The Tour of France: For All in Tents and Porpoises

By adding Americans Bob Roll and Craig Hummer, Versus has Terrybradshawhowielongboomertikijbshannonsharped cycling. In older days, it was just Phil and Paul, often in the buff (shown below) reciting Wordsworth and raving about the size of Jan Ulrich's legs and ass while crammed together like sausages in the back of some tiny van. There was something unashamedly homoerotic about it; yes, Phil and Paul are in the back of a van with their arms around each other. Awesome, isn't it? Waxing non-stop over near-naked men. They called the big ones "beefy boy" and admired their "carcasses" and pointed out, above all else, their suffering.

While I like Bob Roll, I miss hearing Phil and Paul drone on interruptedly, like that old English professor whose voice was like a pint of Guinness.

I'll look forward to the naked fans, the one in elk horns, the Devil, Borat, the Livestrong syringe guy Lance threw into a snowbank in California. I'll look forward to watching the people who live in tents emerge after things move into the mountains and away from Monaco.

Here is a race that is actually watched. There's a tipping point in sports, and indeed all events, where something actually becomes more fun watching than doing. There's no clear guideline for this. Even we don't know. Ten years ago, I couldn't bear to watch the Tour--it was boring. Suddenly, I drool over Cancellara's yellow Tarmac (including yellow Red hoods!). I can't deny that I like the race because other people like the race, and that this somehow makes this more enjoyable than, say, the local office park crit.