I find myself in Denver, a city to which I have never ventured before. Seems nice enough and the weather is good, I gather, for October in Colorado.

Some preliminary thoughts:

1) People smoke here more than they do in L.A. Seems ill-advised given the thin air. They’ll need their lungs.

2) The Mint should have a nicer gift shop, especially since they didn’t have any space left on their tour today. They make a profit on those state quarters. Cycle it back such that the gift shop doesn’t seem like a trailer time forgot. There are just the two Mints, really. They could try harder. Does anyone know if they try harder in Philadelphia mint-wise?

3) If I wanted Rockies World Series gear, my timing could not be better. It’s all 50% off. Now that I know the Rockies actively recruit born-again Christian players, I don’t so much want Rockies gear.

4) I’m in the hotel the BoSox stayed in last night. To hear tell, we’re lucky to get rooms, as the celebrated rather, um, vigorously and didn’t leave when they were supposed to.

5) I also hear tell that the Packers are staying here tonight. For fantasy football reasons, I’m hoping they have no real reason to celebrate. Brett Favre especially. Plus he doesn’t pronounce his name right. Ok, he does, given that he’s from the South, where Ponce De Leon is pronounced “Ponse Dee Leeeon” and Cairo, GA is pronounced “Kay-roh.” Still.

6) The Rockies (mountains, this time) are really pretty.

7) Ok, I’m off to dinner with my boss. I’m going to try not to say anything stupid.

As a child, my dad took us to Falcons games. We had season tickets and my mother made us dress up to go to the games. Like I had to wear pantyhose dressed up. We sat in the end-zone behind the aptly chapeau’d guy we called “backwards hat” who drank beer poured into a two-liter Sprite bottle.

The Falcons were never very good, but there was the occasional glimmer of hope. The “grits blitz” was fun, in a “Po’ Folks” kind of way and Steve Bartkowski could throw the ball a really long way. There were rarely guys where he threw the ball, but every once in a while, he’d get it right.

More often, they’d hand off to the fullback for two yards in three consecutive downs and punt. It reminded me of that handheld electronic football game I had.

When I left for college, I mostly left football behind me. I went to a university without a team and lived in a city with a team I couldn’t bring myself to like very much.

Lately, I’ve been enjoying football more. Between the excitement that Mr. Vick brought to the Falcons and the naked hilarity of Blogleague football, it’s back in my life. Not enough to prompt me to wear my hat backwards or drink beer out of large plastic containers, but around in a pleasant way.

The other issue in Vick situation, of course, is animals. Let me go on record. I like them. Not all of them, mind you. I’ve encountered unpleasant ones here and there, but as a rule, I like animals. Dogs especially. In my adult life I’ve owned a dog for all but about a year and a little.

Aside: Scout’s mother claims that she heard that Vick used kittens as bait in training fighting dogs. I’m opposed to people making up things that aren’t true. Also to kittens as bait.

Anyway, this morning I was listening to Vick’s apology. I was waiting for the obligatory part. Not the apology to the kids, or the league, or the owner. Nope, I was waiting for the shout-out to Jesus. About halfway through he said,

“I’m upset with myself, and, you know, through this situation I found Jesus and asked him for forgiveness and turned my life over to God. And I think that’s the right thing to do as of right now.”

Whew, I thought, Took him a while to get there. But get there he did. Here’s the thing. If he didn’t do the shout-out, I would have been disappointed. It’s not that I don’t buy it (though I kinda don’t), it’s that I don’t want the apology speech without it. It’s like having a full breakfast without grits. Sure, it still “counts” as breakfast, but I KNOW there’s something missing.

Here’s the primer:

I like:

Football=ok

Blogleague fantasy football=a lot

Getting the Jesus shout-out in when facing prison=obligatory

Dogs=a lot

Kittens=a lot

I don’t like:

Dogfighting=at all

Kitten baiting=at all

Vaguely racist stories about kittens=at all

Oh, and what do I think about Vick? I hope he meant what he said today.

