Voigt was never a threat to win this 20-stage race. He wasn’t even a threat to win one of its 20 stages. He was so far behind when his front tire exploded, in fact, that no one in charge of helping him was even aware what happened.

And that is why this story involves a child’s bicycle.

Most of the time, when a cyclist wrecks his bike that bad and there is no team car with a spare bike to replace it, a “broom wagon” comes in to relieve him. This relief, of course, comes with an elimination from the Tour de France. Voigt had faced a similar elimination last year after a bike wreck ended his race before he reached Paris. He recalled later that it was going to take a lot more than a busted tire, broken spokes, a wobbly frame, aching calves, taunting crowds, sweltering heat, flashes of Tyler Durden out of the corner of his eye, “California Gurls” on an inescapable loop in his brain and a sweaty bike seat (probably) to stop him.

From Velonation:

Voigt’s bike was totaled. “The frame was broken, the derailleur was broken, the front wheel was broken – there was nothing you could fix there anymore. I think there is this children’s program where they do part of the Tour de France stages. One of those cars came by and they gave me one of their bikes.”

The bike was painted yellow and equipped with good old fashioned toe clips. “It was way too small for me, it didn’t fit with my pedal system and it didn’t really work the way I wanted it to work,” Voigt said. “But it was something to move and I took the chance.”

Voigt ended up riding a children’s Huffy somewhere between 15-20 kilometers (9-12 miles).

If I’ve learned anything from MarioKart Wii, when riding a severely undersized bike, all one has to do is lift the front wheel of that bike to gain additional boosts of speed for short periods of time. I haven’t seen video of the incident (all the media cameras were further on up the road with the competitors), but I’m pretty sure he didn’t pop wheelies on the little yellow bike. He did, however, exchange the kid’s bike for a proper replacement after Voigt’s manager discovered what happened and sent a police officer to hand over a new one as soon as he could.

Some might suggest 15-20 kilometers on a kid’s bike – 0r any bike – isn’t that far and therefore not that difficult, but a) this is the Tour de France, and nothing is easy, b) people who say that probably don’t know how long 20 kilometers is and c) there’s no c – unless you thought of something that I didn’t think of. In that case, consider whatever it is you just thought up to be c.

Voigt finished more than 30 minutes behind the stage leader, which is, um, not good. But considering what it took for him to finish, it’s kind of awesome. No one can tell Voigt he doesn’t have drive.

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The Cubs, under new management, have been abysmal in 2010. How abysmal? So abysmal I bothered to look up “abysmal” to ensure I was spelling it correctly. The team’s grandest pick-up in the offseason was Texas’ former hitting coach (Chicago is hitting a 21st-ranked .257 as a team this season). They’ve got the third largest payroll in baseball behind the Yankees and Red Sox and three of their four best players this season have been Marlon Byrd, Tyler Colvin and Carlos Silva – none of whom play everyday. It’s abysmal enough that Lou Piniella’s most embarrassing attribute is no longer his old man gut. I mean, look at this picture above. Sweet Jesus, Sweet Lou – try an occasional salad.

I went to my first Cubs game on August 24, 1983 (an almost no-hitter thrown by Chuck Rainey against the Reds) and hundreds since then. I’ve watched thousands more on TV and miraculously, even a few playoff series, but I can’t stand this Cubs team. Can’t stand its attitude and can’t stand another season of losing. I’ve been in the gang for almost 30 years now and I’m considering getting jumped out of it. Blood in, homey. Blood out.

This isn’t about what team I should start following now (although your suggestions in the comments will be considered), this is about severing ties officially. And properly. And if at all possible, appropriately.

Below are 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover 10 ways to end long-standing loyalties to a franchise. Hop on the bus, Gus – we need to discuss much.

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10. Choose your new favorite team, wait for them to play your old favorite team, go to the game, loudly root for your new favorite team.
This one is cold. It takes gator blood to pull off, but if you do it, no one can question a) your seriousness or b) your decisiveness.  Non-sport equivalent: Convincing your girlfriend to bring her sister to the movies with you so she doesn’t sit at home by herself on a Friday night, only to make out with the sister during the movie while your (former) girlfriend is put in charge of refilling the popcorn.

