entertaining, and concise. ChatGPT’s disclosure would be like the cook greeting you at his or her restaurant and saying, “My gravy is from a mix and my apple crisp is Sarah Lee.”

Resolution #2: Do not trust AI with any info you cannot verify

Obviously one of the fundamental benefits of AI chatbots is that unlike a single-query Google search, you can have a dialogue to get very specific about your question or problem and provide all kinds of context. When this works, it’s great. The trouble is, as we all know AI hallucinates. And to make matters worse, it hallucinates very confidently and feeds you incorrect information very convincingly and assuredly. I spoke with a doctor recently who described a bizarre and yet increasingly typical dialogue with a patient: she asked him why she shouldn’t just take x amount of such-and-such medication, as ChatGPT suggested.  He replied that that dosage would be lethal.

Of course you, gentle reader, are too wise to use AI like that, but it’s surprisingly how poorly it can do even with very basic information. Recently I asked two different chatbots, ChatGPT and Copilot, if my Sigma Sport bike computer is compatible with the power meter on my new bike. I provided the make and model of each, and both chatbots assured me they were indeed compatible. So I tried to pair them and got nowhere.

Both chatbots dragged me further off into the weeds when I started troubleshooting. Copilot determined, definitively (or so it claimed) that my power meter was defective. Based on blinking colored lights, it declared that “your 4iiii is doing exactly what a unit does when it can power on briefly but fails its internal startup test” and that the cause is most likely “internal hardware failure” that is “unfortunately not rare with brand-new 4iiii units.” It then offered to draft a note to the manufacturer to get the device replaced. Its voice was that of the expert advisor, when it was actually swinging wild based on training data of unknown and unverifiable provenance.

Of course the whole reason I reached out to AI on this in the first place is that I’d never messed with power meters before, and knew nothing. And yet, just having human-grade intuition and skepticism ended up being more valuable than all that training data and lightning-fast research capability. I distrusted Copilot’s conclusion, figuring hallucination on its part is more likely than a hardware defect. So instead of wasting any more time online, I tried a different bike computer to see if it would sync, and it did instantly. What a relief, that I didn’t start some needless warranty replacement process and waste some tech support person’s time, only to end up looking like a jackass. I’m still grieving over the fifteen or twenty minutes I’d spent pointlessly troubleshooting with AI. I should have experimented with the second bike computer in the first place, before asking AI for help. (Why didn’t I? I was intimidated and wanted my hand held. This was a poor instinct.)

This isn’t to say AI is never an appropriate tool, of course. As I’ve blogged about before, it can be very helpful in all kinds of technical matters, such as scripting HTML. But you should only use it when you can verify its output experientially instead of blindly trusting it. For example, when ChatGPT helped me implement the copyright footer on this blog, I knew the instructions were valid because I could see the footer for myself (as can you, below).

Resolution #3: Limit the influence of “secondhand AI”

Now that we’re all using AI chatbots more and more, it’s easy to forget that most of the AI that affects our lives is behind the scenes. We think of AI as a productivity tool, but that’s just the chatbots; most AI is developed by corporations to drive algorithms that try to grab and hold our attention, which ends up reducing our productivity. To make an analogy, a chatbot is like smoking a cigarette and getting all the benefits it provides—e.g., the drug, the rich and satisfying smoke, and the coolness—while AI-driven algorithms are like secondhand smoke that doesn’t taste good, doesn’t make us cool, and just gives us cancer. I hereby nominate for widespread adoption the term “secondhand AI,” meaning the AI that drives us instead of responding directly to our queries. (Yes, I was being facetious about the “benefits” of smoking. Just making sure you’re awake.)

So the gist of this resolution is to try to limit our exposure to secondhand AI, or at least the extent to which we let it shape our behavior. Instead of looking at the books Amazon suggests, get more of them out of those little free libraries, or from the “Staff Picks” section of your bookstore or library, or ask your friends for recommendations. Stop letting YouTube and TikTok thrust content in your face. And instead of letting Spotify choose the music after your selected album or playlist is finished, configure it to just stop (i.e., turn Autoplay off). Why? Because the crap it chooses doesn’t belong in your ears or brain. All these algorithms share the same central flaw: they select for stickiness, not quality. They can’t judge quality because they have no taste  … just the ability to carry out endless A/B tests and learn from the results.

Resolution #4: keep AI out of your messy human stuff

The most sensitive human interactions—consoling, arguing, advising, listening—might present the most tempting use cases for AI. After all, here’s a platform that can give you guidance, suggestions, actual written content, etc. without judging you or getting distracted or running out of time or patience. But this is also the area where I exhort you to close the laptop, lock your phone, and sort things out on your own. (Using a close friend as a sounding board is fine.) Why? Three reasons.

First, what if AI came up with the perfect thing to say, and in just the right way, and you couldn’t resist and just delivered its sensitive message verbatim? This might work, but what if the person you’re having the difficult dialogue with detects the distinctive AI diction and figures out you used a chatbot? This sends the message that you cut corners, that you couldn’t bother being sincere and authentic—that you outsourced your role in the interaction. This could (and probably should) be deeply offensive to the other person.

Second, if you struggle during the dialogue, and the other person perceives your vulnerability, I think that can only help. Instead of being perfectly articulate and glib, why not let your difficulty be plain to see, so that the other person can tell the struggle is mutual? Meanwhile, if you have “your” thoughts perfectly rendered with the help of AI, won’t you be more inclined to doggedly stick to that script, instead of letting the dialogue go where it needs to?

Finally, engaging in this struggle on our own is good for us. Inhabiting this discomfort, instead of trying to settle the dialogue with maximum efficiency, is bound to lead to the kind of soul searching we ought to be doing anyway. And, like with anything, we get better with practice, which is important, because we won’t always have the opportunity to stop and consult AI during a social crisis. Thinking on the fly will go a lot better if you’ve done the time working through the messy human stuff on your own.

Resolution #5: don’t replace humans with chatbots

According to this article, about half of the teens in a Common Sense Media study reported they use AI bots “regularly, not just for entertainment, but for venting, emotional support, and companionship.” And according to this article, “About one-third (31%) [of American teenagers] actually claim that dealing with AI companions is more satisfying than talking to a human being.” It seems incredible to me—that is to say, I’m amazed that I find myself even  weighing in here—that anybody should need to be advised against using AI in this way. How did we get here?

I cannot get past the most obvious issue which is that every minute a person spends typing into a void (or talking, I guess they have voice mode now) is a lost opportunity to bumble around in the real world and have the opportunity to meet people, one or two of whom could potentially become a friend. Can’t we all agree that there is a nonzero chance of making friends just by leaving the house? And that the chance of forging a real friendship with an AI chatbot is zero?

