From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XXXI

Introduction

This is the thirty-first installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, Volume XX is here, Volume XXI is here, Volume XXII is here, Volume XXIII is here, Volume XXIV is here, Volume XXV is here, Volume XXVI is here, Volume XXVII is here, Volume XXVIII is here, Volume XXIX is here, and Volume XXX is here.

If you’re new to the Bits & Bobs series, it’s really not that complicated: they’re snippets of past correspondence that I think could amuse any audience. Back in the olden days—before blogs, doomscrolling, podcasts, streaming, Youtube, and TikTok—certain oddballs, such as myself, actually took the time to correspond with friends and family. As you yourself may recall, people used to write letters, on paper, and send them through the mail. And originally emails were more like letters and were widely exchanged among humans, before email became mostly useless (e.g., solicitations from a retailer you bought something from five years ago). And get this: people used to actually read emails, or at least that’s what I told myself when I worked pretty hard at writing them. Now my old correspondence has a second chance at an audience, as I string old snippets together into these Bits & Bobs posts. The different volumes are varied in time and place and can be read randomly, rapidly, repeatedly, reluctantly, resentfully, resignedly, reverently, ruefully, and/or religiously.

Today’s Bits & Bobs are in chronological order, and I specify where I was living when I wrote them. You can try to guess whom I wrote them to (but honestly, good luck with that). And as you will gather from the dates, these were typed, printed, and mailed.

March 8, 1990 – Santa Barbara

[My brother] Geoff came down and visited last weekend to watch the races our UCSB cycling team hosted. A couple of years ago, some racers complained that our criterium course was boring. Well, we showed them! This year we set up a course on campus with eleven corners, including a hairpin. Traditionally, not my kind of course. (Aren’t you glad I have health insurance? I’m not—the premiums just went up to $60 per month!) It seems like maybe all the weight training I did over the winter came in handy: the race come down to a field sprint and I took fourth. Somehow the team had conjured up a speed radar with a giant display that was positioned at the finish line, and we broke 40 mph in the final sprint! I’ll confess I was extra motivated trying to impress this girl who came to watch me, but it turns out she got bored and left before the finish, unbeknownst to me. Oh well, at least I got a good race out of it, and Geoff was stoked for me. I have no idea how else to try to impress that girl … I’m kind of out of bullets now.

October 1, 1990 - Oakland

The main reason I’m writing you is that I have a puzzle which I think you may be able to help figure out. Suppose that for dinner I make six servings of mashed pota­toes (hypothetically speaking of course; I would never eat such a boring meal in actual life, at least not without also making a huge burrito . . . okay, we’re getting less hypothetical here) and in making these six servings I use two cups of water, a cup of milk, and two cups of potato flakes (which, through a miracle of science, turn out better than real potatoes, just like Cool Ranch Doritos taste better than anything that actually exists in nature). The question is, how can my six servings only be 1/2‑cup each, like the box says? I mean, I should have five cups of potatoes, which would be ten 1/2‑cup servings. Where do the extra two cups go? Steam? Heat? It would have to make five cups. Hell, it looked like five cups, and it’s sitting in my stomach like five cups (and a burrito).

Anyway, I thought you might know the answer. But don’t feel like you have to rush a response back to me or anything; I mean, you mentioned how self-conscious writing makes you feel, since you’re worried about your spelling and punctua­tion. So (whoops, this box of potatoes just leaked flakes all over my lap) if I get too accurate with my grammar, etc. in this letter, will you get stressed out and decide writing is too much hassle? I don’t want that to happen, so I is gonna start scrweing up my spelings and grammers so if and you will deside that mabey its all cool and I’m perty stuppid and not so dangrous to rite to at alll. Maybe that won’t be convincing since this is still a typed letter instead of casually scrawled like yours, but obviously there’s plenty of really dull typed stuff out there that wouldn’t intimidate anybody and I should try that mode. In fact, maybe I should adopt a scientific writing style:

Certainly it is noteworthy that the dust, lint, and flakes of dehyd­rated potatoes in this Oakland resident’s apartment tend to gather around the exterior surface of his high‑fidelity stereophonic audio speakers. This is doubtless due to the static charge effected by the main B‑type DryWatt FlipFlop magnets in the speakers, combined with the relatively dry air of the Oakland region. The tendency of the speakers to simultaneously repel said dust and lint as a result of the air displacement, effected by the vibrating speaker cones, is also notable. The point at which the magnitude of the sound (adjusted by the resident by means of the volume control knob found on his receiver) repels the dust and lint to an area beyond which the static electricity will attract it is left as an exercise for the undoubtedly intelligent science enthusiast reading this article.