Professional cyclists are like most athletes. Some are smart, some are corrupt, some are really daft. I like the sport nonetheless and, as usual, am enjoying the run-up to the Tour de France, despite the horrible coverage on Versus (nee OLN). Paris-Roubaix was another exciting CSC ride away (O’Grady this year, Cancellara last year). The Giro is shaping up to be a decent battle.

In the meantime, Ivan Basso has been let go by Discovery and admitted to “trying” to dope. Uh-huh. Jason Giambi also apologized for using that “stuff.” Baseball. Cycling. Doping sucks. My honey said so, so it is so.

Here’s the weird bit, that’s actually getting some national media play. Floyd Landis, the homophobic TdF winner from last year, who is accused of using synthetic testosterone, is the subject of a hearing right now by the U.S.A.D.A. (anti-doping agency).

Greg LeMond, the first American TdF champion, testified in the hearing last week. LeMond has been VERY outspoken against doping and has accused Lance Armstrong and now Landis of doping. He says he received a phone call from Landis in which Lemond urged Landis to come clean about doping. LeMond admitted in the course of that phone call that he had been sexually abused as a child and was trying to make the point that secrets can harm you in the long-run. LeMond contends that Landis tacitly admitted to doping in the conversation (a claim Landis denies).

Landis’ manager, the night before LeMond was to testify, called LeMond and threatened to expose his secret (the abuse) to the world.

It’s all just beyond bizarre.

The thing about any sport is that, however compelled by it I feel, I can choose to do it instead of watch it. My Gunnar mountain bike is off the be repainted and Honey is thinking about trading up her bike. There’s a lot to pay attention to that doesn’t involve Floyd Landis or Ivan Basso.

When I glance across my office to my road bike, which is my only bike at the moment (what with the Gunnar in parts in my garage and on the way to Wisconsin), I take some comfort in the name on the tubes. He may talk a little much, but right now, LeMond stands for integrity and fortitude and who can’t use a little of that?

It’s spring break here at the fine institution of higher education. Since I am a twelve month employee, I’m here. That and my assistant director gave almost everyone the week off. Somebody’s got to be here in case the provost calls. He never does, but I worry that he might.

I’m going to try to get caught up on my backlog of big projects. I lack motivation for most of them, which is why they’re un or half done. I’m going to try to do a little every day on most of them. Small bites are easier to swallow.

Spring is here. I know this because UCLA lost again in some ignominy and baseball started.

Fantasy baseball drafts happened over the weekend. I didn’t end up with many distasteful Yankees in the American League only Blogleague. Jorge Posada seems like a good guy, despite his lifelong Yankee status and I can still picture Johnny Damon as a Royal if I squint. Plus, I got some Angel pitchers.

In my money league (which is NL-only), I drafted better this year than I did last year. I had a little money to spare and targeted players I wanted without overpaying. As of right this moment, I’m in second place after one game. Shawn Green, bless his heart, went 2 for 4 last night in the Mets win over the Cards. That was my only stat from the night, but it was a good one. Let’s just call the season done, shall we?

I tried to get Chris Carpenter and didn’t succeed. While I don’t think his ERA will stay at 7.5, I take a little guilty pleasure in his bad outing last night.

Plus, Tom Glavine, who I still like from his Braves days, got one win closer to 300. He needs 9 more to get to 300 and will be only the fifth lefty to get there. My favorite game of his doesn’t even count in that total. It was his 1-0 masterpiece over the Indians in Game 6 of the 1995 World Series. Glavine is not on my fantasy team, and he’s now a Metropolitan, but I hope he does well this year. The big numbers (like 300) can still matter.

Baseball, as Bart Giamatti famously said, is designed to break your heart. It will break my heart this year when Bonds passes Aaron. That number will not matter to me. Hank Aaron will be the Home Run king in my mind until a clean player passes him. It will also break my heart when the Angels and Braves, once again, fail to match up in the World Series. I trust that Bill Hall and Barry Zito will do their respective parts to break my heart a little, too. My fantasy players don’t care enough about me

For now, though, fragile Spring holds promise. And pollen. Maybe that’s why it’s so fragile. All that pollen could make things brittle.