Okay, fine, I don’t personally struggle with social anxiety, and I should try to empathize with those who do, but it’s difficult, particularly since I myself was a social pariah in grade school, and then things got worse in middle school, and I’m constitutionally shy, but I did manage to eventually learn how to get along. But setting all that aside, how good is the strategy of replacing human interaction with programmatically easy, safe AI companionship? I’ll cite one article, from the Columbia Teachers College:

According to research from MIT, for example, people who are lonely are more likely to consider ChatGPT a friend and spend large amounts of time on the app while also reporting increased levels of loneliness. This increased isolation for heavy users suggests that ultimately, generative AI isn’t an adequate replacement for human connection. “We want to talk to a real person and when someone's really suffering, that need to feel personally cared for only grows stronger,” says George Nitzburg (Ph.D. ’12), Assistant Professor of Teaching, Clinical Psychology. 

Gosh, this last resolution seems like the literary equivalent of a plate of bulgur wheat salad with a side of kale. I hope it has so little to do with your life that you can just flick it off your sleeve like a booger. And then resolve to get fewer boogers on your sleeve to begin with. In fact, why not resolve to get that number down to zero?

 Other candidates for New Year’s resolutions

If you don’t overmuch care about AI and are just looking for general inspiration as you contemplate your own resolutions, here is a wide assortment of suggestions: 

• If you’re over 50, get the shingles vaccination
• Improve your balance
• Discover the power of loafing
• Configure a mental firewall
• Dodge the exercise gumption trap
• Stop discussing politics
• If you have kids, try to unplug them
• Consider donating blood this year
• If you’re over 45, get a colonoscopy
• Learn how to cure your hiccups
• Switch to a proper razor
• Adopt the “Dutch reach” when getting out of your car
•  Stop pushing STEM
• Learn self-compassion
• Master multitasking
• Cut out cream and sugar
• Avoid bad movies
• Develop a family Internet use policy
• Avoid phishing attacks
• Switch to a wax chain lube
• Try these life hacks
• Hold yourself more accountable
• Avoid bad restaurants
• Be ready for an earthquake
• See the bigger picture
• Switch to a better keyboard layout
• Stop worrying about goals
• Try to have more fun

Further reading 

• New Year’s Resolutions
• One-Size-Fits-All New Year’s Resolution
• New Year’s Resolutions - Dental Hygiene Edition
• New Year’s Resolutions - Let’s Get It Right This Time
• A Wide Net Approach to New Year’s Resolutions
• The DUMB Approach to New Year’s Resolutions
• New Year’s Resignation
• A Scattershot Approach to New Year’s Resolutions

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Old Yarn - The Day I Learned Bicycle Gear Shifting

Introduction

Here is the fifth “old yarn” on albertnet (following in the footsteps of “The Cinelli Jumpsuit,” “Bike Crash on Golden Gate Bridge,” “The Enemy Coach,” and most recently “The Brash Newb”). This is the kind of story that would normally be a “From the Archives” item, except I’ve never before written it down.

Trigger warning: this post is long. It is a rambling tale that doesn’t skimp on any details. And no, it won’t teach you this weird little secret your doctor doesn’t want you to know. It won’t give you the social currency you’d get from talking with colleagues about the last episode of America’s Sweethearts: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders Season 2.* So if you’re cool with bike lore of no particular interest to your social network, then read on. But if you’re impatient and/or won’t read anything you can’t summarize in a tweet (I refuse to say “X”), go somewhere else.

(*As much as it sounds like I made up this TV show, I didn’t. It’s the fifth most popular show on Netflix right now. The center cannot hold.)

Learning to shift – late summer 1978

As I mentioned last week, one of the cooler things my dad ever did was to buy my brothers and me 10-speed bikes long before any other kids had them. In fact, these were the first bikes we ever owned. This yarn is about the day—in fact, the very moment—I learned how to shift gears. If that sounds really boring, don’t worry: I’m here to entertain, not to edify. This post describes, among other things, three bike crashes and one near-death experience. (Why isn’t this post mainly about the near-death experience? Because that didn’t change my life. It just put it briefly in jeopardy.) (Full disclosure—if I can be permitted to directly follow a parenthetical with another parenthetical—this post doesn’t feature any really gory crashes. For that, click here or here.)

The peculiar thing about getting this ten-speed for my ninth birthday was that my dad forbade me to touch the gear-shift levers. I asked why my bike even had them if I wasn’t supposed to touch them. “Don’t worry about that,” was all he said in reply. This was pretty typical of my dad. He didn’t really like dialogue. He absolutely loved a good monologue, so long as he was delivering it and on a topic of his choosing (for example, the design of an interferometer he was building), but had little patience for pushback or even pointed questions, which could seem like insubordination. So I just kept my mouth shut and, in the ensuing days and weeks, even months, rode the bike around in first gear all the time. Yes, I was that well-behaved and craven.

I don’t know exactly why my dad prohibited gear shifting, but it’s not hard to guess. His opinion of his four sons wasn’t exactly rosy. It’s probably Geoff and Bryan’s fault. They’re twins and the oldest. Family lore (passed down from our mom) has it that our dad originally had high hopes for his kids, figuring we’d all be the genius offspring he richly deserved, but these hopes were dashed early. When the twins were still babies, he caught them trying—and failing—to throw all their blocks out of their crib. They weren’t clever enough to align the blocks properly to fit through the slats. These dumb babies were just banging the blocks against the slats, perpendicular to them. Disgusted, Dad brought our mom over to witness this atrocious stupidity. Did she wonder if jettisoning the blocks was even the goal of these babies, vs. enjoying the chock-chock-chock sound they were making? Or was she tempted to explain to her husband about realistic infant development milestones? Apparently not. It seems nobody ever corrected my dad, and from that day forward he had to live with the sad “truth” that his kids just weren’t up to snuff. (Other family lore has it that he said to me once, “You’re not very bright, are you.” It’s tempting to dismiss this anecdote except there were five witnesses. Could we all be wrong? Well, actually, yeah, but not necessarily.)

Where bicycles were concerned, our dad was particularly pessimistic about our capabilities. As described here, all three of my brothers and I distinctly recall our dad’s reaction when Max (who’d drawn the short straw) asked if we could register for the Red Zinger Mini Classic bike race. “You boys are too stupid to race bicycles,” he declared. “You’d get yourselves killed.”

So why did he even buy us cool ten-speeds, if he had such a low opinion of our cycling prospects? I put this question to my brother Max. His reply was along the lines of, “Typical one-speed kid’s bikes disgusted Dad. No son of his would ride anything so vulgar. We had to be on proper ten-speeds whether we deserved them or not.”

