UCI takes hostages

By any means necessary...

Our buddy Pat McQuaid and his UCI homies are back at it, threatening the French ProTour teams that are considering participating in this year's Paris-Nice. It's unclear what "very hard sanctions" old Paddy has in mind, but that Berretta looks kinda scary. I'd like to say that the French teams in question are between a rock and a hard place but they're not, seeing as they're really in the crossfire of grumpy old men trying to ruin cycling more efficiently than a new doping scandal ever could.

Worse Than A Decep Beat-Down?

A Toast! To never testing positive again!

The cycling world continues to lament Jan Ullrich's decision to retire from the sport at the age of 33.
Even five time tour winner Miguel Indurain weighed in, saying yesterday: "Although at 33 he didn't have much cycling left in his legs, it is a shame he has had to retire in this manner."

Yes Mig, it is a damn shame, and the Cycopaths have also been deeply affected by Jan's decision.

In fact, until this week, the worst thing that had ever happened to Mr. 60 was when he got jumped by Deceps back in 1991.

And now this.

When will it get easier?

We are emotionally scared and will never look at amphetamines the same.

Guten Tag, bitch!



Jan rolls mad deep...into retirement.

Mr. 60: Hung Over

Due to Mr. 60's current state of mind, today's post must be a quiet one. This calls for a photo retrospective of our favorite asthmatic Gallego. Please enjoy silently.

Eres el mejor, Senor 60!

Gracias, guapo, gracias.

God Is Dead

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood (doping scandal -ed.) off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?
—Nietzsche, The Gay Science, Section 125, tr. Walter Kaufmann

French cycling's desperate bid for relevance backfires

French cycling hasn't had a hero since admitted doper Richard Virenque retired. Consider for a moment the irony of the "I'm a celebrity get me out of here" winner and poster-child of the Festina scandal being the Great White Hope of French cycling for so long (at least since the days of, oh, say JF Bernard or Luc Leblanc). This, perhaps, puts in perspective French cycling's pathetic need to draw attention away from its consistent lack of international success characterized by moments like this. Can't win your own big race? want a French Paris-Nice champ? Make it French only! The problem with the plan, apparently, is that the rest of the cycling world has grown a pair and is standing-up to this nonsense. We at Cycopaths have a sneaking feeling that French cycling will end-up much like Narcissus, with a long and glorious past ruined by believing it's greater than it is.

Ludo Dierckxsens: Original Jamaican Don Dada

This week we celebrate the career of Ludo Dierckxsens; Flandrian, journey man racer, and one of the hardest men to ever shave his legs.

Ludo was born on the cold grey morning of October 14th 1964. It has been said that the labor lasted three months because he was born with a chainring around his head. A 53, natch.

He turned pro at thirty years old to "see what (he) was worth."

1999 was perhaps his best year; he won the Belgian Championship and a stage in the Tour de France.

He retired this past year at 41, as the oldest professional rider in the peloton. Only legend Viacheslav Ekimov comes close in age. But let's face it, Ludo is fucking Yoda to Eki's Obi Wan.

Whenever Mr. 60 starts to feel like too much of a bad ass for racing with the Category 3's in NYC, he pictures Ludo flying through the Belgian country side. It's kind of like thinking about dead monkeys during sex. It makes sure he doesn't get too far ahead of himself.

Aw, come on Mr. 60...

Bushwick Bill's Guide to Crashing

Editor's note: Bushwick Bill is a founding member of The Geto Boys, and an avid Cycopaths reader. Today he joins us as guest editor.

The number one rule to avoid crashing: buy ten at a time.

Truly, only when crashing do you realize how good it feels to be a gangster.

It is not all fun and games. Crashes can be serious, too. The crash above put paid to Iban's 2004 Tour ambitions. Except for the time when my girl shot me in the eye, this was the saddest day of my life.

Back in the day guys would purposely crash in training. Why? To do shit like this on race day.

Don't nap until after the final sprint. Otherwise, you may wake up with a headache.

Don't race track. Ever. That's for crazy people. Heard of the Match Sprint? That's where you and your opponent take a dive on the last lap and run to the line.

Again, don't race track. See the Russian above? With the wheel on his stomach? He stood up, giggled, and said he just wanted to put on a show for the fans.

When you hit the ground, don't go knee first. That ends careers. Right, Roberto?

Relax, it happens to everybody! Even Olympic Champions cry sometimes, and not even the best doping regimen can protect you.

Lance crashed and ULE FUCKING WAITED.

By all means: do not ride a Trek.

It's not all bad. Sometimes crashing leads to tender moments between teammates.