Is that boring enough for you? It’s still risky—my dad and one or two of my brothers would probably be fascinated by that whole paragraph. Actually, my dad would probably be really disappointed in me due to some inaccuracy.

I have to say, your letter was pretty confusing. What are Little Debbies? And what’s Greasy Tony’s? I can’t believe there’s an all-u-can eat joint I don’t know about. And are Spener and Spencer the same guy, and am I supposed to know who this guy/these guys is/are? Maybe I met him/them at Nationals and forgot, since I tend to do that. When I was in Boulder this summer on my way to Wyoming for a bike race, I was at a restaurant and a whole group of people called me over, and I didn’t recognize a single one of them. They were talking to me and everything, using my name even, and all I could do is play along and think, “Who the hell are these people? I’ve never seen then before in my life!” What do you do when that happens?

December 1, 1990 – Oakland

One of my English professors, for my Chicano Literature class, decided to be a dick and make our big paper—80% of our grade—due on the Monday after Thanksgiving. I had planned to spend the long weekend writing it, but somehow managed to let my brother Geoff talk me into driving to Boulder for Thanksgiving instead. The worst part is, it took him a good while to convince me, so by the time I embarked on the trip (starting with a Greyhound bus to his place in San Luis Obispo) I not only hadn’t made good headway on the paper, but hadn’t even figured out my topic and thus hadn’t checked out the books I’d need. I figured I would have to wait until I got to Boulder and borrow my brother Bryan’s University of Colorado library card; check out the books there; and write the paper on the Friday before driving back home. So, Friday afternoon, I go to the CU library with my friend P— (a student there) and wander through the rows and pull out every book I can find. Then I read the table of contents of each book to figure out a good topic to write my paper on. Suddenly, there it is, a shimmering topic shining down on me from above: the social growth of the Chicana (Chicano female). I found like ten good books.

So I study those a while, until this library staffer comes and says the library’s closing early, what with the holiday and all. So I go to check out my books and the dude at the circulation desk tells me, “Sorry, it’s after 5:00. I can’t check anything out to you. Regulations.” I tell him how bad I need the books (though I can’t mention I’m leaving to go back to Berkeley the next day since I’m supposedly this card-carrying CU student). He won’t budge so I go back into the depths of the library, which is dark now, and tell my friend P— to go down and wait under this window. Without a word, he understands my situation: my back to the wall, I have no choice but to drop the books down to him.

Unfortunately, in putting my brilliant plan into play I feel less like Sean Connery and more like Peter Sellers. The windows are literally welded shut, with grates over them. I go down to the second floor, stumbling around in the dark, and all the windows have padlocks on them. Colorado Maximum Security Corrective University. So I devise another plan: I’ll make a run for it. So I find an exit, with a red door handle and a huge sign, “EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY! ALARM WILL SOUND!” and a smaller but equally ominous sign beneath it, “Those misusing this exit will be prosecuted.” I have no idea where the exit will dump me, and what direction I’ll have to run in. Plus, I’ve got a duffel bag with 10 hardback books and a bunch of other crap in it, and I’m not much of a runner. But on the plus side, I’ve seen the guy who’s patrolling the library and he’s a big fat guy with only one arm. Seriously. So I take a deep breath and push through the door.

I’ve always wondered what those alarms sound like—and I’m still wondering because nothing happened. For a second I was really stoked because I thought I was home free. Then I realized I was still indoors, in some storage room or something. I stumble around in there but it’s seriously pitch black and I can’t find an exit. So I go back into the stacks and look for another exit, really stressed out by now, and then I make a wrong turn and the one-armed man sees me. He’s even less sympathetic than the circulation desk guy, and makes me put all my books on this little cart and leave. And that’s why before I left for California on Saturday, I had to go back to the library and check all those books out, and bring them with me to research and write my paper on Sunday, after the trip.