9. Only draft players from your old favorite team to your fantasy team.
If you want to ensure you’ll never enjoy anything about your old favorite team ever again, synchronize their success with the success of your fantasy team. You’ll not only despise the real-life jerks underperforming on the club, but you’ll despise the stupid team you’ve built, the stupid friends in the fantasy league you’re in and the stupid stupids who invented fantasy sports in the first place.

8. Type “I love the  ____________ [your old favorite team] on your Facebook profile.
If there is any place more mean and snarky than the online gamers playing “Call of Duty,” it might just be the comments following someone’s super-positive status update on Facebook. So if you wanna feel real bad about liking a team, just tell your 658 Fakebook friends how great a baserunner you think Ryan Theriot is. You’ll be taken down quite a few pegs.

7. Heckle a player all game long.
About 10 years ago I found myself at a Louisville Bats (former Riverbats) triple-A game in Louisville, KY. Deion Sanders was there recovering from an injury and playing the outfield. There weren’t many people in the stands that day so we we free to roam whatever section we pleased. And we pleased to follow Neon Deion around for the seven innings he played that night. First we were in left-center, then we went over to the third base line and yelled into the dugout. And while I don’t remember what I was drunkenly slurring at him that night, I specifically recall thinking that I can never root for Sanders in anything he does from now on. Not after this. Not now. I had effectively projected King Midas’ touch onto Sanders, except that instead of gold, everything Sanders touched turned into something to which I was disinterested in paying attention.

6. Choose a player from your former favorite team who just left the team – become a fan of that player.
This is the coward’s way out. This is like rooting for the Bulls until Michael Jordan became a Wizard. Then rooting for the Wizards because you’re more of a Jordan fan than a Bulls fan. Then buying a Kwame Brown jersey after Jordan retired. This is like hanging out more and more with your buddy instead of your girlfriend until one day – surprise! – you announce you’re gay.

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5. Go ahead and bet a substantial amount of  money that your former favorite team will go all the way this year.
‘Cause let’s face it, they’re not going to win. No chance. If there were a chance, you’d still be a fan. But there isn’t a chance. And you betting that there is will make you feel stupid and angry. Why did you just put the money you were saving to buy CSI:Miami – the Complete Series on the Redskins to win it all this year? That’s not going to happen and now you’ll never have all of David Caruso’s wacky puns at your fingertips. Way to go, boner! The only thing you’ll hate more than yourself is the stupid Redskins for not winning the stupid Super Bowl, again! You’ll ignore that team as much as you would a thick girl with a bad personality.

Then again if they win, you’re rich and will probably rethink changing loyalties. Win-win!

4. Give your old team’s apparel to the most annoying kid on your block.
This is all about severing ties, not creating bonds. That’s why you don’t give your old ball cap or your hockey jersey to your sister’s newborn or your cousins toddler. In theory, you like those people and if they like your old favorite team, you’ll never be able to completely turn your back on the franchise. That’s why you find the friendless LARPer desperate for someone – anyone – to pay attention to him. Hand him your Dolphins jersey or your Habs hat and watch him light up. Then watch him go overboard trying to show his new best friend how big a fan he is. Every time you see your team’s colors, you’ll enter a Pavlovian state of annoyance in no time.

3. Wear another team’s apparel when you go out.
In the end, no one really knows what teams you follow in the privacy of your own home. And most bars play multiple games at one time. We are defined by who we wear, Gucci, so use that knowledge accordingly. If you’re meeting a buddy’s friend from out-of-town – wear your Lions hat. Even if you were silent all night, you’ll be remembered as “that Lions fan I met that one time.” St. Paddy’s Day at O’Houlihan’s? Wear all green … and an Avalanche hat. You’ll show up in pictures as the “guy wearing MOSTLY green.” These things define you. Let other people do the work for you. If you want to go from a Giants to a Jets fan (why anyone would want to do that is beyond me), just show up to a few bar crawls in a Jets hat all of a sudden. See how quickly you aren’t defined as a Jet-setter.