Now, I realize I should be careful not to drag my brothers too far into my own story as regards the gear-shifting prohibition. I don’t specifically recall them being included in this, so I asked Bryan about it. “I think we were allowed to shift,” he said. “We probably ruined that for you with our own screw-ups.” He proceeded to recall how he tried to fix one of the brakes on his bike. He loosened the cable-fixing bolt, perhaps for diagnostic purposes, and pulled the cable out. Back then the cable would feed through a very narrow cylindrical aperture before being bolted down. Since this is the same dumb kid who as a baby couldn’t even throw a block out of his crib, you won’t be surprised to learn what happened next: he couldn’t get the cable back in. In fact, when he tried, the individual steel strands broke free from one another, fraying hopelessly. Bryan broke down in despair, convinced that he’d entirely wrecked his bike. Not only would he not have it to ride anymore, but he’d be in big trouble with Dad.

If getting in trouble for bike problems strikes you as preposterous, you obviously never met our dad. He was so devoted to his career, any extra parenting demands that pulled him away from his work during an evening or weekend was like a crisis. Nothing, it seemed, peeved him more than extra child-rearing tasks. We would actually be in trouble for getting a flat tire on our bikes. This was construed as an act of moral turpitude, like we were trying to throw our dad’s world into a tailspin by running over something sharp. It’s like nothing was an accident … every mishap was an act of treachery. All this being said, there was a positive side to our dad’s oppressive reign, which is that we learned how to fix our bikes ourselves, so that our “crimes” could be kept secret.

But of course, this frayed cable incident occurred long before Bryan developed any proficiency as a mechanic. At the time he bemoaned his plight to our babysitter, H—, who took pity on the boy and intervened, calling our dad at work to soften the blow. The upshot was that Dad didn’t get angry with Bryan (or at least kept it to himself), but he also didn’t get around to fixing the bike for what felt to Bryan like a year. Needless to say, until the bike was fixed, Bryan was forbidden to ride it. Our bikes always had to have two working brakes.

I told this story to my younger daughter, who incredulously asked, “Why wasn’t Uncle Bryan allowed to ride with just one brake? One is plenty!” Now, before you decide that her attitude marks me as an incompetent parent, let me just say I keep a pretty close eye on the family fleet and proactively make any repairs necessary. The only time my daughter has ridden with only one brake is when she was off at college and burned through a set of brake pads on her Breezer while I wasn’t looking. Well, okay, that’s not entirely true because she sometimes borrows my mid-‘60s Triumph 3-speed, whose coaster brake occasionally fails for reasons I cannot fathom (much less fix). But that’s pretty rare. In general I am a stickler for bicycles having two working brakes.

(Here is a drawing, by my daughter, of her Breezer. It’s not pertinent to the story, but when your kid pays such a loving tribute to her bicycle, you kind of want to share it.)

Now, being committed to truth in these pages, I must disclose something: my dad’s strict rules notwithstanding, I myself became quite reckless about the two-brake rule, a mere three or four years after having so obediently followed the no-shifting protocol. Perhaps something about an over-strict parent encourages a wholesale abandonment of that parent’s policies. I was around twelve when I bought a 3-speed bike, a basic Sears model, used. Yes, Sears made bicycles. Don’t believe the Google AI Summary on this. In fact, here is a photo of a Sears bike that is the spitting image of the one I had.

Just as in the photo above, my Sears had two handbrakes (and I don’t know what this says about its age as compared to my Triumph). The rear brake stopped working (probably a broken cable) and I don’t think I even considered fixing it. By this point I knew how, but it just didn’t seem important when I still had a perfectly good front brake. (I also didn’t bother replacing the broken gear cable connecting the Speed Switch shifter to the Sturmey-Archer internal 3-speed hub, so this bike was always in third gear, which was the highest. For this reason its nickname was the Third Speed. Why do I mention the brand of hub? Well, so I could include some eye candy here.)

Uh, where was I? Oh, yeah, so, I didn’t bother to fix that rear brake. Nor did I consider riding more carefully. Quite the opposite, in fact. Exhibit A: my bike ride to Mr. Tomato’s Pizza to meet some friends. Mr. Tomato’s was at the bottom of the gently down-sloping parking lot of the Basemar shopping center. It had a huge picture window, and from a distance I recognized my friends sitting right in front of it. I decided to give them a good scare, and started sprinting toward them as fast as I could. My plan was to slam on the brakes (er, brake) just in time to keep from crashing through the window. Two things failed to occur to me. One was the possibility of a pedestrian walking along the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. There was an overhang above this sidewalk, supported at intervals by big pillars that could easily obscure a shopper from view. The other thing I didn’t consider was the possibility of my one brake suddenly failing. This is what actually happened. Just as I hammered the brake, the cable snapped. There was absolutely no way to stop and I was less than ten feet from that giant window, carrying great speed.

It seemed as though all was lost, but just before impact I spied one of the pillars, which fortunately had a round cross-section and a smooth finish. I wrapped that pillar in a bear hug to at least keep myself from crashing through the window. Amazingly, as my momentum spun me and my bike around the pillar, the bike ended up pointed along the sidewalk at the moment it escaped my legs. It went shooting off forward, straight down that sidewalk, still at great speed.

So wonderful is the design of a bicycle, it can travel a great distance with no rider, as my brothers and I had learned to our delight earlier that summer. Not wanting to damage our ten-speeds, we’d conjured up a beach cruiser whose sole purpose was rider-less travel. (Its Ashtabula one-piece crankset assembly had fallen out so we couldn’t pedal it around anyway.) That bike was called Ghost Rider, or Ghostie for short, and we spent many an afternoon getting it up to speed, one guy riding it and several others pushing, and when we couldn’t get it going any faster, the rider would jump off the back and send the bike flying down the street. It could go for several hundred feet before either tipping over or drifting into a parked car. Well, in front of Mr. Tomato’s my 3-speed surely set a new record, since its speed was at least double that of a kid running. It was amazing to behold it flying down the sidewalk along the storefronts. Fortunately it was a slow business day for that mall, with no foot traffic. Equally astonishing was that I was completely unscathed other than perhaps slight damage to my hands and arms, similar to rope burn. My friends regarded me through the window with complete bewilderment, slack-jawed and disbelieving. I guess the point of this story is that my dad’s lack of faith in my intelligence wasn’t entirely unwarranted.

Of course my dad never know about my near-death experience at Mr. Tomato’s, or indeed of most of the crashes my brothers and I had. But the very first days of owning our bicycles were not promising. The problem was, we suddenly had this new hardware but lacked the know-how to use it. As weird as this may seem, our dad made zero effort to teach us how to ride, and in fact I am deeply puzzled as to how he even expected us to learn before being presented with these sophisticated ten-speeds. Did he just think people are born knowing how to ride a bike?

