yes, another installment over on PEZ, analysing a thrilling Stage Ten of this mightily eventful Giro…
yes, read the latest crankpunk lowdown on the Giro, this time ruminating on the rest day, on the Pez Cycling website.
yes, he really did look like that… read all about it on PEZ
or read the whole thing here…
The big news from Stage 4 of the Giro weren’t the boos that arose in the coffee shop where I watch the race when Danilo DiLuca took off up the road, but the look on Wiggo’s face as he crossed the line in Serra San Bruno, where he did a very good impression of a constipated turtle.
(Also love the image of the Lampre rider behind, he’s probably gasping for air in reality, but it looks for all the world that he’s having a good old laugh at the 2012 Tour de France winner – and while I’m on the subject, I will again nominate that Lampre kit for inclusion in the top ten ‘Worst Kits of All Time’ list…).
Well, the big news wasn’t so much the bunged-up reptile look, remarkable though it was, but the reason for that look: yes, Wiggo is misfiring.
Surely he and his DeathStar team have him honed to perfection, as tight as you like and ready to go off on another British Blitzkrieg once again, no?
Well maybe not, but why not? Isn’t it obvious? He really does have a dark and sinister master plan: namely – Le Tour!
Look out gloomy Froomey, your tilt at the stars is about to be given a very definitive jolt. It’ll be Hinault vs. Lemond all over again, but in that peculiarly English way, all handbags at dawn, grand gestures reduced to the rolling of eyes and heavy tut-tuts, breaks for tea and all the painful stoicism.
But yes, no doubt about it: whereas Nibali, that Ryder fella and even – gasp – the aging, Cadel I-thought-he-was-dead? Evans are all chalking their cues and casting Paul Newman-style glances through the fug of the pool hall, Wiggo’s powder looks to be decidedly damp.
And I do think, seriously, that it’s because he is waiting for July. Maybe even he didn’t know it til yesterday. I think that his body may have become a little ‘locked in’, due to the fact that he’s been preparing for the Tour so hard for the past few years.
Whatever it is, he didn’t lose time just because of the crash, but because he got gapped on a pretty tiny hill.
Of course, he’ll probably smash the TT and get Pink and leave me all red-faced.
Now, is it just me or is anyone else tired of seeing this Old Guard still popping up? Yes, Di Luca served out his ban and yes by the laws in place he is allowed back, but I don’t know, seeing him and, if I’m honest, some of the Garmin-Sharp team rolling back in like nothing ever happened, it all leaves me a little nonplussed.
I’ll probably cop it for saying that, but there it is. Perhaps if the UCI were addressing all that has happened in a responsible and thorough manner, one that let the fans feel ‘Heck, they’re really doing something about it this time,’ it would seem a little less like ‘business as usual.’
As it stands it kind of feels like yesterday’s fish still out on the market stalls.
Onto Cadel! Not literally of course, not sure the old man could take it. Now as a journalist it is my job, as we journos are all sworn to do, to react to everything with a massive knee-jerk and to cut people down just as quickly as we build them up.
So yes, I did write recently elsewhere in the Ethernet that I thought the grizzly wee Aussie was done in. Washed up. Ready for the glue factory.
And then faster than an Aussie can down 24 beers whilst sat astride an emu (the record stands at 3.8 seconds), back up he pops and takes second on stage 3 and takes 6th on stage 4.
Evans should have that great Mark Twain quote stitched into his jersey:
‘Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’
Suits him perfectly. Never write off a good man. Still a long way to go in the Giro, thankfully, because it’s been very good so far, and the wheels may come off for the former World Champ in those high hills, but it is great to see him doing well.
He may not be the most liked character in the peloton but he is one of the most respected. Would be nice to see him in Pink for a bit.
A final note on Battaglin’s win. Great to see an Italian winning, that should keep the tifosi happy for, ooh, 4 minutes?
Could Nibali keep them quiet for a bit longer and grab the win? It would certainly be something to have another, serious rival to the Sky domination in the mix.
We shall see.
get your espresso hot and frothy and a little bitter, right here…
or read all about it here:
This is the Giro d’Italia, right? Cos I think I may have stumbled onto some amazing one day race that I’d never heard of before. It had it all, two cracking little climbs, one brilliant, twisting and quite frankly terrifying-looking descent just before the finish, and enough aggression to keep even those degenerate bare-knuckle fight fans stoked up on adrenaline for a week.
That couldn’t possibly have been just the third stage in a 3-week bike race, could it?