2. If you don’t think you’re going to marry the person you’re dating – start attending a bunch of games together.
It’s a tale as old as time, right? “I can’t listen to that song without thinking of her.” “We always used to eat there together.” “Every time we spelunked in that cave, we got attacked by bats.” Common stuff like that. Also common in many relationships is that moment of realization that the relationship just isn’t working. For most people, the realizationis quick, but the action that follows is slow and painful. Awful, really. “We can’t break up over Christmas.” “We can’t break up on Valentine’s Day.” “But Pulaski Day is our special day!” Add your favorite team’s season to that list and take your significant other to as many games as possible. Make it a thing you do – together. That way, when it ends, you won’t be able to oogle Laker Girls without tearing up a little. Not because you’re heartbroken, but because you’re disappointed you wasted so much time on the relationship. Then it’s just a matter of time before you find some other set of cheerleaders to oogle.

1. Google “celebrity _________ [your former favorite team] fans”.
Try it. You’ll run screaming from your computer. They’ll be nothing left from a team that interests you once you see the awful celebrities that love what you once loved. Rod Blagojevich, really? Jim Belushi? Gary Sinise? Pat Sajak? This blows. At least the White Sox have Obama.

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Photos courtesy of Flickr

So bad that it was offering members of FIFA’s governing body eternal salvation on top of free theater tickets and meals at five star restaurants (or whatever the wooing process was for the World Cup bid – in hindsight, it probably wasn’t theater tickets).

From the AFP:

“We had our first meeting with the FIFA executive and Archbishop [Desmond] Tutu said: If you vote for us, I will make sure that you get a first class ticket to heaven,” South African bid leader Danny Jordan said.

But in  week that has seen FIFA threaten both Nigeria and France teams with dismissal of its governing forces, this bribe is well in the past. What’s done is done. Heck, according to the Nobel Peace Prize laureate Tutu, it shouldn’t even be considered a bribe.

“No, no, it’s not a bribe. A bribe is only when you give things to people who are alive. In order to get their first-class ticket, they must first die. That’s not a bribe.”

This, my friends, is just about the most excellent response to an allegation I’ve ever heard. And what’s best about it is that it is completely inarguable by either side. Who’s to say that Tutu didn’t completely rip off these fools? By that same token, who’s to say that he didn’t get away with the most underhanded lie of all time? This has to be the first bribe that worked on credit, right? What kind of corrupt governing body doesn’t ask for at least half up front. FIFA executives should have at least demanded doves fly out from the rafters every time they enter a room. Even if there aren’t rafters within 100 miles. Still. These are soul salvation doves, they’ll find some rafters to ascend from.

Tutu’s statement confuses bribery with payoff. If a boxer agrees to throw a fight, then throws it, and then decides not to take the money, he was still bribed as the impetus to throw the fight in the first place was the eventual reward of the money. It doesn’t matter if everyone on FIFA’s bid committee burn in hell now, they chose South Africa to host the 2010 World Cup. They were bribed. Even if FIFA would have chosen South Africa to host anyway, the bribe was on the table. That’s like the boxer saying he planned to lose the fight anyway. Doesn’t nullify the bribe.

Tutu’s statement also risks mocking the religion that so feverishly embraces him. As an archbishop, it’s unlikely that he doesn’t believe in salvation and damnation. And if he believes it, as an archbishop, it stands to reason that he believes he has some authority to pass out “Get Out of Hell Free” cards like sample servings of your market’s newest cheese product. And if Tutu and anyone else on South Africa’s bid committee feels that way, then for them, this was a legitimate bribe. This was heavier than handing them a briefcase full of gold bullion. If Tutu believes there is heavenly salvation awaiting any of us and that he can promise it to someone else if they do right by him, that’s, um, noteworthy. If he felt there was no such salvation for him to offer in the first place, then what does such a promise suggest of his life’s work?

But still, great show so far, South Africa. Totally worth it.

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Photo courtesy of Flickr

Let’s just finish this Cup as quickly as possible. Let’s make the rest of this thing a series of sudden death matches. It wouldn’t change the outcome of the World Cup, it would just make it shorter and more exciting.

Let’s break it down (and pardon my breath while I do so):

• As of the U.S.’s Saturday loss to Ghana, there have been 50 total games played in the World Cup.