Of course we managed to get on the road late. Right around Utah, I figured I’d done my share of the driving, and turned the wheel over to my brother’s roommate, J—. (Geoff doesn’t have his driver’s license.) I got maybe half an hour of sleep before J—woke me up and said, “Dude, you gotta keep me awake. I keep hallucinating trees on the road.” I guess I can understand that, since he hasn’t slept in a while, and it’s dark out, but he goes on to say, “They’re sage trees, and they’re talking to me. Talking trees, I’m serious. You know what they keep saying?” I guess I nod or mumble “uh-huh” or something, because he says, “You do know? What did they tell me, then?” I play along: “They said that sleep is a myth, and that you don’t really need sleep, just lots and lots of coffee.” So we keep talking, and after a while I’m only half awake. Suddenly J— shakes me real good and says, “What did you just tell me?” I confess that I can’t remember. He says I was talking about a green hotel where I was writing Christmas cards, and this huge doorman with a big zipper who kept harassing me. I remember the part about the green hotel, because in Las Vegas we’d passed this creepy looking Holiday Inn, painted white but bathed in green floodlights (neither of us could figure out why). Finally J—’s driving shift was over, by which point Geoff was awake and able to help keep me awake for the final leg.

I finally got home at like 11:00 p.m. on Sunday and started my English paper at about 11:30 p.m., giving me about twelve hours. I was definitely hurting, this being basically my second all-nighter in a row. On a hunch, I phoned my friend H—, who’s in my class. She picked right up. “Working on your paper?” I asked. “Of course!” she laughed, “I just got started!”

During the night as I pounded out the paper I hallucinated about people in the hallway outside my apartment; talked to them a bit before realizing they weren’t real; and discovered that coffee, UpTime, and NoDoz are altogether inadequate for postponing sleep. The only thing that could help now was adrenaline. I got that by accidentally falling asleep, and waking up twenty minutes later thinking it was morning already. Once the panic subsided I found I could function again. At about 8:00 on Monday morning I remembered I had a paper in the works for my 9:00 Rhetoric class; finished it; went to class; and ended up falling asleep during my small group discussion. Evidently I was talking in my sleep, because I awoke to this girl laughing her ass off. Then I headed home and finished the big paper. It was due at noon, and I finished it at 12:35 and brought it to class. Nobody was there: class had been cancelled. I managed to track down the professor and he took the paper. Whew.

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Biased Blow-By-Blow - 2019 World Championship Road Race

Introduction

Bicycle races can be fun to watch. Sometimes, though, it’s like the Super Bowl … super boring because it’s a blowout. In cycling, this generally happens when one team (usually Ineos) dominates. Teams or riders dominate when they’re doing a better job of doping than the others. Announcers stand by and pretend nothing is amiss. I don’t pull punches like that … in fact, when I get frustrated I start throwing punches all over the place, practically at random. I haven’t had to do that lately, because … well, who knows, could the sport be cleaning up? It’s possible. Or maybe I’m sinking into complacency.

Well, I don’t have Ineos, or any other trade team, to kick around today because it’s the World Championship road race, where riders represent their countries instead. (At least, they’re supposed to.) But you can bet my coverage will be as biased and unprofessional as ever.  For example, I would love it if the defending world champion, Spain’s Alejandro Valverde, totally sucked today because he’s a filthy doper. So read on, for the “real” (i.e., my version of) the story.

2019 World Championship Road Race – Yorkshire, England

“Having a teammate would certainly help at the finish,” the announcer says as I join the action. His Antipodean voice sounds both sad and playful, like a character, Dumbeldork or whatever, from a Harry Potter book. So far I’m not hugely impressed with his tactical insight.

Well, our recent Vuelta a España winner, Primoz Roglic, is dropping out. He probably just showed up for form, to make an appearance, like those dead weight guys on your work conference calls. It’s frigid and raining here … at least half the peloton will drop out. The race is brutally long: 261 km, almost 162 miles.

“Is there a possibility of Peter Sagan winning a fourth title?” the announcer asks. Um, yeah, I think we can assume there’s at least a possibility.

Right now the entire peloton is together and they’ve completed the BS just-add-mileage point-to-point part of the race, and now face seven laps of a hilly circuit.

Wow, Philippe Gilbert (Belgium) is dropped! They’re saying he crashed earlier. I don’t need to admit this, but he was my top pick to win today, after he looked so good in the Tour. I guess I’m no oracle.

Nairo Quintana (Colombia) is with Gilbert, and I’m going to pose this question: “Is there a possibility of Quintana even finishing today?”

Okay, Gilbert is quitting. “Oh, dear, Gilbert’s dreams are over,” the announcer says lugubriously. “He’s crying like a little bitch, he can’t stop.” (I’m paraphrasing.)