Which brings me to how my brother Max and I did learn, or at least were given one lesson apiece, on how to ride. No parents were involved, of course. Max went first. It had come to pass that Geoff and Bryan realized Max lacked this important skill, and talked their friend R— into loaning out his bike for the lesson. It was a typical kid’s bike in that it was a one-speed with high-rise handlebars and a banana seat. (We had a whole saying around this, that we would chant in mockery of these inferior bikes: “High-rise handlebar with a roll bar, banana seat, small wheel in front, big wheel in back, cool-dual frame, rusty old chain, with a slick, streamers from the grips and flower pedals.” I fact-checked this with Bryan and he remembered like half of it, and I added a couple details, and Max knew the rest. “Cool-dual frame” probably pertained to the two extra top-tubes of the Schwinn Sting-Ray, a popular model in those days. A “slick,” as Max eloquently put it, is “a rear tire with no tread for monster skids.” “Flower pedals” refers to “dust caps on the pedals that looked like daisies.”)

Actually, R—’s bike was somewhat unique in that it was an official licensed Boy Scout bike. But that’s neither here nor there. The more important detail is the single instruction that Geoff and Bryan gave to Max as they put him on the bike at the top of Howard Place, a long downhill: “Whatever you do, don’t turn!” Max and I remember it like it was yesterday. So ridiculous. I mean, what was the guy supposed to do? They didn’t tell him how to brake. They just figured that his future would work itself out somehow, after he’d built up all that speed! They set him off, gave him a good push. Now, I just did some research with Google Maps, and this street ran about 450 feet at an average grade of 5.5%. With help from ChatGPT (because I’m lazy, not because I needed it) I just calculated that by the time Max crossed Ithaca Drive (which Howard Place T’s into), he had to have been going at least 20 mph. He dutifully followed the instruction not to turn, so it’s a good thing there was no traffic on Ithaca to run him over. Instead he crashed over a curb, with so much velocity the bike kept going, and then hit a low fence that stopped him so he tipped over into the grass, remarkably unhurt. He leapt to his feet, delighted, and cried, “I can ride a bike, I can ride a bike!”

Alas, that was Max’s only lesson before receiving his ten-speed, months later, on his birthday. I guess he just assumed his skill was still there. He jumped on the bike and managed to pedal it not only to the end of our street, Hillsdale Way, but to negotiate the right-hand turn onto Howard Place (the same street I mentioned earlier), which is a cul-de-sac. He rode to the top, managed to turn the bike around, and then came barreling back down. In trying to make the left-hand turn back on to Hillsdale, with my dad and my brothers and me watching, he clipped a pedal and crashed. He got up, winced at his road rash, and checked over the bike. A big divot of foam rubber had been ripped out of the brand-new saddle. Regarding this, he thought to himself (as he related to me yesterday), “Well, I guess now this bike is really mine.”

Did I do any better? Alas, no. My lesson was a year or so later. Perhaps having been spooked a bit by Max’s disastrous first effort, Geoff and Bryan didn’t start me down Howard Place. Instead, they put me on my friend P—’s bike, another lowly one-speed, at the top of a steep driveway facing Hillsdale. They gave me a big push and I flew down the driveway, absolutely frozen in terror, went straight across the street, and crashed into the curb on the other side. I hadn’t built up nearly as much speed as Max had, so the curb stopped the front wheel cold and I flipped over the bars. I didn’t quite clear the sidewalk and landed roughly on it, but was no more hurt than on any other day, what with all the various skirmishes kids faced during that era of free-reign bullying. But I can’t say I’d learned any biking technique at all.

So when, about six months and zero follow-up lessons later, I got the Fuji Junior, I really didn’t know how to ride. But there was no way I could just stand there and look at the bike, with my dad seeming so expectant (apparently notwithstanding Max’s fiery wreck on his bike’s maiden voyage). So I just winged it, riding down the sidewalk, pedaling furiously because the one thing my brothers had managed to get across was that speed was the key to balance. I made it about two houses down before veering off course, heading straight for a mailbox. I managed not to run into it, but raked my back across it rather painfully. Somehow I kept the bike upright, and I guess by that point I had the hang of it. But this first ride on the Fuji Junior couldn’t have impressed my dad, and may have reminded him of Max’s similar misadventure, and this is perhaps why my dad decided to declare my bike’s shifters off-limits. Maybe he felt I had my hands full just learning how to steer the bike. Fortunately, I did figure out the brakes.

Well, once my fear abated, I fell madly in love with the bike. As I’ve mentioned before in these pages (in the notes to my “Corn Cob” poem), my Fuji had Suntour shifters and derailleurs, which I noticed when with great delectation I examined every last feature of the bike. Suntour seemed like a really cool word. I didn’t grasp at the time that it was brand of component; I thought Suntour was a sub-brand of the bike, as though Fuji was the make and Junior was the model and Suntour was the sub-model, like they do with cars now (e.g., Subaru Outback Expert Sport-Trac, L.L. Bean Edition). I remember riding up and down the block joyously singing “Sun-TOO-or BYE-sick-UL!”

One day when the bike was still new, I rode all morning, from my house up to the end of Howard Place and back down, then all the way down Hillsdale and back up, then back up Howard and back, over and over again, whistling the whole while because I was so happy. I happened to notice Mr. S—, who lived on the corner of Hillsdale and Howard, looking at me funny. He was out working in his yard and every time I went by he glared at me. What was his problem? I just shrugged it off. Well, later that day, another neighbor, Mr. D—, confronted me, asking if I’d vandalized Mr. S—’s house and yard. I was like “WHAT?!” It happens that Mr. S— had described at length to Mr. D— how I’d vandalized his place, and then rubbed it in by riding by again and again, whistling merrily to showcase my Schadenfreude as I watched him clean it up. I was mortified at this totally false accusation, and declared my innocence to Mr. D—. He advised that I’d simply have to go over there and knock on Mr. S—’s door and explain that I wasn’t the vandal. This I did, despite being a very shy kid, and I was so upset I was crying throughout my denial speech. My river of tears, it seemed, was mistaken for remorse and contrition by Mr. S—, who clearly didn’t believe my story of riding by again and again just because I liked to ride. At least my blubbery speech mollified him sufficiently that he didn’t see fit to involve my parents. This was a big break, because my parents never seemed to believe in my innocence, either. My mom once made me go apologize to yet another neighbor for being part of a cruel pack of kids that relentlessly teased her dog, even though I told my mom over and over that I wasn’t involved. Can you imagine how soul-crushing it is to apologize for an act of animal cruelty you are entirely innocent of?