I went to a college without good sports teams. They sucked. Plus, there was a whole red, white, and blue unfortunate color deal. I liked my college a lot as a college. As an undergradutae sports experience, it blew big chunks of yuck. It’s just true. The year BEFORE I arrived they went to their one and only national championship game ever in ANY sport and lost.

I was unused to sports failure. My high school was routinely competitive at the state level in basketball. Won championships competitive. We were bad in everything else, but who cares? Excellence of that level doesn’t ask for companionship. Ask any Duke fan. Any USC fan. Any Lady Vols fan. Do they stay up at night wishing their school could be exemplary in just ONE MORE thing? No, they’re pretty happy liking real excellence in the one thing. It’s hard to say Duke basketball exhibited that this year, or indeed that SUC football (oh wait, sorry, USC) did, but that’s another matter.

Basketball, despite my high school’s achievements, wasn’t my favorite sport. I always preferred baseball. And football. Well, and tennis. Still, I do like basketball.

The team that beat my college’s one and only championship effort? UCLA.

When I decided to go to graduate school in completely-random-field(tm), I only had a few choices. That’s because it’s a, well, completely-random-field(tm). One of the choices was UCLA. And, when it came right down to it, it was the only choice. Oh sure, I could talk about the weather and the beach as big factors. The real reason I moved out to the coast? Money. UCLA offered me some to go to school. No one else did.

When you go to graduate school, especially in completely-random-field(tm) (read: esoteric), you’re supposed to study, argue, write, think, drink, and argue some more. I did all of those things. I also watched UCLA sports. You’re not supposed to do that. Sports are an undergraduate thing.

But there I was a T.A. With UCLA football players in my classes. UCLA football players who were playing in the Rose Bowl. And in 1995, there was a national championship in basketball. Not state. Not high school. First time since John Wooden big-ol-dealio. I recognize the problems. Jim Harrick was not a great guy. The UCLA football players stole handicapped parking passes. There’s a lot of money in it. The basketball coach might ought not to be the highest paid person at a university. I get it why it’s not so good always.

Still.

Then, there’s the whole USC thing. The place I teach now is lousy with folks who went to UCLA and with folks who went to USC. It’s kinda fun. It was really fun this year when UCLA beat USC in football. I may have talked a little smack. Just a little.

I like wearing the UCLA blue and gold at commencement.

Look everybody, it’s Tommy Trojan and Joe Bruin!

That’s actually Joe Bruin’s old head. A few years ago, somebody stole Josie Bruin’s head. She matched and they didn’t want a rogue Josie Bruin. So he has a new head now. Wouldn’t that be nice? If you get tired of your head, just get a new one. And people still know who you are!

I’m proud to have gone to UCLA and like my complicated UCLA PhD diploma.

The truth is (glance around to see if anyone is actually listening), I’m also a fan.

It’s nice to be a fan sometimes.

Bottom line, I guess, here on the verge of the Final Four in my home town with my adopted graduate level (can you even call it this?) alma mater playing…

Go Bruins!

I hope all your teams give you happiness, too. Unless they’re Florida, Georgetown, or Ohio State this weekend. Or USC ever. I could go on, but won’t. Let’s stay positive.

U C L A

So, Honey is sleeping in a chair. And she keeps saying that I don’t want her to come back to the bed because I like watching SportsCenter on ESPN to fall asleep to. I told her yesterday that I would give up SportsCenter forever if she would come back. I wrote a song about it. It sounds ok in my head, but I’m sure the meter on it is just shit. Still, it has all the classic elements: abandonment, sports, and dogs. Oh and hope. It also has hope. ☺

SportsCenter Blues

My sweet baby loves me truly,
Woo-woo
But she’s been sleepin’ in the chair
Mmm Hmmm
Her back ain’t so good no more, nooo
And the bed hurts her sumpin fierce

So late at night I lie there
All alone and sad
Watching on the tee vee
About the sports of ball

Base and foot are best
Though girls’ hoops is
Ok too

Spare me the hockey
And those stupid cars
Going round and round and round
MMM HMM

Who do I have for solace?
Well my good old Biscuit dog
She’s all black and spaniel soft
But it ain’t like my sweet girl

Now those Relax the Back
Folks seemed nice
Til they took my girl away
Now all I got is SportsCenter
And things just ain’t the same.