Ryder! What the hell man, this isn’t Liege-Bastogne-Liege, not ‘merely’ some classic you’re trying to set up for Mr. Martin. This is The Giro! Patience, they will tell you, is the watchword, ‘dullness’ its sidekick. How dare you bring such breathless and near darned senseless attacking to one of the world’s greatest multi-stage races?
Just who do you think you are, defending champion or something?
Yes, it was brilliant. Made not a great deal of sense. He sensed a little nick in the flesh of his rivals and heck, didn’t he go for it. Who said Canadians were boring, eh?
There’s two possible conclusions to be drawn:
a) Ryder is bluffing.
b) Ryder is not bluffing.
But let me tell you, it ain’t a). You don’t go out like if you haven’t got the legs, because well, you can’t go out like that if you haven’t got the legs. I’d suggest that Mr. That-Canadian-Guy is rocking and wants to cement his position at the Big Boy’s Table. No more high chairs and bibs and plastic spoons, thanks very much, gimme the silver baby!
Soup spoon, dessert spoon, fish knife and that third fork no one knows what the heck is for, break the lot out.
Yes, foolish maybe, a tad un-smart, but didn’t that make you smile? The temerity of it all!
And who else had the cheek to pop his slightly wombat little nose into the fray and all? None other than everyone’s favorite prickly Antipodean, Cadel ‘Cuddles’ Evans. Past his best? Possibly. No good anymore? Watch your tounge lad, this boy is one hell of a bike rider, and we haven’t seen the back of him yet.
All sorts going on during Stage 3, more highlights than a showreel of Lance’s greatest (needle) hits. Luca Paolini ripping up the roadl there was an example not only of great timing (his attack), but also incredible bikemanship. See those corners? Well, the Blanco boys certainly didn’t, it was like Man vs Juniors that one. Definitely one they won’t want to see again.
Only downside was that now we are going to see even more of those ugly-ass helmets. I hear that raise the watts – the ‘Watt the f*** is that’ count maybe… It’s 1988 all over again!
Last point was the way Sky rode. They were in an interesting position, with the unheralded Salvatore Puccio being in Pink after the TTT. Now, being in the leader’s jersey brings with lots of accolades ands no little pride, but also an almost ceaseless host of hassles.
The night before Stage 3, Sky would have been planning not to really defend the jersey as they wouldn’t have wanted it so soon – at least not unless it was on Wiggo‘s shoulders. Yet simultaneously, if a break goes up the road and gets 8 minutes, all the other teams look to the race leader’s team to chase.
It’s a delicate situation, if you don’t want to defend, because though you may want to lose it you could very well get badly caught out it the break stays away and has a big lead with a decent rider or two up there.
Of course teams want the race lead but, if possible, I’d wager that 90% of team managers would take it on the last day if they could, and not before. Not only do you have to be physically immensely strong across the team to defend a race lead, you also have to be smart, know how to play two-wheeled chess like a master, and be able to deal with the mental stress and ever-fluctuating realities of the on-road situation.
As it was, it worked out ok for Sky. Wiggo looks good, as does Ryder and Cadel too.
This is shaping up, already, to be a proper little battle.
really top notch photography here from Scott Mitchell, covering Sky’s Giro.
he turned me inside out, that lad, all 61kg and veins the like of which you only find on a horse’s cock streaming down his legs, raining down lashings of misery with an almost possessed concentration, whipping the pedals with a ferocity that had me gurning the whole way up the climb. it wasn’t long but it was plenty hard. 1km at something like 12%. he threw it all at me, everything he had, but, thankfully, it wasn’t enough to break me…
with a slender 14 seconds lead over the Japanese rider Kyosuke Takei and 22 over Peter Pouly, the final day of the 2013 Tour of Friendship was going to be challenging, to say the least. i had a few factors in my favor though, that might just help me swing it.
first of all, neither Pouly or Takei had teammates, though there were two other Japanese guys in the Open category that might help Takei, if it came to it. second, the stage was only 85km, meaning there would be less chances for them to attack me. thirdly, the parcours looked, on paper, to be not too hilly, maybe a max of 6% on a long drag that we’d cover twice, then a finish that was relatively flat on the run-in, also suiting me.
finally, there were the offers of help from no less than three guys on different teams, though i figured that at the end it’s probably be a three-way fight to the line by me, Pouly and Takei anyway. with 10 seconds on offer for the win i couldn’t afford to leave anything in the hands of others.
