Teamwork with a Capital T

Is anyone else jealous that Frank and Andy and Da Boyz get to have a week of Rambo-esque playtime with guns and explosives and high-speed boat chases and round-the-campfire Kumbayas? In Denmark?

Well, I am. I wanna join Da Boyz Club, coz it looks totally fun. And I know the key word here is ‘Training’ camp, but who are CSC kidding? That’s a week of Boytime right there. A testosterone-filled Boyz With Toyz camp.

So, getting down to the nitty gritty of their little ‘training camp’, and just for fun coz I like to. I decided to break a day of Training Camp fun and games into timed increments to make it more legible. I also have absolutely no evidence to back this up, so don’t actually take my word for it. I made most of it up. Pictures are sparse therefore. :D

A Typical Day of CSC Saxo-Bank Training Camp 2008 with Da Boyz, focusing on Teamwork with a Capital T.

5:30am: Wake up bright and early. Well, not bright. It just aint bright at that time in northern Europe. But early anyhow. They’re probably woken up by the bugle blowing. Or a lieutenant coming in and ripping their bedsheets off and yelling in their faces. Or a bucket of water. All sound pretty fun to me.

5:45am: Brekkie for Da Boyz. A quick one in the barracks and it’s straight out into the field. Would be a hearty meal this time, none of that carb-pasta crud like they eat during Tours. Bacon, eggs, sausages, the whole pullava. Gotta get ‘em through the day.

6:10am: Let’s Get Physical (physical…) At the Athletics Field. Jogging for x amount of clicks (chanting ‘R is for Ranger, A is for All the Way..’), then one hundred push-ups, chin-ups, lunges with weights, starjumps, knees up running, arm presses, beep tests. All in the marl grey jumpsuit, obviously.

9:00am: Obstacle Courses next. Muddy rope course with tyres, log lifting, middle distance running, army crawls, army rolls, army running in formation (‘slow is smooth, smooth is fast’) for increased discipline. I didn’t actually see any of Da Boyz doing this, but I’m sure it would have been in their programme somewhere. No pictures to back that up, naturally.

11:30am: Downtime after a strenuous morning. Time in which to listen to cool music, and compare a range of festy headwear, some of which are actually cool, like Fabian’s Moskvian legionnaire’s , and Andy’s mustard ‘Redhead’ cap. The Furry Muffler is awesome too, in a roadkill kind of way. They also use this time to chill in the mess room and have some manly male bonding moments over games of Uno.

12:00midday: Lunch for Da Boyz. Gruel and bread for disciplinary reasons. Builds character. Or normal food, maybe. We’re not fussy. Who knows, really.

12:30am: It’s back to training and on come the Army Fatigues for Ranger Training. Da Boyz practice their building infiltration techniques, clear rooms, break locks with gel explosives, and have lessons about understanding the chain of command. Andy, surprisingly, does not find this difficult.

3:00pm: Advanced Weapons Training. Andy pops caps like you wouldn’t believe. The other Boyz could still use more practice, though there’s no sign of the Kevlar vests, which is a worry. Specific focus on assault rifles, pistols and sniper rifles. No doubt Andy came up trumps in all aspects coz he’s a dead-eye dick (which means really accurate, by the way), and is wearing The Furry Muffler for good luck.

4:00pm: AFL-esque semi-Recovery Sessions on Some Damn Freezing Danish Beach. They are here to haul their cold, wet arses up onto speedboats and supposedly help each other at the same time because this camp is all about Teamwork with a Capital T. But… Directeur Man: ‘Help each other up, this is all about Teamwork with a Capital T’. Big Jens: (in less words): ‘F**k Teamwork with a Capital T, I’m helping myself out of this f**king freezing water plskthnx’. Now there’s Teamwork with a Capital T all right. A beautiful thing.

5:00pm: Cross Country hiking/bushwalking/walkabouting. Backpacks packed and it’s into The Wild. Along the way, they are taught the Ancient Art of Surviving in the Danish Wilderness. They are coached on how to make a fire, how to hunt for rabbits (bunny bashing with spotlights on the hummers), how to find bush tucker, where to dig for water, how to suck poison from a snakebite, how to keep dingoes and feral kangaroos away, how to build makeshift huts, and how to keep warm when one dude loses his sleeping bag or swag.