Someday she’ll come back to me
That sweet girl of mine
And then I’ll give up teevee
And lie in her arms
Dreaming of sports no more.

Woo-Woo.

I played soccer throughout my childhood. My first team, the Ladybugs, became the Eagles when we got a little older. I also played on my High School team (the Lady Bulldogs). I was part of a group of people who lobbied the high school for girls soccer and then felt obliged to play after the lobbying effort.

My career on the pitch was less than illustrious. Being the awkward big kid meant playing left fullback and doing it badly. The Ladybugs weren’t winners. Neither were the Eagles. The Lady Bulldogs were also less than spectacular. And my efforts didn’t contribute much. The worst part of the Bulldog experience was that the Geometry teacher we had recruited to coach knew less about soccer than I did and didn’t like me much. The result? I practiced a lot and didn’t play much. Geometry coach toyed with not giving me a letter. She didn’t follow through. So, somewhere I have three big fuzzy D’s. I played soccer in the age before there were trophies. So, my childhood sports acknowledgement is restricted to those D’s.

In college, I was too into being in college to do much sporting. I did play on a co-ed intramural soccer team and we won the championship. Again, no thanks to me, but I did play most of the games. I had a friend who had been on the University’s soccer team. They had played (and lost) for the National Championship. He was INTENSELY jealous of my intramural championship shirt. So, I gave it to him. There went my one real “trophy.”

I played tennis some with my roommate in college. She wouldn’t keep score.

In my adult life, I haven’t done much in the way of competition of a sports kind. Graduate school was competitive. I was recently talking to treecup about how much we had to compete with one another over the scant resources while we were working on our PhDs. I remember being very angry that I was ranked third for a dissertation fellowship behind a woman who has since gone on to become one of the real bright lights in my field. I should have been third. It didn’t seem right at the time. Now it seems just. She teaches at a prestigious institution and has a book forthcoming from a major press. I administrate at a regional institution and just had an article published in an online journal. In academic score-keeping, she’s “winning.” But I’m not keep score. I like my job and my little article.

This week, weese and I both won for the first time in the blogger fantasy football league. I even moved out of last place.

Honey and I have not yet begun the process of picking out the trophy for the blogger league. Halfway through the football season, it is safe to say that it will not be at our home.

It’s too early to say how election day is going.

In 2000, Honey and I lived in an apartment above some horrible Republican bitches. That may be repetitive. Anyway, we went to bed thinking Gore had won and woke up to their screaming in joy. Laying aside the fact that Gore did actually win, it was a bleak moment.

Speaker Pelosi would be a bright one. It’s nice when your team wins, even if you don’t get a trophy.

1986 Senate.

1995 Braves.

2002 Angels.

2006 Dems (?).

Meantime, my three fuzzy D’s and my one fantasy football win attest to the fact that I am not a total loser. If only I had something to put on my mantle. Never mind, since I never outgrew the big or the awkward, I’d probably just break it.

Go team!

Last night, Honey, Bryduck, Slangred, and I went to see the Los Angeles Sparks play the Sacramento Monarchs in a WNBA Western Conference Championship game at the Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim. The Sparks normally play at the Staples Center in downtown L.A., but American Idol, LIVE! had booked the Staples Center, so down to Orange County we headed. That the game was in Orange County was originally a selling point to me, because one of my favorite restaurants, Rutabegorz (tasty healthy food and awesome apple pie) has three locations in Orange County.