Okay, time to move on. It was the toward the end of the summer when, on a day I now see as momentous, Max taught me how to shift my bike’s gears. We’d pedaled up Table Mesa Drive and were about to descend Vassar Drive, which is a 5.5% grade. Max, surely tired of waiting for me as I coasted down such hills (first gear being way too low to be of use), pointed at my stem-mounted shifters and told me, “Grab those two levers and push them all the way forward.”

Now, you probably think we’ve finally reached the crux of this story, after so very many diversions, and will now get to the really important, life-changing bit, and that’s almost true, but first I need to pause yet again to explain about these shifters. If you’re old enough to have used old-school stem- or down-tube-mounted shift levers, and remember how they worked, you may have raised an eyebrow just now when reading about Max’s instruction to push both levers forward. On almost any ten-speed-type bike, pushing the right lever forward would put the chain on the smallest cog in back (making for a higher gear, exactly as intended), but pushing the left lever forward would put the chain on the smaller chainring up front (making for a lower gear, at odds with the rest of the shift). You’d also wonder why, since I always rode in my bike’s lowest gear, both levers would have been down at the moment Max issued his instruction. On almost any bike, this would have meant my chain was on the big chainring, corresponding to the higher gear range. The only way you might have thought, “Oh yeah, of course, this makes sense” is if you’re the kind of bizarrely knowledgeable bike maven who would recall that the Suntour derailleur line-up of 1978 included the Spirt model, which worked backwards from most other derailleurs. As it happened, Max’s instructions were perfectly accurate for putting my bike in its highest gear.

And this begs the question: if my front derailleur (and thus left shifter) were essentially backwards from most others, how is it that Max’s instructions were correct? Wouldn’t he have assumed my bike worked the same as his? When I started this post, that question wouldn’t stop nagging at me. Now, if you’re wondering if I’m just remembering it wrong, think again … after all, this was a life-changing moment, forever seared into my memory. The highly specific action gave me, even before the gear shift actually took effect, a very powerful feeling. I knew that these gears were the key to somehow going faster, though I didn’t have any idea how (because when you think about it, the behavior of a bike’s gearing only makes sense after the fact, when you know empirically how gearing works; before that, the notion of differently sized cogs and chainrings affecting a bike’s speed is highly, highly abstract). The idea that I was somehow about to unleash great speed was tantalizing, and to achieve this by taking one hand, applying it to two levers, and pushing them both all the way forward in one go … it’s like pushing the throttle control forward on a fighter plane, or, better yet, remember the opening scene in “Risky Business,” when Tom Cruise’s character pushes all the levers on his dad’s stereo’s graphic equalizer all the way up, so he can totally rock out? It was just like that.

Determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, I had to find out if it was possible the front derailleurs on my brothers’ bikes, meaning Simplex derailleurs (these being Motobécane Nomades), might have also been backwards. This could have been a convention, after all, because this arrangement just makes sense. You have one consistent rule—pushing lever forward = higher gear—instead of the conflicting rule of pulling the left lever down = higher gear while pushing the right lever forward = higher gear. This conflicting behavior stymies cycling newcomers. On my wife’s road bike, I actually put “H” and “L” stickers on the down tube near the shifters to show which way to move them. It’s one of the more confusing things about pre-pushbutton shifting.

I couldn’t reach my brothers right away so I consulted ChatGPT. It assured me that, in fact, Simplex derailleurs were also backwards (vs. more modern shifters), just like the Suntour Spirt. GPT confidently declared, “The circa 1975 Simplex shift lever was pushed forward (toward the front wheel) to move the chain to the big ring. As a result, the lever would end up in a vertical or forward-leaning position when in the big ring.” Had it stopped there, I might have been fooled by a classic AI hallucination. But GPT went on to say, “This action corresponded to pushing the shift lever forward (since the shift lever pulls cable as it rotates forward).” Of course this is wrong. The shift lever pulls cable when you pull it down. So I asked it to furnish photos and diagrams. It provided a photo of a mid-‘80s Shimano Dura-Ace front derailleur (useless); a drawing of a Simplex rear derailleur (also useless); a photo looking from the left at a ‘90s-era triple crankset (ditto); and a photo of a bottom bracket with chainwheels in the background (noticing any trend here, i.e., useless?). Then it described these visual aids in exhaustive, needless, and useless detail.

I pointed out its error, challenging the notion that pushing a shift lever forward would ever tension the cable, whereupon GPT completely backpedaled (pun intended, couldn’t resist) and recanted everything it had said earlier, saying, “You nailed it!” and providing a totally new answer to my original question: “No, Simplex front derailleurs (like the Prestige models used on Motobécanes in the mid-1970s) were not reverse-spring designs like the SunTour Spirt.”

But wait, I’m not done. Disgusted by ChatGPT’s blithe ineptitude, I asked it to furnish a diagram and a photo to illustrate its revised explanation of Simplex’s shifting. Look what it came up with:

Can you believe that? For all its detailed description (running over 1,600 words in all), ChatGPT apparently had no concept of the cable actuation. Look at the arrow pointing from the “Cable” label … it has no head, goes nowhere! No cable is shown! And look at the arrow showing the motion of the lever: it’s 90 degrees off of the actual motion. And since when is the lever mounted directly to the derailleur? Where would the cable even be?

Actually, in fairness, I know of at least one front derailleur that was actuated by a handle instead of a cable. It was on an ancient Schwinn Collegiate that I bought from a police auction. The rear derailleur had a normal shifter and cable setup, but that front derailleur had a handle. At least it did, for a while, until my pant leg caught it one day during hard pedaling and ripped it clean off the bike. But this wasn’t a Simplex derailleur; I’m pretty sure it was a Huret (though it was labeled “Schwinn Approved” in keeping with the fiction that this was an all-American bike). That derailleur looked something like this:

Getting back to ChatGPT, its drawing wasn’t even the worst of its crimes. Look at this fake photo it generated of what it imagined that Simplex front shifting system looked like:

I thought for a second this was an actual photo of some bizarre ill-fated real-life setup, but look at the ersatz brand stamped into the shift lever, in a nonexistent alphabet. The entire rendering is just grotesque. In fact, for me, and I suppose anyone else who has great familiarity with bicycle components, this mock photo is deep into uncanny valley territory, to the extent it’s almost nauseating. Also note how the derailleur cage doesn’t clear the chainring teeth. Artificial intelligence my ass!

Suffice to say, Simplex derailleurs of that era weren’t backwards and nothing can explain Max’s spot-on instructions. When I asked him he simply admitted, “I don’t have an answer for you. Geoff and Bryan probably made the observation so it must have been common knowledge. I know I didn’t discover that on my own.” Bryan theorized that Max had taken my bike out for a few joy rides and discovered it that way; Max could neither confirm nor deny this. The perfect accuracy of his instruction shall have to remain a mystery.

