The Essence of Amstel
Forgive me for posting rather infrequently these days, but my pesky Clark Kent duties have proven to be a rather pernicious intrusion into time formerly devoted to my exhaustive ingestion of all things pro cycling.
Limited time, limited verbiage, however, does not necessarily equate to limited understanding. One only needs to glance back in American history to the power of economical word choice. Esteemed orator Edward Everett bloviated onwards for approximately two hours at the dedication of the Gettysburg cemetery, then handed over the rostrum to Abraham Lincoln who laid waste to the previous speechmeister in 2 minutes.
While my prose will likely never be equated to the rhetorical gifts of Honest Abe, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 2nd annual distillation of Amstel Gold into haiku form. There’s no need to read those lengthy cyclingnews, velonews, pezcycling, etc. reports, when everything you need to know has been condensed into 68 finely crafted syllables:
All those pre-race favorites
Can’t catch me, bitches!
Sweet…I ripped the field to shreds
What the…? Who’s Frank Schleck?
Waiting for Oscar
Phil, Bobke mock my tactics
Once more, I blew it…
Sole Yank at Amstel
Tour of Georgia?…Full of scrubs
Give me a man’s race