6:00pm: Reach Clearing and Set Up Camp. A suitable spot is chosen and sleeping bags are rolled out, a hearth set up with a ring of rocks, and a BBQ slate shoved on top. This is the O’Grader’s territory, because he’s an Australian, so the others are warned not to come anywhere near his barbie or his tongs. Or else. So while the O’Grader chars the steaks and snags - beer firmly in hand - the others set up the Billy Tea and make the damper. All serenaded by various renditions of camp-fire-lit Kumbayas with the ukulele strumming softly on Fabian’s knee.

9:00pm: Lights Out for Da Boyz. It’s been a hard day’s work and everyone’s spent. Until tomorrow, obviously.

[You'll possibly have noted some sarcasm in this post. But truth is, despite the above, I'd still love the whole Training Camp adventure. Fun as. Oh, and the photos aren't mine, of course... relevant disclaimers and all...]

Frank and Andy’s Curacaon Vacation

Andy won at Curacao! Yay but random. I was under the impression the Schleck Bruvvies had knocked off work early this year and were having sleepovers in the Luxembourese mountains together. Obviously not. They’re having sleepovers in Curacaon bungalows together instead.

So, The Curacaon Vacation. Well, they certainly seem to be enjoying themselves outside of the drug-ring debacle in Europe.
Here’s what I noticed the Schleck Bruvvies doing AGAIN this year:
• They’re doing lots of swimming with lots of dolphins again, just like last year.
• And wearing pretty hideous print boardshorts again.
• They’re drinking more Cruisers in sunset-bathed lagoons with Other Notable Pro Riders [otherwise known as ‘Da Boyz’]. See fig 1.
• Imitating Sunkist/Coca-Cola adverts with chilled beverages splashed over hot faces. fig 2.
• Doing the Superman Pose in front of poolside bungalows with Da Boyz. fig 3.
• Posing half-naked whilst staring pensively at Caribbean sunsets and displaying collar-bone injuries. fig 4.
• Deepsea-diving in ridiculously complicated equipment that Andy has a lot of trouble negotiating. fig 5.
• Fishing for laketrout and then taking Rex Hunt snaps like they actually caught the fish themselves. fig 6.
• Posing in/on/and around various sunny palm-covered beaches.
• Working on evening-out those sexy Cyclists’ Tans, in the meantime turning brilliant shades of fuchsia and scarlet.
• Paddling around in the shallows with electric-blue plastic floatie-dolphins. fig 7.
• Showing us just how good they are at non-European sports like beach volleyball - Oakleys firmly in place.
• And dragging Tim de Waele along to every single event to take happysnaps of their skinny little selves and ludicrously happy faces. Again.
• Don’t forget half-naked. They do all these things half-naked, sometimes with a posed ‘come hither’ look in their narrowed eyes. Not that anyone’s complaining. fig 8.

A couple of differences this year:
• Frank’s Artistic Sandiwork. What a talent he possesses. Pity he doesn’t get much opportunity to practice, seeing as Luxembourg doesn’t have any beaches. Must be tough. But maybe he could try out gravel driveways. Or, wait a minute, I just had a stroke of genius: how about snow?
• Frank’s Baywatch Run. I swear that was a real-life slow-motion moment, with corny music playing like Chariots of Fire across the cove. And truly, if in that moment Frank really was a Lifeguard splashing out to save me, I’d freestyle the bloody hell away quicksticks – coz those boardies are just frightening. And I’d only be in trouble in the first place coz I’d be laughing too hard. And Frank wouldn’t be much help anyway, coz he didn’t bring his electric-blue plastic floatie-dolphin with him. And actually he can’t swim remember – no beaches in Luxembourg. fig 9. fig 10 is there for the hell of it.
• Andy’s Smug New T-Shirt. I’m pretty sure I never saw that shirt before. I saw the teal wave-print boardies before, but not that shirt. Ten bucks Frank saw it on the rack and told Andy to buy it coz Frank may not be Man Enough To Wear Pink but Andy might be. So Andy bought it. Coz he is Man Enough.
• The Other Woman. We won’t go into that. And actually she’s the one and only woman, but we won’t go into that either. But is she? I swear to god she looks different from two years ago. Wasn’t she blonde?

