Ivan Basso & the NY Yankees

So, there’s a lot going on everywhere and it seems like it’s going on all the time. It seems that way to me, at least. For instance, last night a few of us took the 4 train up to Yankee Stadium for the 7:05 game (why 7:05 and not 7:00?) against Seattle. Things were looking good considering (a) we were three rows from the field behind the visitor’s dugout, (b) the Yankees scored six runs in the first inning, and (c) we had a few hot dogs as soon as we sat down. I raise that last point as hot dogs are simply delicious. Yet despite the smiles . . .



. . . Seattle somehow managed to score eight goddam runs in the fifth inning. I say somehow managed although I know exactly how they did it: Joe Torre put a fat bastard by the name of Colten Bean on the mound and Fat Boy Bean started his evening by walking two consecutive batters. When he finally threw a strike, the entire stadium went nuts, which is just plain embarrassing when you’re pitching in the major leagues. Fifteen minutes later, as Bean failed to produce a single out and the stadium became eerily quiet, a guy a few rows back yelled, “Would somebody please get somebody out?!”

Once the Yanks relinquished their lead and fell behind 14-8, it was time to leave, so we left.

So that happened. This morning, I decided to sleep in until 9:30, which is always a nice way to start the weekend. After a bowl of Frosted Flakes, I geared up and hit the road for my usual 45-mile training ride. More than once I pulled to the side of the road to snap off a few pics so my wonderful readers (all two of you) might get some idea as to what the scenery is like up here in the sticks.





After the ride, I stopped in the local barber shop for a trim. Since the guys who run the shop are old school, the trim included the hot lather on the back of my neck with the straight-edge razor treatment, not to mention a few words from the old guy cutting my hair.

“You gotta beautiful hair, you know that?”

“. . . thanks.”

I don’t have a pic of the haircut, so go ahead and call me an unprofessional journalist. I’m okay with that.

In other exciting developments, Ivan Basso has left the Discovery team. Why? Do you even have to ask? Come on. Let’s get real here. Basso knows that once he provides the authorities with a DNA sample (meaning they’re going to stick a Q-Tip in his mouth)--which it’s looking like he’s definitely going to have to do--that sample is going to prove a link between him, the evil Dr. Fuentes, and Operacion Puerto. With that said, Basso’s departure from the Discovery team seems like a preemptive strike on the team’s behalf, most likely coordinated by Johan Bruyneel. I can only imagine the talk Bruyneel must have given Basso: “If you’re going down, there isn’t a chance in hell we’re going down with you. And gain some weight, you skinny f#ck.”

What else? Oh, right. I did a fair amount of drinking this week, but it wasn’t my fault. On Tuesday, a few of us from the office had dinner with Univision.com (properly pronounced you-knee-viz-ee-ohne). Why we were having dinner with Univision is a whole other story, but we had to have something to wash down all those empanadas and quesadillas, so why not wash them down with pomegranate margaritas, right? After three or four of those, the night and my life in general felt a hell of a lot better. And what is it about drinking, or to be more accurate, tying on a buzz, that makes everything seem so important? It’s almost as if the evening becomes something of a film negative in that catching an early train and getting home to get a good night’s sleep for the next day’s presentation takes a backseat in favor of spending time thinking about and discussing all the bigger pictures in your life. Of course, the outcomes of those drunken discussions never tend to lead any place good, do they? You wake up the next morning and think, What the hell was I thinking?

Anyway, after the pomegranate margaritas, I stumbled my way to Grand Central Terminal and took this because I’m good like that:



The next night, I had a date. Yes, another goddam date. I’m in my mid-thirties and I’m dating. Wow. Fantastic. Great. Hurray for me.

Once again on my way to Grand Central Station after a few drinks, I took another pic:



Absolutely thrilling, isn’t it?

You know what I really want to know? I know I’m shifting gears here, but the bunch sprinters like Boonen, Freire, and McEwen--are they doping too? My understanding is that they take a dose of caffeine the size of a horse pill about ten kilometers from the finish line, but do those guys have the needles in their asses like the favorites? Can we get McEwen on the phone and ask him? I’d really like to know.

That’s it for now. Tomorrow I think I’m going to drive up to Bear Mountain and just do climbing repeats all morning: 4.5 miles up, 4.5 miles down, repeat. Sounds boring but I hear it’s effective. And if I take any more pics, trust me, you guys will be the first to know.