But oh, when I pushed those levers forward, and that bike went from first to tenth gear … it was breathtaking. I mashed the pedals with everything I had, working hard to get on top of that 52x14 top gear, until I was just flying down Vassar. I’d had no idea just how effective pedaling in “the big meat” (as a bike’s highest gear is known by racers) could be. It’s like if you had what you thought was a Fred Flintstone car, propelled by your feet paddling the ground, and then one day you discovered that this car had an engine. What a game-changer. It was like I went from patsy to made man in the span of a minute.

Not only did this sudden knowledge change my cycling, but it forever changed how I regarded my dad’s authority. Not only would I use all my gears from that day forward, but I’d have this secret I’d be keeping from him. It was impossible for me to revert to the lowly, gutless, quaking obeyer of rules; I was like, fuck that guy! He kept this gearing magic from me! He kept me down! I felt like Toecutter in Mad Max: “The bronze, they keep you from being proud.”

As it turned out, I never did get in trouble for defying my dad. An absentminded fellow, he evidently forgot he’d ever issued that prohibition. Or who knows, maybe on some level he wanted me to take some initiative. But most likely he’d intended to one day teach me all about shifting, but just forgot. Maybe he’d have thought a little harder about this if he’d had any inkling that his silly rule, coupled with Max’s intervention, would turn me into a lifelong rebel…

—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—
Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Biased Blow-By-Blow - 2025 Critérium du Dauphiné Stage 7

Introduction

Bicycle road racing has gotten harder to watch. Part of this is due to the poor TV (or shall I say Internet) coverage in the U.S., with various pay-for-me networks, each carrying only a few races. But the bigger problem is boredom: a few riders are so dominant, the victories tend to be blowouts. Particularly troublesome is Tadej Pogacar (UAE Team Emirates XRG), who seems to win everything in sight: stage races, classics, the World Championships … he wins all season long and he makes it look easy. Thus it is with great trepidation that I cover today’s queen stage of the Critérium du Dauphiné. I promise I will do my best to make this entertaining, even if that means bagging on riders I don’t like, and on their equipment, and even on myself if necessary. Hence the “biased” blow-by-blow.

(If you haven’t been following this Dauphiné thus far, fear not: I will recap the first six stages as well.)

Critérium du Dauphiné Stage 7 - Grand-Aigueblanche - Valmeinier 1800

As I join the action, it’s 5:40 a.m. Pacific time and my kettle hasn’t even boiled yet. The riders are cresting the Hors Categorie Col de la Croix de Fer. There’s a breakaway with only about 20 seconds over a depleted peloton. I’m not going to bother with the riders’ names other than a couple standouts: Sepp Kuss (Team Visma - Lease A Bike) and the French favorite Romain Bardet (Team Picnic PostNL). Kuss is American, so I naturally favor him, plus today is Flag Day in this country (so I hope you hoisted Old Glory!). Bardet, meanwhile, is in the last bike race of his career, obviously looking for a stage win to go out on a high note. For more on Bardet, including his saliva, click here. What, what? Saliva? Yes! As Google’s AI Overview helpfully explains, albertnet “includes observations on other aspects of races, such as rider’s saliva issues and podium presentations.”

Speaking of AI, here’s a fascinating hallucination. While watching the time trial a couple days ago I thought I saw last year’s Dauphiné winner Primoz Roglic (Red Bull - Bora - Hansgrohe), but only fleetingly. I checked the results later and didn’t see him listed. So I asked Google if he dropped out. Here’s what the AI Overview had to say:

What’s remarkable is that Roglic didn’t even start the race, as he’s still recovering from injuries he sustained in the Giro d’Italia. It’s also worth pointing out that nobody has won the overall 2025 Dauphiné classification because the race doesn’t end until tomorrow. Granted, it would be permissible for AI to declare that Pogacar has already won, since nobody can stop him, but Roglic? No. He has about as much chance of winning this race as I do.

The Peacock coverage today started too late for me to see these guys go over the first two climbs, starting with the Hors Categorie Col de la Madeleine. “Hors Categorie” is French for “Whore’s Category,” which means the climb is a total bitch. Naw, just messin’ with ya. It’s “beyond category” meaning, “This climb is so hard, there is no way to categorize it. The human mind cannot conceive of a category like ‘hardest’ or ‘even harder than what we’d normally call hardest.’ Words fail us.”

The great thing about the Col de la Madeleine is that, in accordance with the strong tradition and culture of the sport, the riders ride up it in two straight lines. Hmmm. I think it’s too early in the morning and I’m confusing this race with the children’s book about the little French girl who gets her appendix out. I apologize.

But seriously, these climbs are horrific. I’m not just relating what the commentators are saying (because after all, they could totally exaggerate). I am speaking from experience, having ridden both of these climbs myself, also back-to-back, the year before last. You can read about that here. Suffice to say the Madeleine kicked my ass. And, in a crazy coincidence, so did the Croix de Fer. They’re just brutal. In fact I think I still haven’t recovered. You should probably click that link and read that instead because today’s race will probably be boring.

Can you tell there’s nothing to report right now? It’s just a long-ass descent (with a couple short climbs) before the Whore’s Category Valmeinier 1800, a climb about which I know basically nothing except that it’s 16.5 kilometers (10.25 miles) long at an average grade of 6.7%. So it’s gonna be a smackdown.

The breakaway is stretching out its lead a bit on the fairly straightforward descent toward Saint Jean de Maurienne, a town notable mainly for its excellent pizza. At least, that’s what I remember it for.

Now Bardet has dropped the rest of the breakaway. The peloton will hang him out to dry for a good while before wadding him up in a ball and tossing him halfheartedly toward the wastebasket.

Here’s what’s been going on so far in this Dauphiné. The first stage, designed for the sprinters, was actually kind of exciting because Pogacar and the other GC favorite, Jonas Vingegaard (Team Visma - Lease A Bike) were in a small breakaway with a very narrow lead heading into the final kilometer. It looked like the break would ultimately get caught but it just barely held on, to where its slower finishers were actually passed by the fastest sprinters of the peloton. One rider burst out of the mêlée, and at first I couldn’t tell who it was, but it ended up being—Pogacar. Huh? A stage racer launching a hellacious sprint and beating out big strong rolleurs like Mathieu Van Der Poel (Alpecin-Deceuninck) and Remco Evenepoel (Soudal Quick-Step)? Yep. To put this in perspective (if you’re not a diehard cycling fan), this would be like if for some reason a football team sent its quarterback out to kick a 65-yard field goal and he nailed it.