I don’t know, Gilbert doesn’t look like he’s crying to me … he just looks cold. “He’s inconsolable,” the announcer goes on. How can he say that, when nobody is actually trying to console Gilbert? Speaking of inconsolable, I’m not super stoked with the footage today. We aren’t getting any feeds from motorbikes because the drivers and cameramen don’t feel like being out in the rain. Perhaps eventually their bosses will make them get their asses out there.

In 1986, the Worlds were in Colorado, and I had front row seats. I didn’t have a formal credential of any kind, but discovered that you could just sort of go wherever you wanted if you acted like you belonged there. It was cold and raining on and off, and I took shelter for a while in the American tent as rider after rider dropped out, joined us in the tent, collapsed into a chair, and bitched about what a grind that was. The only one who stayed in the race was Greg LeMond, who missed the final breakaway. I watched the finish from the roof of an RV parked at the finish line. It was glorious: Argentin outsprinting Mottet.

To get into the British spirit here, and because I’m lazy, I’m having PG Tips tea instead of coffee. Alas, it’s not enough to wake me up so I have to go fetch more. Don’t worry, there’s at least 90 minutes left and the peloton is still all together so you won’t miss anything.

Okay, I’m back. The announcer says there are “less than 100 riders left in the race.” I think he meant “fewer” but then these guys aren’t exactly liberally educated.

It’s a bit tricky telling who is who, frankly. I don’t get to see anybody up close without the motorbikes, and nobody is in his recognizable trade team jersey. The jackets obscure their numbers which doesn’t help. Meanwhile, anybody who gets a bike change doesn’t show up on the readouts that the announcers use, which challenges them. I’m also spoiled because in this past Vuelta everyone was so tired by the third week, the peloton tended to shrink down to a very manageable size.

They keep promising the motorbike footage but nothing yet.

I just spotted an American rider! He’s tucked in the back, wearing a natty all-black jacket. That would be extra warm if there were any sign of the sun today. I have to say, I doubt this race will do anything for tourism in the UK (though that actually is a great vacation spot).

Oh, cool, we’ve finally got motorbike footage! Of course, it comes with a new caveat:

I wouldn’t want to fly a helicopter in these conditions so I guess I can’t complain.

Sam Bennett, the Irish spinter, drops out. Good, I don’t want this coming down to a sprint. That’s boring.

I’ve just learned that Valverde has abandoned. Excellent! Nobody is able to get footage of him climbing into his team car. He’s probably ashamed to abandon so early, being the defending champ. Well, in fairness, I’m sure he’s totally fried from taking second in the Vuelta. (Am I tempted to give him some credit for that achievement? Please.)

With five laps (about 70 km) to go, it’s still all together, with France and The Netherlands on the front setting tempo. The Dutch are trying to set up wunderkind Mathieu van der Poel for the win.

 Wow, an American attacks! It’s Lawson Craddock.

Daaamn, he’s getting a pretty good gap very quickly!

Some random dude has joined him. It’s Stefan Kung, a Swiss rider. He’s a pretty big guy, which bodes well. Big guys do better in the rain, just like they can hold their booze better. This isn’t just established fact, it’s my personal opinion as well, so you better take it seriously.

After taking like three minutes to eat a gel, Kung finally takes a turn at the front.

I strongly dislike Craddock’s handlebars. They’re like the “Randonneur” touring bike bars from the ‘80s. I guess I’m still rooting for him, though. It’s not like he chose those bars. In fact, his willingness to use what he’s provided, even when it’s so awful, is the height of professionalism.

In the peloton, Mike Teunissen of The Netherlands drills it at the front to shrink down the peloton. We’ll see what that does to the 31-second gap up to the lead duo.

Dang, just watching this is making me cold. I tried to warm my hands on my tea mug but it’s one of those double-walled insulated ones. I’m up in Oregon at my mom’s house, and the window is open because I’m too busy to empty the cat box right now, so it’s mighty frigid here. This is such a hard race for me!

The leaders have a gap that’s fluctuating between 25 and 35 seconds. Obviously they can’t hold this for 57 km, but perhaps somebody interesting will bridge up to them. I don’t think it’s possible for an American and a Swiss to do an epic break like that on their own … you need a Belgian or Dutchman in the mix to do something that heroic. That’s just the way it is.