But, then there was traffic. So much traffic. Two hours worth of traffic. Honey and I hadn’t eaten in anticipation of an early dinner. But it took us so long to get there, we needed to go straight to the game.

This change of venue was not kind to the Sparks. Only the die-hardedest of fans made
the journey. Oh and us. We came.

I like the Sparks. Honey and I used to go to games occasionally when they played at the Forum. I think we both like the idea of the WNBA on several levels. There’s the whole lesbian fan thing. That’s good. It’s like going to a lesbian bar, but it doesn’t smell like spilled drinks and everyone is wearing yellow. We also like the women athletes. Beyond that, the Sparks star, Lisa Leslie, seems beyond cool. She’s well-spoken, articulate, and came to an appearance at a lesbian bar a few years ago. From all reports. Lisa is a nice person. Ashton Kutcher even punked her. Lisa is cool.

There are minor things to like as well. Sparks games are cheap. We paid as much for parking as we did for the seats. To a playoff game. And I liked the Forum. It was an old-school arena.

The Sparks, during our active interest days, were good, but kept losing to the Comets en route to the championship. The finally broke through and won the championship in 2001 and again in 2002. By that time, our interest had waned. We were both glad they had won but we hadn’t gone to any games. Because at the end of the day, with all the upsides, Honey isn’t much of a sports fan and I am not much of a basketball fan.

Still, while I was driving to work on Friday, the Sparks advertised the playoff game on the local Air America outlet. That and Rutabegorz were enough to get me thinking.

We settle in our seats (behind the basket) and discover our proximity to superfan. Superfan was on the club level just above our heads. She has a little megaphone. And she starts shouting through it. Loudly. Towards us. Really, it was towards us. Because this Sparks game was only attended by the faithful and we had bought tickets, we were in a section of non-true fans.

“On Your Feet Until We Score!”
“On Your Feet Until We Score!”
“On Your Feet Until We Score!”
“On Your Feet Until We Score!”
“On Your Feet Until We Score!”

None of the four of us stood. She kept shouting. The Sparks didn’t play well and didn’t score and didn’t score and she kept shouting.

Nearby her was a woman who thought telling the Sparks what to do was her job. Every admonishment started with, “Come on Ladies!” and continued with what they should do.

The Pond, home to the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim, is a nice facility. The seats were comfortable, the concourse was clean. It was, in other words, sports venue by Disney. Bryduck and I noticed that the Ducks had three banners. One celebrating their first season, one celebrating their tenth season, and one the year they made the Stanley Cup. Bryduck said they should have had a banner that said, “1995-1996, we played that year, too,” just because they seemed that desperate.

Superfan kept it up. Mwadi Mabeka played relatively well in the first quarter (unlike the rest of the Sparks) and superfan liked using the megaphone to shout, “Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi” over and over and over again.

We posited (I think was Honey’s idea) that the reason our seats only cost $12 each was that we had to sit near superfan.

I expressed a desire to steal the megaphone but was afraid she could catch me on her scooter if the batteries were fully charged.

“Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi, Mwadi”

muh waaaah deeee muh waaaah deeee muh waaaah deeee muh waaaah deeee muh waaaah deeee

Then, some Monarchs fans joined our section and I became distracted by their fan gear. One woman had her face painted and was carrying a box of Wheaties. Which she employed thusly:

I was close enough to see that she had not opened the box. So, she was in better shape than Honey or I in terms of needing/wanting to eat.

Celebratory cereal. Who knew?

At half time, I went up to throw away some trash and got a full glimpse of superfan. She then emerged to go to the bathroom. Here she is:

She may own one of everything the Sparks have ever sold.

I love sports and love being a fan. Two of the happiest times in my life were game six of the 1995 World Series and game seven of the 2002 World Series. Watching my teams win was amazing. And I’m glad superfan loves the Sparks. I really am. My attitude toward her softened once I saw her in the hall. It also helped that by this time, the Sparks were so far behind, she was less vocal.

I can’t help but worry about superfan. The Sparks had 41 games this season, including pre-season and playoffs. Twenty of those games were at home. I wonder if I would want to live my life such that 20 times a year I was in my element. I guess I hope superfan has other passions.

