There are certain crosses one has to bear as the gent who occupies the big chair in the cycling world. I know. I know.
This is my throne. This is my sport.
However, my recent excursion to the left side of the Atlantic, although eye-opening for me when it comes to the US cycling scene, has been somewhat of a drag. While the riders are enjoying accommodations they haven’t seen since Qatar, and the upgrade for them from some of the “hotels” we use for the European races that are best described as rustic is a welcome change, it’s just not the same for me.
The US has yet to figure out what the phrase VIP truly means. It does not mean meagre buffets, mini cereal boxes of some chemicalised tripe, nor a steady diet of Coors Lite and Michelob Ultra that you can reload until your heart’s content. No, it should “caviar me” every minute. The finest foods. The finest establishments.
how can these be "mobile?" I'm confused.
I will say, however, that I did get to see my first ever “trailer park.” I didn’t think that they actually existed.
Where was I? Right.
The Astana Affair.
This started two days after Vinkourov was admitted to the hospital with his injuries. I received a phone call from Makhmetov; Aidar was in an absolute panic. I was in London at the time, discussing the needle business when the phone call came through. It went something like this:
Guess which one is Aidar.....
“McQuaid.”
Pat? This is Aidar. I need some assistance.”
“Who?”
Aidar.”
“Where are you from? How the fook did you get this number?”
[sigh] I’m the guy who gives Astana their cash. I’m the guy who writes the cheques for the government for a few of your programmes.”
“Still doesn’t ring a bell.”
We met last year at the event in the Balkans. I told you that Martinelli would give us a legitimate front for the laundering.”
“Oh! You’re the guy with the big fooking eyebrows that need a good waxing. Didn’t you used to kick major arse in MMA?”
Um, Yes. But I have a doctorate now.”
“Right. So cute, those Russian mail-order degrees.”
I’m not Russian.”
“(chuckle) Right. Right.”
So the next little bit Aidarov or whatever his name is went into detail about wanting to sign Kashechkin, and how that with the injury to Vinokourov, Vino declared he wanted to assist Martinelli next year. I told him to have Vino sign the retirement paperwork because that fooker was as shifty as the last Bond bad guy who walked through the dessert and drank the oil. Or like those awful Resident Evil films my son keeps watching that somehow keep being made. At least it has the Milla Jovovich. She’s quite the perky little minx. She’ll give that Laura Meseguer a run for her money.
I digress.
It seemed all neat and tidy. The boys at the blue and gold had their man from Lampre who would fill in immediately for Vino, and Lampre had a problem child off their hands. It was win and fooking win.
Then came the bloody visit.
Yeah, that rotten Phillipe Gilbert went off the reservation for an unscheduled visit to Vinokourov. The reason I say “unscheduled” is because since Gilbert decided to join the UCI programme officially, he’s been thinking that he’s the second coming of Christ. But like the tales of Spiderman, with power comes responsibility. Gilberto hasn’t quite figured out that part, as the winning thingy is still quite new – he persists in his cute naïveté while overlooking some basic essentials of the game.
So what does the little pecker do? He goes on an unsanctioned visit and proceeds to give Vino a “pep” talk, tells the bugger that the injury shouldn’t set him back, that he can recover, that he can race and there’s no reason why they can’t be side by side at Lombardy. Not only that, but why not try to race the last year of his contract?
The Infamous Hospital Visit of Inspiration
You see, Vino is like that bold child who’s swayed by whomever is the most recent individual in his presence; the last idea thrown out to him in whatever format usually sticks. Well, this one really stuck in his giant-sized jaw and stayed right there.
While that was percolating, Astana, in the meantime, goes out and makes a deal with Lampre to bring Kashechekin into the fold. When the news broke on this, I called Zappelli to check on the licence situation with Vino. I had a bad feeling.
Sure enough, Zappelli and I receive an email from Morand that says we have zero paperwork from Astana on the Vino front. With enough bullshite scandals breaking, the last thing we need is that Vino stirring up the hornets, since the Lampre guy was already signed and the contract already approved by the UCI.
I gave a jingle to Martinelli. The fooker had no idea that a contract had been signed by Kashechkin, had no idea that Vino was going to retire, and no clue as to my conversation with the bushy-eyebrowed-MMA-guy-turned-Kazakh-financial wizard. I asked him what he’d been doing, and he said that he’s collecting cheques and playing bocce ball.
For fook’s sake, if I hadn’t been receiving my deposits consistently from these mucky mucks, I would have deep-sixed them at the end of this year. As it stood, we had a controversy brewing, but with any luck (as most journalists are such complete limp dicks), this problem shouldn’t see the light of day. Last thing I needed was a bunch of @inrng and @ssbike disciples running around Europe making me look like an arse.
Ah yes, shaking hands with the guy Makarov gave the boat to.....
I told the fooker that he’d better get Vino’s name signed on his retirement papers and pronto, because knowing that slippery sonofabitch he’d go public with his intentions to race something in the fall or make a comeback or declare his intentions to ride/manage/cook/massage the entire team for 2012. Obviously, Martinelli went back to playing fooking bocce ball and didn’t bother to lift another fooking finger.
And then it happened. Kashechkin was inserted into the Vuelta line-up, against Adorni’s phone calls to the contrary (yes, he woke up long enough to make two phone calls). Like the perfect storm of Bruyneel, Vaughters, myself, Verbruggen, and Stephen Farrand showing up to a party in the same suit, Vinokourov declared his intention to race Lombardy.
Jaysus Fooking Christ.
I had to call in Makarov. We had just finished our conference call the week prior to insert Tchmil into the presidency of the ECU, which makes things a little cleaner for us when it comes to communication and decision making. How so? Let’s recap for the American audience (bullet points worked last week, hence second appearance):
- Igor Makarov is owner of Itera, the official sponsor of the UEC.
- Makarov was elected to the UCI Management committee in March
- The UEC controls the UCI. It has the most votes and the most influence on cycling matters.
- The current president is also on the UCI Management Committee
- Tchmil’s “election” as president of the UEC ensures a stranglehold on our wishes.
- Speaking of president, who runs the Russian Cycling Federation? Makarov.
- Farrand’s analysis of Tchmil as an heir apparent to my throne is a poor call when Tchmil’s boss is on the management committee and wants the job.
- Thank Christ investigative journalism is non-existent in cycling.
- I’m craving sushi. Yes I like sushi.
Needless to say, Makarov made a phone call to the poor Kazakh cousins and told them under no certain terms will they be allowed to embarrass everyone with this absolute shite show, and they’d better have someone retire, otherwise he’ll just retire the whole team somewhere on the road of bones in Siberia.
What was next? Well, leave it to Astana to offer up some ridiculous amount of cash to four riders to “retire.” Guess who had his hand up first? Roman Kireyev. Again, however, Astana dropped the ball. Instead of taking a few additional steps to make it believable, they jump on the first pawn like a 12 year old boy with his first prostitute – eager, all hands, and pecker spewing.
All of this, however, has been fairly embarrassing to us in Aigle – in part because we should have known better than to allow Vino to verbally agree to retire without having an army of lawyers descend like vultures at that moment to have him sign his life away. You wonder why we allow these teams any freedom at all – the first opportunity they have to fook up, they take it like a seagull at a sardine smorgasbord.
I think Aidar has learned his lesson with making sure contracts are airtight. You would think that after his experiences with Johan Bruyneel, Lance Armstrong, and Alberto Contador this sort of thing wouldn’t have even seen the light of day.
Ah, I guess not everyone can weave an illusion. In fact, no one can make magic as well as Makarov and me. No one.
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