Patriotism aside, I’d like to see van der Poel win, because I love to say his name. Back when his father, Adri, was winning a lot, back in the late ‘80s, I enjoyed saying that name, figuring out how to inject it into every conversation. (With that kind of social skill, it’s kind of amazing I wasn’t more of a ladies’ man.) Anyway, the young van der Poel is also a mountain bike and cyclocross racer, which I think is just kind of cool.

As the peloton comes through the finish line for another lap we get a more accurate split to the break: it’s only 20 seconds.

Another random guy attacks the peloton. His bike looks really odd, somehow bringing to mind a giraffe. I’m still getting used to seeing disc brakes on pro peloton road bikes. I’ll bet they’re nice to have in the rain today.

The chair I’m sitting at is too low. This is making my shoulders sore. Man, Worlds is a bitch!

The break is just sitting out there. I’m starting to think maybe Craddock won’t win this after all. Speaking of American victories, though, Junior Worlds was won by an American this year: Quinn Simmons. He fricking soloed … I didn’t watch it, but I’ve heard it was amazing. So we’ll keep an eye on that guy!

OMG, some dude totally stacks!

D’oh, his helmet whacked the pavement and everything. Poor dude.

Some guy attacks the peloton, bridges all the way to the break, and suddenly Craddock is dropped!

Man, things change fast. The new leader is Mads Pedersen of Denmark. That was an amazing bridge. So it’s just Pedersen and Kung out front, with Craddock floating a bit behind. Craddock is joined by some Dutchman … who now drops him.

Italy’s Gianni Moscon attacks the field and blows by Craddock, who’s on his way back to seek the breast of drafting and be suckled by the peloton.

The Dutchman who bridged up to Craddock was Teunissen, and he’s now on his own between the breakaway and Moscon, chasing like a madman.

And Teunissen has got them! This is great news for Holland because now van der Poel can just sit on, back in the peloton, and wait to counterattack if the break gets caught.

And now Moscon catches the break!

This is cool: Kung asks Teunissen for a gel and Teunissen gives it to him. They’re great pals now … if they make it to the last kilometer together, of course, that will change quickly.

One of my nephews just came over to see what I’m doing. He thinks that basketball is a far better sport than cycling. (Of course he does … he reached 6’4” at age thirteen.) I explain, “These are real men. They’re out there for over 160 miles in the frigid rain, rather than always playing indoors in a climate-controlled environment.” Peter replies, “Yeah, but they’re wearing yoga pants!” I explain that these uniforms predate yoga. But he’s wandering off. He’ll never learn.

The screen says the break still has 25 seconds but it doesn’t look that way to me. I could see everybody together in one shot just now.

Nils Politt of Germany makes a savage attack. What’s left of the peloton reacts swiftly.

With surprising quickness, Nils and three others, looks like van der Poel is one of them, significantly shrink the gap to the breakaway. Note the absurd Simpson-Meets-Flanders flag in the foreground.

Teunissen is dropped! I did not see that coming. Perhaps he’s dropping back for van der Poel. Could these guys be that organized?

And Nils is suddenly dropped! It’s because van der Poel is going so damn fast! Matteo Trentin of Italy is the guy on his wheel. Not sure who that third guy is.

And now van der Poel and Trentin catch the breakaway!

But the peloton is not far behind and there’s a ton of attacking back there.

So this lead group of five has two Italians. I think Moscon’s jacket might have thrown people off from realizing this. The Belgians have got to be pissed … they don’t even have a guy in the break!

There’s a chase group of three only 7 seconds behind, with the field another 10 seconds back. I hope this break stays off because I’ve taken some trouble reporting on it.

Kung misses a feed. D’oh! But somehow he scores another gel. Very resourceful, that guy. Note that this is the third gel he’s eaten since we started watching. Wise man.

The chasers are Izagirre Insausti (Spain), Carlos Betancur (Colombia), and Tom Skujins (Latvia). They’re looking really tired. Betancur is now dropped.

Up here in Oregon, winter has already arrived. I guess it’s fitting I should be freezing my arse off as I watch this. (In case you haven’t realized it yet, today is really all about me.)

The gap to the peloton is up to 35 seconds with 24 km (15 miles) to go. Betancur latches back on to the other two, but these guys are falling apart, they’re going to get caught. It’s a shame for them … they were so close to catching the break.

The gap is going out further, now up to 48 seconds so it’s not looking good for anybody in the peloton. As for the break, is van der Poel a big enough badass to beat the Italian duo of Moscon and Trentin, if they take turns attacking him?