• Of those 50 games, 48 of them have seen the team that scored first go on to tie or win the match (96 percent).

• Of those 50 games, 13 have seen both teams score a goal and not end in a tie.

• Of those 13 games, 11 of the winners were the team that scored the first goal. (85 percent). On June 17, Greece defeated Nigeria 2-1 despite Nigeria scoring first on a free kick. On June 19, Denmark defeated Cameroon 2-1 despite Cameroon drawing first blood. Neither of the four teams involved in those two games made it into the next round or play.

And what about the teams that advanced out of the Group Stage? Wouldn’t a World Cup consisting of nothing but sudden death matches throw the advancing results out of whack? Not really, no.

• Sixteen teams advanced from the first round and played a combined total of 48 games to do so (40 if you dismiss three 0-0 ties and five matches between eventual “Sweet 16″ clubs. We’ll count those games as five, instead of 10). The teams that advanced to the next round scored first in 28 of 40 matches (70 percent).

Basically, all but 30 percent of the “Sweet 16′s” matches were decided after the first goal. And I don’t want to hear about that other 30 percent who might get cheated out of a berth to other rounds. If soccer was that concerned with accurately producing the truly best teams in the world, they wouldn’t allow ties in the Group Round and wouldn’t have hired rookie referees to botch matches in them.

Of course this theory will never happen. Ever. Ever de la Never. But imagine if it did. Fans already have no idea when the game is going to end, at least now they won’t even be able to roughly estimate. And with all the time saved watching nothing happening, Americans will be able to flip the channel and watch baseball - where nothing will also be happening.

Soccer – like Jagermeister – is fun, but in small doses. Consume it quickly, then be done with it for a few years. If the entire World Cup was played in sudden death, nations would be twice as riveted and I’d be half as sick by the time it was all over.

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Photos courtesy of Flickr

For those of us living in Chicago, the month of June has been all about hockey and soccer. And for us bandwagon-rejectors living in Chicago, there’s been a fair share of drinking to cope with the phonies who will deny ever going gaga over these sports come September. And as anyone who’s drunk and dispassionate about the sport they’re forced to watch knows, the best way to pass the time is to pick a fight.

With that, let’s pick apart which goaltender has the toughest job: the hockey goalie or the soccer goalie. Add to the argument down in the comments, muchachos.

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Argument that being a hockey goalie is harder:
I take my dog to the park on sunny days and toss the frisbee at him for 20 minutes or so. He doesn’t chase the frisbee as much as he anticipates where that frisbee will land and runs to that spot. He’s marvelous at it, really. Catches it 95 percent of the time. Just him, the wind, distance and time. Y’know, the same exact skills used by every soccer goalie around the world. That said, I should note that my dog eats banana peels from the garbage and doesn’t always understand that just because you can see through a glass door, doesn’t mean that you can walk through it.

This argument is about as much of a no-brainer as my dog. How fast can the strongest soccer player kick a ball? 40-50 mph? Whatever it is, it isn’t 100 mph. A hockey goalie is like a catcher in baseball if there is no batter and the pitcher tries each time to throw it past the ump. Soccer goalies do everything hockey goalies do, only less often and with fewer distractions. It’s like that old quote about Ginger Rogers doing everything Fred Astaire did only with 60 pounds of padding strapped to her body.

Or something.

When’s the last time a soccer player blocked a goalie’s sight line by standing directly in front of ‘em? Never. It’s illegal. Can’t do it. You know what else soccer goalies don’t have to do? Bathe? No. Well, I mean, yeah. But that’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say that they never have to block 40 shots a game. If a soccer goaltender ever blocked more than 20 shots in a game, soccer would be exciting for a second and the world would implode on itself.