And not that I’ve done a 180 and am going into it, but what’s the dealio with Frank’s Yo-Yo Relationship anyway?

I’m not such a fangirl that I’ll cry if he gets married. In fact, I’ll consider that a good thing because then at least some Schleck babychildren might rock up on this earth like any good-looking kids with great genes should. And we all like additions to the Schleck Dynasty, even if we’re not a direct part of it.

So, hurry up and get married or something, Frank, and set a good example for your bruvvie. And if Andy does what he usually does and copies bruvvie, then you never know, he might bride-shop too. And that can’t be a bad thing.

Cycling’s Dopage Debacle: Or, Answering Some Tricky Questions

So Kohl is a loser. A doped-up, dishonest, cheating loser.

The reason I’m so annoyed is that I trusted Kohl. I thought he was a really top-quality rider who (no surprises here, girls), I’d hoped would help get Cadel up mountains in the 2009 Tour de France. I thought he’d be Silence-Lotto’s saving grace.

Well, I thought wrong. The Kohlmaster has personally admitted to taking CERA, first to ‘help him get over an injury faster’, and then (my words) ‘just to help him go faster’. He had a bit of a cry in that press conference (hopefully, he’s woken up to himself) and I almost felt a slight pang of sympathy for the man, or I would have, if he wasn’t such a doper. He brought it on himself and he deserves his ban and his null-and-voided SL contract. At least now he has two solid years of Nothing To Do in which he can watch Tour de France DVDs and have a good hard look at what makes a true cyclist a true cyclist. Let’s hope it dawns on him that it aint CERA after all.

I would have loved to hear Cadel’s response when he heard that his Go-To Man for the Mountains got called in to the Anti-Dopage clinic to answer some tricky questions. I imagine it would have been something along the lines of “thanks for nothing, you bloody stupid fool” plus swearwords, plus threats, plus screaming, plus throwing of kitchen sinks + plates.

And I don’t blame him. Hell, if I wanted to win the Tour de France in the year that had the Albertinator, MasterLance and Schleck Junior to contend with, and my team couldn’t leg it with me past the foothills, I’d be pretty cranky too. I’d be thinking “Crap, I’m pretty stuffed.”

Maybe Silence-Lotto needs to put an ad in the local paper. It would have to be something like this on the left.

I’m getting to the stage where I’m dreading every news update in the morning because there might be something on the Latest Cycling Doper. And if that Latest Cycling Doper is ever a favourite of mine [Cadellio, Schleckers senior and junior, Fabster, O’Grader], I think I’ll just about renounce this pucked up, helmeted, Phil Liggett-commentated world for good. Can’t promise anything, but you never know.

BTW, does this now mean Frank or Sastre 'inherits' the King of the Mountains jersey?

[Oh yeah - Stuart O'Grady is gonna win the Jayco Herald Sun Tour! What a champ. Today he won “the first timetrial he’s ever won in his life”. Tomorrow he’s off on his ‘Champs-Elysees” ride in Melbourne. God love him.]

What Makes Hot Cyclists Hot?

What Makes Hot Cyclists Hot?

So, I’ve been thinking. What makes hot cyclists hot? Is it their tight lycra-clad bods? Their be-mulleted hair tufting out of helmet-holes? Their nut-brown limbs in contrast to their pasty-white chests? Their slinky bibshorts glimpsed when they’re cycling like they mean it up mountains? Or is it the fact that their legs – and arms, and faces, and chests - are smoother than yours?

Personally, it’s the shaved legs that do it for me. It just looks so carpetburn-free, and it speaks volumes for how far cyclists are in the cycling world – the less hair, the better the cyclist. Which is why Frank and Andy are so bald. And I’m just such a sucker for the mental image of Andy bent over with Gillette in hand, shaving cream at the ready and his leg up on the bathtub. Hot. See photo for Andy's look of concentration that would surely extend to his trusty Gillette.

But then, I also like the Cyclists’ Tan a fair bit. The way their Hawaiian Sunset legs give way to blinding porcelain thighs in a definitive cut-off point. I’m a special fan of the Helmet Strap Tan; the line of nylon that cuts through the Egyptian Bronze below the jaw and above the neck. As exhibited by sexy Austrian Bernie Kohlmaster. Look to see what a beauty he possesses.