Just to recap, the break is Kung (Switzerland), van der Poel (Holland) Pedersen (Denmark), and Moscon and Trentin (Italy).

Moscon cracks!

This lowers the breakaway’s chances of staying off, but obviously benefits Kung, van de Poel, and Pedersen if they can hang tough and hold it to the line.

But Moscon digs deep and makes it back on!

You know he suffered terribly to chase them down. What a badass!

Tim Wellens (Belgium) gets sawed off the back of the peloton. The peloton is rapidly dissolving as some furious Belgian bashes away on the front (perhaps unaware of the specific damage his effort has just caused).

Amazingly, Moscon has revived and is now doing solid work on the front of the break!

The leaders are now on the final lap, with only 13 km (8 miles) to go and a 47-second lead. In normal conditions, and in a shorter race, I’d expect the peloton to still have a solid chance, but I’ll bet everybody is just tired, cold, and demoralized. Look how sad Sagan looks. I think his sunglasses are falling off. Maybe that’s why he’s always rocking the ski goggles on the podium. Well, he won’t be doing that today.

Oh my god! Suddenly ven der Poel completely cracks!

He detonated so abruptly, I couldn’t even get a snapshot of the gap opening up. I think he probably bonked. He should’ve hustled up a couple of gels like Kung did!

And just like that, ven der Poel is caught by the peloton.

And now he’s off the back completely. What a shame, after his amazing move to catch the break.

Pedersen, notwithstanding the huge advantage Italy has in this breakaway, does a solid pull.

Trentin has finally ditched his jacket. Moscon is doing a lot of work on the front, making sure Trentin can save something for the finish (being the faster sprinter).

Now Kung pulls through. These guys are really working well together and that’s why the winner of this race will almost surely come from this group.

And Kung is just crushing it on the front! Moscon is dropped again, and Trentin is dying!

Kung is amazing. He was the original guy in this break, you’ll recall. And that was ages ago, with like 65km to go.

Sagan makes his move. Uh, dude? You are aware how overdue this is, right?

Kung is still being a total hero at the front and you can tell he’s suffering.

Now they’re inside of the final kilometer and suddenly they’re crawling, each waiting for someone else to pull through. Kung, on the back, looks absolutely miserable. I think he’s had the stuffing knocked out of him.

And Trentin launches his sprint!

But Pedersen is super fast and, surprisingly (to me, anyway, as I’ve never even heard of him) comes around! He’s heading for the line and looks like he’s got it!

What an amazing victory! I hadn’t really thought much about Petersen’s chances in this breakaway … he was just some guy. So what can we quickly learn about Pedersen? Well, he’s only 23 years old. He rides for an American team. He was second at Flanders last year. And now he’s being interviewed.

“What does it mean, to be wearing the World Champion jersey?” asks the interviewer. Pedersen replies, “Well, it’ll be harder to keep it clean. White is tricky that way, and remember, cycling costumes have to be washed in cold. So 2020 will be a tough season. I think I’ll need to lay in a good supply of Tide Plus Colorguard, and some Spray ‘n Wash.” The announcer says, “This must be a very special moment for you. A good soak should help with those whites. You might consider checking in with Mr. Laundry for some more helpful tips.” Pederson responds, “Thanks. Thanks for that.” (Note: I might not have this exchange exactly right. It’s possible laundry didn’t actually come up.)

Here’s a nice shot, thanks to the super-slo-mo replay, of Pedersen winning the race. I love how utterly wretched Kung looks in the background.

And here’s van der Poel crossing the line, looking pretty bollixed himself.

A domestique, noting earlier that I was slapping my hands together to beat blood back into them so I could type, has now brought me a down vest. I appreciate the gesture but where was he half an hour ago? The race is over!

Now the medalists are mounting the podium. Trentin really doesn’t look very happy.

Not surprisingly, Pedersen looks well chuffed.

And here’s your final podium. Trentin still can’t manage a smile. I hope he doesn’t kick any dogs later today. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll reflect on how a silver medal is actually pretty cool. Kung looks pretty pleased and he should be … he’s only 25 and obviously a complete badass with lots to look forward to. Also, being taller than the others, he will probably ultimately make more money. As for Pedersen, you know who he looks like? Buzz Lightyear. Am I right?

So, in closing, I invite you to ponder these facts: 1) an American initiated what became the winning break (even if he didn’t hang around to contest the finale), and 2) Valverde sucked even more than I hoped he would. What a great race!

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