We left before the game was over and got lost on the way to Ruta’s. When we finally settled there, it was nice.

During dinner I kept thinking back to superfan and the woman who was walking out of the Pond as we were. She was on a profanity filled tirade that went something like, “I can’t believe I’m in f***ing Anaheim. If we were at the f***ing Staples Center, I would be f***ing closer to f***ing home. And we rode the f***ing bus. If we had driven the f***ing car, we could leave now. We f***ing suck. The Monarchs f***ing suck. But we f***ing suck worse. F***.”

I am happy, I think, once again, to close this door. I like a lot of what the WNBA and the Sparks are, but there’s a bit of it that makes me a little sad. And so, I’ll let it recede into my past again until it’s all hazy enough to remember it fondly and make me want to go back again.

By that time, they’ll be back at the Staples Center and we can go to Phillipe’s for French Dips. Mmmm.

Confession: I think bad French is hilarious. Tonight in fact, Honey proposed that Biscuit wasn’t listening to me because she only speaks French. I then said to Biscuit, “Bisque, arrive le crate, Tourmalet, maillot jaune.” Biscuit seemed to get it and got in her crate.

My bad French isn’t nearly as funny to me as grrrlylibrarian’s bad French. GL majored in French Lit (at Berkeley) and can do a French accent and throw French words around in a way I find beyond hilarious. It’s bad to think bad French is funny. I have enormous respect for the French in culture, bicycling, opposition to stupid-ass American Presidents, etc. There are a few things French I don’t find as appealing. No need to list them, but they’re probably on your list of French negatives, too.

I was going write this blog entry tomorrow on Bastille Day proper. But, it’s already tomorrow in France, so happy BD, France. “La da da da da da da da da la da da da da ta da.” (That was my blog rendition of La Marseillaise).

Sometimes my Word program at work switches (for no reason that I can determine) into spell-check in French. I like to think it knows how funny I think that is.

Anyway…(blogging at night after taking Tylenol PM isn’t very coherent, is it?)…It’s really important to the French that the July 14th stage of the Tour de France be won by a Frenchman. And it’s preferable that the winning rider be on a French team. For those of you not following the race closely (ahem), here are the French teams:

Credit Agricole
Ag2R Provence
Cofidis
Francaise Des Jeux
Bougyes Telecom
Agritubel

The sponsors of the above represent: a bank, an insurance company, a credit company, the French National lottery, a telecommunications company, and fuck if I know. (Agritubel is a wildcard team with ugly kits and I’m not looking them up. Look them up if you want.)

David Moncoutie of Cofidis won the stage on 7/14/05. Richard Virenque (French!) won on 7/14/04 riding for the Belgian Quickstep (flooring) team. The French love Virenque, even though he’s an admitted doper. 7/14/03 didn’t see a Frenchman win. It was the rather famous (no snickering by sheds or others) day Lance Armstrong rode across the grass to avoid a crash and went on to cement his 5th overall win. Ok, enough tour history.

The French are probably unhappy today that Floyd Landis of Phonak, an American, is wearing the maillot jaune indicating he’s the overall leader. I can’t say I’m thrilled either. See my earlier post about Floyd’s homophobic stupidity. I’m now hoping for a Levi Leipheimer comeback, but would be happy with any of the big riders who are close to win, except Floyd. Cadel Evans, Denis Menchov, and Andreas Kloden seem the mostly likely guys at this point. Menchov won the Vuelta a Espana last year by default because Roberto Heras lost his win because of doping. Drugs are great for what drugs are supposed to do. Just leave them out of sports, ok? Ok.

Here’s Menchov celebrating his stage win today:

You’d be that pumped too if you had just won after climbing five mountains in 6 hours and 6 minutes on a bicycle.

Back to French–one of the ironies of my finding bad French so funny is that it would have horrified my grandmother. She was a French teacher and loved ALL things French. She even let her love for French seep over into a dislike and distrust of things Spanish. French wasn’t funny to her. It was serious business.