And oh the bibshorts. They say clothes maketh the man. And they couldn’t be more right. In particular, bibshorts maketh the man. There’s nothing more swoon-worthy than the sight of nude-coloured bibshort straps glimpsed between the flapping jersey-tails of a cyclist while he’s working hard up a mountain. And bibshorts are such a dinky invention because not only do they look hot, they also keep their bikeshorts up. Genius.

This leads us on to the lycra-clad bodies. There are two categories for this and I’m a fan of both:

1. The Fabster Cancellara.

2. The Schleck Bruvvies.

The Fabster obviously represents the Not Quite So Scrawny category. He just manages to bypass the Scrawny Cyclist Tag with his beefcake shoulders and v8 thighs. All slathered firmly with CSC-themed lycra. One could say he looks quite good in it.

The deliciously skinny Schleck Bruvvies represent the Quite Scrawny category. The sign of a good climber is the fact that there isn’t much sign of them – they’re barely there. Sure, the Bruvvie’s BMIs might be 6-8 points off 19, but who even notices when their faces are so pretty? And their tight CSC-themed lycra emphasizes their climber’s muscles (so well shaved and tanned, I might add) rather than their bones, so all’s fair in love and war.

The difference between The Fabster Cancellara and The Rest (we'll leave Frank out of this one) is clear. He's certainly in the Not Quite So Scrawny category. The two little dudes either side certainly are not. Which isn't to say either one is better, because a Hot Cyclist is a Hot Cyclist, no matter what the body size, type of bibshorts, colour of the Cyclists' Tan, or size of the mullet. This is what I think makes a Hot Cyclist Hot. Not even the shaved arms, legs and chests can take away a Hot Cyclist's Hotness.

Druggies, Hotties and Cadellio

Okay, better make my first blog memorable. Or at least not totally forgettable.

My blog won’t be only about cycling, The Schleckers, The Fabster, Cadellio and all the other random plebs. I’ll also mention other sports – cricket, AFL football, tennis, swimming, the Olympics in general, soccer… but only occasionally.

So mainly I’ll be putting my spin on the cycling world. This time around it’s Stefan “The Hotdog” Schumacher and his drugcheat ways. Oh yeah, and Piepoli too – who saw that one coming? It’s not like he’s bunkbuddies with Ricco Suavez or anything. Weird.

So, the Hotdog. What. A. Cheat. I could feel that one coming like a train wreck. As if he was good enough to beat The Fabster on his hometurf in the first place. Twice. And then, to make matters even more suss, he goes on to DB (that’s dog’s breakfast) in the Beijing Olympics, as if he’s never seen a timetrial before in his life. Well, he hadn’t – not without a body chock-full of EPO, anyhow. Too scared to cross the Beijing Dopers ey? He must’ve thought France was going soft. Well, wrongo. The cycling world’s better off without him, I say. Oh yeah, and Piepoli too.

Now for Frank. I wouldn’t have a clue what’s going on at the moment. But I’m sure he isn’t involved in all that EPO Fuentes Burillo pet dog friend swiss bank account cheating pullava. You get what I mean. I just don’t believe he’d do that to his brother, who adores him almost too much. Put Andy’s career in jeopardy? He couldn’t – he shouldn’t – he mustn’t – wouldn’t! (wow, had a Grinch moment there) So I hear Andy’s also taken the rest of the year off to recuperate from the emotional trials, because it must have been grueling for him too. Either that, or he saw the great opportunity to have three months worth of race-and-responsibility-free sleepovers with bruvvie Frank. And can you blame him?

Lastly – Cadel Evans. Cadellio. I see a lot of Cadellio-hate circulating in the blogspot world, and frankly I’m not comfortable with it. He’s a little Aussie battler who tried his arse off without a team 90% of the tour and 100% of the mountain stages, with a pucked body and certain CSC’ers playing puckups on certain mountains. And he only lost by less than a minute, and frankly, while Sastre displayed some impressive tactics, he didn’t put in the hardyards like Cadellio. And it helped that Sastre had a team to help him up mountains and keep him up mountains. Cadellio had no such luxury.

And so Cadellio’s got big eyebrows. And he headbutts cameramen. And he threatens people with decapitation. And he punches motorists. And he gives anyone close enough the stiff middle-finger salute. So what? Got to admit it sure makes the guy interesting.