Do not worry, gentle reader! I have not forgotten you. But it’s been a long and brutal series of days. Stuck in New York, wandering around lost (relatively speaking) in Brooklyn at 4am. April Nor’easters. Oh, and my bike frame is broken, meaning I have a “G” of parts (not counting the parts I already have) sitting on the floor of my bedroom and depreciating rapidly. Awesome.
But I won’t let fate talk me down. No sir. Sometimes you just get screwed, like a Belgian at this weekend’s Roubaix. Can you imagine? Two decades of training in the worst, most miserable slop weather imaginable, on roads dominated by cobblestones and cow feces, surrounded by ugly, postwar buildings – and on the biggest race of the year it’s 70 degrees and sunny?! WTF! No wonder the race was taken by an Aussie and a Spaniard.
Ah well. We’re moving on to Amstel. I could theorize about why Disco ran 9-speed Ultegra calipers, or why Predictor-Lotto didn’t use Noahs like we were told they would – but no, that’s in the past. You can’t just cook up some nonsense reason to dredge up long-dead stories. Michael Barry tells us what to look for, and tomorrow, I can start deriding it again.