so, we start, hot from the off. no change there then. kind of getting used to the heat by now but sick of the wet feet, they’re dead white after the stage, like someone else’s stuck on the end of my otherwise brown legs, some old tramp’s dead, manky feet. so many water bottles thrown over my head and even more over the countryside, hundreds, thousands this week, one of the real contradictions of our sport. not that i care much now, it’s just survival, watch the potholes, clear the debris by the edge of the battered road, watch for those attacks.
i can’t let anything too big get up the road so i have my remaining two guys chase down an early break of about 8, but my guys are so tired after the week of racing, they’re maintaining the gap and so eventually i put in a spurt that brings it all back. i’m not in the mood for talking today, a good sign. i’m on it, i’m feeling the flow. got to minimise the movements, protect the power, cut down on waste, keep the shoulders relaxed and the head clear and down, keep the pedaling smooth, preserve every possible watt of energy for the attacks that will come, are coming.
15km in and we hit the start of a long 16km hill, a drag, it looks, on paper, but it’s obvious the profile was wrong. this is one of those rollers that paradoxically has no downhills, just false flats in between vicious little growlers, leg-sappers where Pouly will surely be compelled to attack. but first off i see Takei sidle up to one of the Japanese riders at the front. i soft pedal to within 2 meters and hear Japanese.
now maybe it’s cos he’s tired of maybe he just forgot, the force of habit, but i speak Japanese and hear every word.
‘you go on the approach just ahead, then i can try on the up and down, he will be tired.’
i wonder for a second if it’s a false play but then, sure enough, the Japanese guy goes. he;s way down on the GC but i don’t want any help for Takei up the road so i follow. legs are good. breathing long and deep. bike feels great. i catch him then Takei launches a hard attack on the right, i have to ask another rider to let me through, but it’s all calm, i know i will get him back, the guy moves and i put in ten hard strokes and i’m on his wheel. he goes again and again but never gets more than 3 meters.
then he heads back, he’s done. his confidence blown, i can feel it. then suddenly a lightning blur from the right once again, this time the green of Pouly and it’s serious, very hard up the 6% incline, and i look up and that gradient is rising way up beyond the race book’s poor estimation.
i force my way onto his wheel and he turns to see me then clicks into a harder gear and goes again, i’m burning now but amazed by his style, a pure climber – this guy has the amateur record up Alpe d’Huez, and though he’s a banned doper he has obvious ability, 5-time French MTB champion, holdr of the KOMs on various well-known monster climbs, and a soaking wet 61kg compared to my 77 – anyway he’s turning the screw and i am forcing i don’t know how many watts to get over this critical point with him.
i do it though. i hear him breathing hard. he turns to look at me again and through the pain i flash a big smile and ride alongside him, concealing my hurt and man does it hurt right now, and i say-
‘hey, how you doing?’ all casual as you like.
‘beautiful up here, huh?’
‘ah… unh’ is all he can manage.
i drop back behind him and the mask falls and my face contorts again, and thank the cycling gods of Coppi, Anquetil and Merckx that there are no more killer hills on the horizon. i had to sow the doubt in his mind for the second loop up that nasty climb, because if he attacks like this again i am not so sure i can hang on.
we’re alone, together, up the road with no one in sight behind. he flicks an elbow. i see it and smile to myself. flicks again. turns.
‘come on, come through, the Japanese guy, you can get away, he is second….’
‘i don’t have to worry about him, Peter. i just have to watch you.’
‘we work, i just want the stage.’
‘and if i blow on the second loop? you going to wait for me? no. up to you, you ride or we sit up.’
he starts to ride, much to my surprise. he’s forcing a gear that i can’t quite believe is coming from a guy so skinny, and he does it for about 8km until a small select group comes up to us, including Takei. we come back to the hills, second loop, and Pouly goes again. this time it is easier to follow, and Takei can come too, we go over the rise 200m ahead of anyone else and we are off, 25km to go now to the line, one long descent then 10km of flat.
‘come on, we work,’ says Takei, ever hopeful.
i shake my head. it would be better if they’d been dropped obviously, but i have them right in front of me and that is where i intend to keep them. i can sense that the fight has left them, they’d given their all and i was on it each time. it’s a strange thing maybe to admit to, but i feel a control over them, a power. it starts in my skull and flows down to my feet and suddenly my legs feel amazing, i forget the heat and the bike is almost a part of me. i have to grab myself to remember that there’s still 20km to go, can’t get complacent, but just for this moment it’s an incredible, strange and slightly disquieting sensation.
never had that in any race before.
Takei says ‘ok we work, Peter wins, i am 2nd, you third.’
