|Tour de Lance: Who cares|
By Jim Armstrong
Special to Page 2
I'm sure the P.C. cops will make me Jose Canseco's cellmate for saying it, but I've had it up to here with the Tour de Lance.
That's what it is, you know. No Lance, no Tour. At least if Tiger doesn't show up for a tournament, we can still laugh at Jesper Parnevik's outfit and hold out hope that John Daly will go Tin Cup. Not so in bicycling, where Lance is the show, the whole show, and nothing but the show.
Here's hoping he rides off into the sunset and never comes back. That way, we can get back to giving that bike race in France the agate-page paragraph it so richly deserves. And to think, I've got the same last name. I can only imagine how the rest of you feel about it.
Tired of wading through a half-page of riveting bicycling copy to get to your morning box scores? I hear you, bubba. Sure, it was a nice story when it started, but by now it's gotten older than Jesse Orosco's bunions: See Lance ride, see Lance win, listen to French officials whine in their wine.
I'm sorry, I know he's overcome cancer and he's a great guy and all, but since when was Lance Armstrong born in a manger? Next thing you know, Al Gore will admit it actually was Lance who invented the Internet. Hoping for peace in the Middle East? No problem. Send Lance over there on his trusty two-wheeler. Heck, let's make it official right here and now: Lance for President.
When exactly was it that bicycling transcended recreation and became a sport, anyway? For crying out loud, we're already passing off ballroom dancing, skateboarding, chainsaw-wielding, street luge and synchronized swimming as legitimate sports. Where do we draw the line? It's getting so life's a beach volleyball game, then you die.
As far as I'm concerned, bicycling makes bowling seem like baseball in October. Which reminds me. Is there a beer frame in the Tour de France? If not, there ought to be.
Yeah, yeah, I know, those guys kill themselves getting up those mountains. No argument there. Trouble is, the only thing more grueling than doing it is watching it. If I'm going to watch a sport, it's going to involve a ball, thank you very much, not a ball bearing.
All in all, I'd rather watch Mr. Personality, Barry Bonds, hit a ball than Lance pedal a bike. Barry Bonds, now there's an athlete. By my count, he's a three-tool player. (What, you think he can field and throw anymore?) Lance is a three-tool player, too: a wrench, a tire pump and a screwdriver.
But then, I'd rather watch almost anything than bicycling. If I'm going to watch a guy in a yellow jersey, it's going to be Randall Simon taking BP on some hottie in a kielbasa suit. And while we're on the subject, if I want to watch a bunch of guys whose names I can't pronounce, I'll check out tennis. Provided, of course, it's mixed doubles and Anna Kournikova is in the house.
Not that riding a bike doesn't have its proper place in the world. I remember, when I was a kid, putting a couple of packs of baseball cards in the spokes and, voila!, I was A.J. Foyt. These days, bikes are considered racing machines and no kid in his or her right mind would put a baseball card in the spokes for fear of ruining an Albert Pujols rookie card. Tell me that isn't sad.
The French have been waiting for years for someone to knock Lance off his throne. I say the sooner the better. Let them have their precious little bike race. It's not like we haven't already stolen enough from them. Why, just the other day, I supersized my fries at McDonald's. I like chardonnay as much as the next guy and I can even tolerate escargot, provided it's on company money.
But as much as I'd like to see it happen, I'm not sure Lance is going away anytime soon. Just when you thought all-Lance, all-the-time might be dying down, he goes and wins the male athlete of the year award at the ESPYs the other night.
A bicycle dude winning athlete of the year at the ESPYs? I hear the early contenders for next year's honor include a lumberjack from Oregon who can cut through a redwood in three seconds flat, and an Eskimo from Nome whose pack of barking mules is considered the Murderers' Row of the Iditarod.
Jim Armstrong, a sports columnist for the Denver Post, is a regular contributor to Page 2.