Argument that being a soccer goalie is harder:
Hockey goalies need fast reflexes, sure, but they never need to flat-out guess. They never have an offenseman calmly standing 20 yards in front of them plotting to jack a puck at their grill. Soccer goaltenders are ordinarily put in positions where a shot is coming at them and the only way they’ll possibly stop it is by guessing left or right. High or low. Never mind executing the stop. And since we’re on the topic of execution, how ’bout the pressure that the average goalie feels standing in between the posts. His performance has the ability to crumble or uplift a nation and it all hinges upon never ever letting anything past them. Last season, the league average for goals against was 2.84. You know what you call a footie goaltender who lets in an average of 2.84 goals per game? A dead man. Ain’t no other athletic position on Earth that requires icier veins than a soccer goalie. And save (pun!) that junk about the speed of the puck. That’s why hockey goaltenders wear 50 pounds of gear. It’s not like they’re standing their in a pair of shorts waiting for it to crack them in the chest. By the time that puck hits ‘em, it does as much damage as a puck traveling 25 mph on bare skin. You know who actually is standing there in shorts letting it hit them in the chest? If I need to tell you, you haven’t been paying attention.

The verdict:
We’re going with lacrosse goalie. Screw both of those other two sports. Might as well go with an unknown sport that no one is pretending to care about just to be difficult. Lacrosse goalies wear pads like hockey goalies, deal with whipping speeds like hockey goalies and stand in front of a triangular net, which adds an element of geometry not usually experienced in other sports.

And if you’re telling me that adding geometry to things doesn’t make them harder, then you’re as full of shizz as everyone who claims to care what happens to the U.S. in the World Cup but can’t name three players on the team.

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Click pic to see what happens.

Far be it from me to laugh at the unfortunate … actually, it’s not that far. It’s right here next to me, making me laugh over and over.

No reason to bore you with details. You know what happens. Still though, you knew what happened in Two Girls-One Cup and you watched that anyway, you sicko.

How long before he blecked all over the floor do you think Logan Lacy realized it was going to happen? There had to have been a few panicky seconds at least, right? Or maybe his mind was just a blank – like all his buddies who had no idea what to do while their buddy lay passed out in a puddle of his own yak. Also, this guy got up and attempted he lift again. Who thought that was a good idea?

On a completely unrelated note, why don’t any bodybuilders have hair?

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But as disappointed as my mom might have been, it could have been worse. Leave it to the English to provide us with an example.

A Portsmouth couple went on vacation leaving their two teenage sons at home. That’s the most important piece of information. Really, the only other necessary item of note is that everyone in the family are huge England soccer fans. Those two factual bits coupled with the picture above should tell you all you need to know about what those nutty Brit boys did to fill their time instead of throwing a huge kegger while their parents were in Mexico.

From the Daily Mail:

Mother Sara Munro and stepfather Andy returned from a trip to Mexico to find their house in Paulsgrove, near Portsmouth, had been painted like a giant England flag.

Fortunately the entire family are equally passionate about football and their parents have agreed the painting can stay – at least until England are out of the World Cup.

‘It took us two and a half hours to do and I was using my spirit level and drawing chalk lines to make sure we got it straight.

‘It was well worth it though because I think it looks good. We just wanted to get behind the lads.’

Yeah. But are they willing to shave that junk into the back of their head?

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And if you’ve ever seen attractive Argentinians get naked (and who hasn’t?) you should know just how horrifying this promise is.

This might also be the smartest thing Maradona has ever done. Hedge the bets. If Argentina loses the World Cup, fans will be at a 10 on the disappointment scale. If Argentina loses the World Cup, but it means they don’t have to see Marodona’s “Hand of God?” Well, that brings the crowd down to, like, a seven or something on the scale.

Or maybe the guy was so hyped up from his 5-0 whomping of Canada on Monday that he just wasn’t thinking.

Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I freshened up my understanding of Argentine law, but is it even legal to run through the center of town naked? I mean, the equivalent here would be Phil Jackson promising to run down Hollywood Blvd. with just his Zen to guide him if the Lakers won the Finals. He could say it, he could even mean it. But if he did it, he’d be arrested. He wouldn’t make it four blocks. Plus, he’s got foot problems, he might not even make it two blocks.

But I digress.

Is there any chance Maradona could do this? Much less, would do this? I mean, outside of Playa Escondida, Buenos Aires’ nude beach, I’m not sure that announcing the possibility of public nudity as an effect of a successful cause is enough to make it happen legally.