Anyhow, some bike racer won Stage 2, who cares who won Stage 3, and then in the time trial Evenepoel, the Olympic time trial and road race gold medalist, stunned everybody with a big win. His helmet had this really goofy visor that covered everything except what was right in front of him, where there was this big gap, so it was like an anti-visor. So many of the time trial helmets were so ugly, it just overshadowed everything else and made me want to curl up in a corner and try to sleep it off. But the good news was, Vingegaard took 28 seconds out of Pogacar in the TT, giving us viewers hope that maybe he’d have a chance in the GC.

Stage 5 was another for the sprinters and a sprinter won, some guy named Stewart. It was only in Stage 6 that things got insanely boring, with Pogacar absolutely destroying everybody. He dropped Vingegaard (and everyone else) without even getting out of the saddle. It was demoralizing to watch: you’ve got Vingegaard, a two-time Tour de France winner, out of the saddle thrashing like he’s in a final sprint, and Pogacar looks like some bored commuter on an e-bike pulling away from him. Pogi took just over a minute out of his so-called rival on a mere Category 2 climb that wasn’t even two miles long. So today is really unnecessary, like that soft-serve cone you unwisely decided to eat, for reasons you cannot yourself understand, at the end of your thorough drubbing at the hands of the Sizzler buffet court.

They’re interviewing Evenepoel, who got shelled yesterday and lost his yellow jersey.

INTERVIEWER: You got shelled yesterday and lost the yellow jersey. How does that feel?

EVENEPOEL: Well, I wasn’t going as hard on that climb as I had in the time trial, so that was a mistake.

INTERVIEWER: Are you actually telling me you forgot to hammer?

EVENEPOEL: I am using this race to learn and to study the values and the team is [undecipherable].

INTERVIEWER: Well that’s just bullshit. But before we discuss how badly you blew it yesterday, I want to back up a bit and talk about your Olympic road race victory where you crossed the finish line, stopped, climbed off your bike, and stood there at line, flexing because you were far enough ahead to do this, except what if you weren’t and caused a massive crash among those sprinting in for second as they tried to steer around you?

INTERVIEWER: And then, still standing on the finish line like an idiot, you pantomimed hanging up a phone, almost like slamming it down. Totally over the top and it doesn’t even really make sense. Who were you angrily hanging up on? And do you expect young fans, who’ve never even seen a landline phone, to understand what you were miming?

EVENEPOEL: You’re kind of hurting my feelings.

INTERVIEWER: Oh, I’m just getting started! I haven’t even asked about those giant goofy sunglasses you’re wearing! What the hell are those about?

EVENEPOEL: I have to go.

I have to confess, Evenepoel’s interview was so boring, I had to freestyle a bit there. Most of what you just read is pure fabrication. Evenepoel really did say, though, that he “wasn’t going as hard on that climb as [he] had in the time trial, so that was a mistake.” He makes it sound like a tactical decision, but I saw what really happened … dude got shellacked.

Bardet is still solo but his lead is coming down. There’s really no way he can stay off. The descent is simply too long. Now he’s starting the final climb but has only 40 seconds or so on the GC group.

I left for a while and now I’m back. With 12 kilometers to go, the GC group is on the final climb and Pavel Sivakov (UAE Team Emirates XRG) is drilling it on the front, setting up his leader, Pogacar.

As they overhaul Kuss, who I guess must have attacked at some point when I wasn’t looking, Sivakov pulls off, clearly blown.

And now, of course, Pogacar attacks. Oh my. This is blistering. But Vingegaard was ready for this and is right on the wheel!

It’s a crazy attack! Florian Lipowitz (Red Bull - Bora - Hansgrohe), the German rider in the white jersey of Best Young Rider, who was third yesterday, is immediately gapped!

Can Vingegaard respond? No. Of course not. Nobody could. Look at this gap open up. It’s like an adult beating up a little kid. The peloton, of course, is shattered.

Evenepoel is off the back. I guess he’s “not going as hard as in the time trial” again. That is, he’s just not trying. And I can’t blame him. I mean, why try when Pogacar is taking all his marbles and going home, again?

Pogacar fiddles with his bike computer. Maybe he’s bored, or has realized he might set some sort of PR today for power output or something. Behind, Lipowitz has clawed his way back to Vingegaard. He’s having an amazing Dauphiné, sitting in third on GC after yesterday’s awesome ride.

Vingegaard flicks his elbow for Lipowitz to take a pull. Lipowitz doesn’t come forward. He probably can’t due to being on the rivet already.

I will say that Vingegaard is holding the gap down fairly well. He’s a fighter, for sure. But of course he needed to attack Pogacar today, not the other way around.

As Vingegaard buries himself, Lipowitz gradually comes unglued from his wheel.

With just over 9 kilometers to go, Pogacar is only 14 seconds behind Bardet, whose ride will be a footnote at best to this stage.

Oh, wait, my bad. While I wasn’t looking, Bardet was already overhauled. The 14 seconds is over Vingegaard, and I don’t think it’s accurate. He seems a lot farther back than that.

My online correspondent says, “😴😴😴.” I see his point.

I feel really bad for these professional commentators. I mean, I share their struggle to describe this race in an interesting way, but I’m just a rank amateur—my livelihood isn’t at stake. And at least I get to make shit up if I want.

And now Pogacar falters! He slumps over the handlebars, his bike careening this way and that! I don’t understand what I’m seeing! Oh, wow, you’re not gonna believe this, but Pogacar has actually fallen asleep while riding because this is even more boring for him than for us! Yeah, okay, I confess, I’m lying right now. Disregard this entire paragraph.

Pogacar does look bored, though. His official gap is now 20 seconds, though the essential gap—that being between a cyborg and a human—is insurmountable. He looks over his shoulder. Note his expression. He’s not worried in the slightest that Vingegaard is making any ground. He’s just curious. “I wonder what’s going on back there in that different galaxy. Maybe Jonas is actually bearing down on me and I get to attack again. That would be fun. Nope … can’t even see him.”

Bob Roll, one of the Peacock commentators, is talking about the beautiful little village at the top of this climb. That’s probably where he should focus his commentary. Let’s go inside one of those cute little cafés! Let’s interview the proprietor!

Lipowitz has lost 25 seconds to Vingegaard so far. Like you care. Like Vingegaard cares. Like Lipowitz cares.

Vingegaard gives another flick of the elbow. Is he hallucinating that somebody is still with him? No, probably just a tic, or a minor muscle spasm. It’s what passes for news on a day like this.