So, happy Bastille Day, Gran. I hope that a Frenchman wins the Tour stage today. And I hope that there’s a really nice version of Paris in heaven.

Vive la France. Oui. Alpe D’Huez.

I am going to try to resist the temptation to blog a lot about the Tour de France. I’m a sports fan. It’s a status I denied for many years because my honey didn’t so much like it. She’s come around, which is sweet.

I tried hard during the Winter Olympics to not blog solely about them. It got me (and Honey )off on an unfortunate trajectory about Neve and Gliz. So, I’m going to make a rule for myself during the 21 days of the Tour. You ready? I can have the TdF in my blog five times total in the next three weeks. Here’s #1.

I won’t try to top Honey who wrote beautifully about the doping scandal yesterday. It’s not just because she’s my honey and found a really nice calf picture…I have to see that’s as succinct and right a piece on drugs in sports as I’ve read in a while.

We just watched the prologue of the TdF on our Tifaux. Honey has persuaded me to not root for Floyd Landis or Dave Zabriskie because they’ve given two joint interviews–one in Outside the other in Bicycling–in which they said homophobic things. So we’re rooting for a few other guys. I confess to having a weakness for the best Norwegian cyclist ever ™. It’s not that competitive a thing really, but he’s good beyond Norway. He’s big for a cyclist and races for the French Credit Agricole team. One (ok the main) reason I like him is that his name is Thor Hushovd. There are other things to like. He won the green sprinter’s jersey last year in the TdF when no one expected him to. He doesn’t head butt people like Robbie McEwan. (McEwan named his son Ewan–Do I need to say more? Ewan McEwan. Sigh.) I can hope that, because he’s from Norway, he holds more worldy views than Landis and Zabriskie. I also like Agricole’s kit. It’s green and fairly understated. I love the colors of cycling but there are some ugly ass kits (that’s uniforms in non sports geek speak) out there. There’s T-Mobile’s pink mess:

And Euskaltel-Eukadi’s orange yuck:

And then today was a time trial, so they ride the alien bikes with the alien helmets. Here’s a good example:

That’s Levi Leipheimer. Odd looking itnit?

Thor’s name appeals to me in part because of an interest in mythology I developed when I was but a child. As a bookish kid, I spent as much time as I could in the Maud Burrus Library in Decatur, Georgia where I grew up. Mrs. Burrus was the first director of that library, which opened in 1925.

Even though Decatur is in the Atlanta area, there were lots of things that made it seem like a small town. The Maud Burrus Library was one of them. I don’t think I read every book in the kids’ wing, but it seemed that way to me sometimes when I was looking for something new. Then, I moved into the adult section and never looked back. Among my favorites books in that library were the books on mythology. This early interest MAY have influenced my academic interests later in life.* : )

While the Norse gods didn’t do as much for me as the Greek and Roman ones, I liked them enough to read whatever I could find on them. Thor wasn’t as cool as Loki and I lacked the sophistication as a child to understand that flawed “people” were more interesting than purely “good” ones. But I was a kid who liked things to be fair. And Thor got treated unfairly by Loki. Of course that was Loki’s thing.

So when I started watching cycling and found there was this semi-underdog cyclist named Thor, I couldn’t resist pulling for him. (It’s worth noting, I think, that Thor Hushovd is one of the top 15 or 20 cyclists in the whole world. He’s not exactly Seabiscuit. But then Seabiscuit wasn’t really that much of underdog ether. So maybe he is Seabiscuit. Oh, never mind. My point is that Boonen, Pettachi, and McEwan are better sprinters).

He wasn’t supposed to win today.

He did. By .73 of a second over George Hincapie. Floyd and his homophobia had a flat tire and finished 8 or 9 second backs. So there. No Loki today. And I hope no drugs. It seems a little victory for fair. Mrs. Burrus would certainly agree that it’s a good day when fair wins.

*I have a PhD in Folklore and Mythology

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