I bet he goes the Naked Cowboy route. He’ll strip down to next to nothing and place props in proper places so as to appear naked, without actually breaking the laws. It’s like consuming alcohol in public – just keep a safety cover over the sweet spots.

So there you go, Buenos Aires. If your team wins the World Cup, you get a near-nude Diego Maradona running past you and grossing you out while you munch a choripan.

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Photo courtesy of Flickr

Team chairman Robin Leproux unveiled on Tuesday a plan to curb violence among rival groups of hardline supporters which led to the death of two fans in three years.

Starting next season, the club will no longer sell or renew season tickets, opting instead to allocate tickets at random.

Basically, the same way they choose who gets to enter the general admission section of a Justin Bieber concert, is also how they will decide who sits in the Boulogne and Auteuil stands.

One problem with this solution? It’s not keeping the rowdy soccer fan out, it’s just scattering them throughout the stadium.  Before, the Kop of Boulogne – “the most notorious stand in French football” – developed over the team’s 40-year history into a mingling piazza of violence, debauchery and political extremism. Y’know, like the Wrigley Field Bleachers, the Cleveland Browns’ Dog Pound or pretty much anywhere inside the Palace of Auburn Hills.

But in the Palace des Princes, there are two sets of fans, the Montagues citizens from Bois de Boulogne and the Capulets citizens from Auteil. And they don’t like each other and choose their shared team to fight about it. And while I’ll refrain from remarking on how superfluous this argument is among any cities in France to have any pride in themselves, I feel compelled to tip my hat to making them share something they both love so dearly.

Okay, Boston. Okay, New York. You can’t play nice? Here: Enjoy rooting for your Soxees for the next century.

But let’s say the Red Sox and Yankees shared a rooting interest and had to share a stadium and a team, would removing the segregation be a good idea? On the one hand, you’ve got a better chance of a Red Sox fan and a Yankee fan sitting elbow-to-elbow. That could end poorly. On the other hand, by randomizing the tickets, you have a lesser chance of large groups of fans gathering in the same spaces, and large groups are really where the trouble happens – not in one-on-one confrontations.

One section of each stand will be reserved for young players from the Paris area and another one for families.

“With two deaths in three years, we have reached a point of no return between the two stands and the situation is getting worse and worse,” Leproux said.

“It’s our duty to react. This plan is vital for the survival of the club.”

The violence between the Boulogne and Auteuil groups of supporters reached its climax on Feb. 28 when a 38-year-old member of the Boulogne Kop was beaten up by Tribune d’Auteuil supporters and died in hospital a few days later.

The problem with this plan is it doesn’t address why the violence is happening, just where. It’s a solid decision to remove families from danger zones, but isn’t it possible that the danger zones will just shift elsewhere? Perhaps expand through the stadium to all points except those designated for families and young players?

In the last three seasons, the team has had to stop selling tickets to away games and play several games in an empty stadium as punishment.

In the end, this rivalry stopped being about soccer and started simply taking place at soccer games. And yes, these games have developed numerous organizations that have perpetrated the violence and breaking up those organizations will be helpful, but realistically, only a little and probably, only for a brief time.

Rearranging the elements inside the stadium might slow the violence, but it won’t stop it. It might even make it burn hotter.

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Photo courtesy of Flickr

The reason?

He turned a simple traffic stop for missing his front license plate into a 140 mph chase that lasted over 50 miles.

James Neal, 56, was signaled to pull over his 2003 Corvette but opted instead to stomp on the only pedal NASCAR drivers need worry about. Fifty miles (and 20 minutes) later, his ‘vette’s engine blew up and the cops arrested him without a struggle.

Before his car asploded, Neal had more or less escaped the police. The sheriff’s department said that because the license plate crime was so minor and the old spikey-haired man was driving like a … well, like an old man with spiked hair, the Highway Patrol stopped its pursuit in hopes that he’d slow down and not kill anyone. They planned to head him off at the pass, which in this case was Interstate 5 outside of La Jolla.

Neal faces a month in jail. But because he never won a national race, that probably doesn’t bother you as much as the fact that a Corvette can’t open up to 130 mph for half and hour without needing a pit stop.

That shatters a lot of my dreams, man.

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Photo courtesy of Yahoo! Sports via the AP