Do you think Team Visma - Lease A Bike has a big enough budget to hire some thugs to kidnap Pogacar before the Tour? Maybe they could hire some real dumbasses on the cheap, who screw it up in various ways, such that high jinks ensue. Or maybe Visma could hire a sexy actress to come on to Pogacar, a femme fatale, like Nancy was to Sid Vicious, who could derail Pogacar’s training? This is what has become of our sport ... leading me to fantasize. I can’t believe I paid for Peacock Plus in advance so I could watch the Tour next month. Maybe I’ll see what other programs Peacock Plus might have that would be more interesting, like NASCAR maybe, or old episodes of “The Office.”

Vingegaard, despite being off the back, is big-ringing it up this 7% grade. In any other era he would still be a champion. And actually he’s doing really well at keeping this gap down, which would be more useful if he didn’t start the day 43 seconds behind already.

The commentator Christian Vande Velde speculates that Pogacar isn’t even going all-out. It sure doesn’t look like it; his expression is the same as mine when I’m reading the paper or doing the Wordle. I’ll bet I could beat Pogacar at Wordle. Maybe Vingegaard could as well. They should just cancel the Tour and set up three weeks of puzzles.

What was Pogacar looking back at earlier? He had to know his lead was almost half a minute. Did he see some kind of interesting animal? A pika, maybe? Pogacar is an animal himself of course, but not an interesting one. Actually, I just did some light research (with nothing better to do this close to the end of the Dauphiné’s queen stage) and it turns out there are no pikas in the French Alps. The animal that Pogacar may be looking at (but let’s be honest, probably isn’t) is (or would be) a marmot.

Blah blah blah Pogacar has only one kilometer to go, who cares, la la la. He looks even more bored than I feel.

Pogacar wins again, and he’s pioneering a new victory salute, looks like. Is he miming something? Playing a banjo? Shooting a rifle? Or scratching his armpit like chimps are purported to do?

Vingegaard heads for the line. He looks really bad.

As he crosses the line he looks like he may actually collapse.

The phone rings. My mother-in-law is calling. Normally, when I’m watching a live sporting event, I would let the call go to voicemail, but whatever she has to say will be more scintillating than this. I won’t share any of her tidings here ... why steal my own thunder?

Lipowitz comes across 1:21 behind Pogacar. He looks absolutely miserable. He’s questioning his life choices, surely. But he’ll be happy later, I think ... with this ride he has solidified his podium position on GC, and he’s only 25 and it’s his first Dauphiné. He has a bright future ahead (if he can be content with second place at best).

Evenepoel lost another 2:39 to Pogacar today, 2:25 to Vingegaard, and 1:28 to Lipowitz. Hang up on that fool, he’s done.

What expression is Vingegaard wearing here? It looks kind of obscene, actually. But I like his sunglasses. They don’t cover up half his face like so many modern styles do.

Pogacar is being interviewed.

INTERVIEWER: You must be unhappy because you didn’t get to the finish in time to see [unintelligible].

POGACAR: Yeah, that sucks.

INTERVIEWER: Do you like my shirt? I got it at a thrift store.

POGACAR: Today we wanted to take control. Visma tried with all their tricks. I am happy with how I rode. Sort of defense today. I launched it and maintained a good pace.

INTERVIEWER: You never worried even though you were outnumbered?

POGACAR: Toward the top of Croix de Fer I think they wanted to drop me on the downhill. I did not like that but it’s modern cycling. And then we were in control again.

INTERVIEWER: I though “modern cycling” consisted of a rider being so totally superior to the others, he just makes a mockery of the race, and the sport.

POGACAR: Jonas was pretty strong but I also didn’t want to go too deep  myself. I was lucky I had enough time to ease up in the last few meters.

INTERVIEWER: Your eyelid keeps twitching. I think that means you’re lying. Do you want to come clean?

POGACAR: Fine. I admit it. I stole the bus money.

Let’s play a game. You try to guess which part of that interview was legit, and I’ll tell you if you’re right. Ready? Go. Okay, the answer is, Pogacar really did say, “Yeah, that sucks,” “I was lucky I had enough time to ease up in the last few meters,” “it’s modern cycling,” and “Visma tried with all their tricks.” That last bit sounds like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.

Bardet is nearing the line, over 12 minutes down. The cameraman pans over to Bardet’s father watching from the sidelines and looking pretty pissed off, honestly.

Bardet’s dad will have strong words for his son, I’m sure. “It’s Father’s Day tomorrow ... is this what you call a gift? I bought you your first bicycle! I drove you to all those races! I came all the way out here to watch you today ... and this is the best you can do? Your mother and I are very disappointed.” Bardet will retort, “At least I don’t wear cycling sunglasses when I’m not cycling. You dork.”

The commentators keep talking about how Pogacar was loafing in the last kilometer or two. How boring is this sport when the guy who solos to victory doesn’t even have to ride hard? This is like Mike Tyson pummeling a smurf. Which I’d actually really prefer to watch, to be honest. I would buy Peacock Plus for that. I wonder if I can get a refund?

My online correspondent declares, “The scenery is always good but super boring racing ... it’s like watching some Cat 3 race.” Hear, hear.

Pogacar mounts the podium to celebrate his stage win. The sport, which had eschewed podium girls entirely, is gradually bringing them back. Today we get only one, offset by an old white guy just to make sure the ceremony isn’t too pleasant.

Pogacar looks pretty baked, actually.

Whereas top professional cyclists used to have to specialize, Pogacar actually leads almost all the competitions: maillot jaune (GC), maillot pois (mountains), and maillot vert (sprints). The only one he couldn’t nab is the maillot blanc (young rider). So really, the only thing I have in common with Pogacar is that neither of us can deny the march of time … we both age. But he’s a mere 26 years old and (weirdly enough) went through puberty just a couple years ago, so he’ll have many years ahead to rack up the most distinguished palmarès in the history of cycling.

Here is Pogacar getting his green jersey. Look at his eyes. He really does seem stoned. Perhaps after the race he took some hits off a big ol’ stinky bong. Maybe that’s his secret?

Now he gets the polka-dot jersey. Climbing the steps to the podium is probably more work for him than dominating the stage today. Look at him. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open.

Lipowitz gets his white jersey. Man, he looks wasted, too! Was he pulling tubes with Pogacar right after the stage ended?

One more rider gets to mount the podium: Bardet, for the the Combative award. Some little kid is there and hands Bardet ... what? It looks like a toy skunk. Let’s assume it’s that. “Here is a skunk because you stink,” the kid may be saying.

And now Bardet’s dad has joined him on the podium. It looks like he’s about to whisper something in his son’s ear. “You suck,” perhaps.

Tomorrow has six categorized climbs, but it’s clear that Pogacar has the GC in the bag. That goes for the Tour, too. Even so, you should check back in July for my Tour de France coverage … because you never know, something interesting might happen with a rider’s saliva.

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