‘no, i’m second. i need those 5 seconds, just in case.’
he looks at me then nods. ‘ok, you 2nd.’
i just am not sure if i should trust Peter though, his attempts to get me to ride may have been amateurish but they revealed his desire to fight for the win, for sure. with 5km to go i’ve still not done a turn the whole break, and i feel good enough to go. i ask them what they want to do but they seem too tired to be bothered to reply.
i don’t think i’ve ever concentrated as much on the bike as i do now, looking beyond Takei’s shoulder and watching Peter’s right hand like a hawk. one little flicker and i will go. but then with 800m to go Peter turns to offer a hand to Takei then to me, and the tension dissipates.
we trundle over the line with barely an inch between us.
and that’s it. i’ve won.
i get a big bear hug from my manager, Brandon Teo, and handshakes from the guys at the line and after a minute or maybe more the others come in, and there’s more handshakes and a beer and then it’s off back to the resort, just a short ride away.
it’s not a major race but that’s to take nothing from the guys, it was one hell of a fight with the quality of field, the route and of course the heat and it ranks up there with my most satisfying wins. hanging on to Pouly up the climbs the final day and losing just ten seconds to him over a 6km climb the day previous were similarly pleasing!
so, thanks for reading, thanks to all the guys who rode and the new friends i made, guys like Michael Troy, Dave Christensen and Matt Kinch, and to the old friends i met up with again, to my sponsors 720 Armour, Extreme Endurance, Specialized and most of all Lapierre and James Murray, and of course, to my teammates Michel Velasco, Siong Chen and Tong, and to Brandon Teo, The Big Boss.
as ever, people, do crank on!
oh, and the t-shirt of the week was…
Baby Jesus exists. how do i know? cos he was sat on my handlebars today as I rode into hell. he said at one point that i could ask him anything, absolutely anything, so i asked him where he stood on the debate over full fat fresh milk/skimmed/UHT/soy, and, much to my satisfaction, he spoke thus:
‘fella, it’s full fat all the way. you think i’m gonna go through all this crap I got ahead of me a-skimpin? no chance, Lance. full-fat, the juice, uppers, downers, peyote, whatever Moses can deliver, all washed down with the Chivas. Baby J say, you got it, I’m on it.’
he then produced a Marlboro Red from his nappy, followed smooth as you like by a double G&T.
Baby Jesus rolls, baby. he definitely rolls. and he was kind of enough to perch with one leg cocked so I could still see my garmin, which was nice.
that was probably the most sacrilegious of my hallucinations today, notwhithstanding Che Guevara doing some very Marxist-Leninist ‘re-educating’ to Mother Theresa in a mango tree. humph.
i’m not being flippant. seriously, this is what the heat does to you. I was as empty as Our Savior’s tomb with just 62 of the 161km gone, looking down and working out in my frazzled head the kilos to go and wondering why i didn’t take up something more altogether sedate, like ping-pong.
today’s stage had just over 2000m of climbing and seemed, like yesterday, to be more of an endurance test than anything else. 161km leaves you feeling like a cockroach husk, your moist innards having been sucked out by a giant gecko.
can you tell I like to complain? yeah I hide it well though I know, I’m talented like that.
anyway, to the action! (if you can call trundling along at 22km/hr ‘action’).
the day started nice and slow and kind of stayed like that for the first 49km, until we hit the start of the main hill, a 6km slog that we’d have to do twice again, with the finish coming on the third lap. with a KOM jersey at stake a few guys were up for it, but none more than the Tour of Friendship’s resident multiple ‘ex’-doper, Peter Pouly, in search of the 5 bonus seconds on hand!
step this way Pete, the peloton has a large dollop of ill-will just for you.
ok yes, I am being facetious, but it is essentially true – a lot of the guys have voiced their disquiet at his presence in no uncertain terms, and he even got booed today when he stepped up on the podium to accept his award for 3rd place. I’m not going to debate the rights and wrongs of former multiple-ban riders that are banned from UCI events riding ones like this, but the general consensus here is not positive on that score.
positive, get it?! get it? ach, my talents are wasted here..
anyway off went Pouly up the hill, eager to chip away at my 21 second lead over him. I followed, perhaps foolishly as there was a young Hong Kong rider up ahead, still surviving from a solo attack 10km earlier.
I tried with every fiber in my being to hang onto Pouly’s wheel but it just wasn’t happening. he took off and I decided to settle into a rhythm and wait for the rest of the race to come up to me.
on the chase down the hill, my last surviving teammate, Michel Velasco, crossed wheels and took a bad tumble, breaking, we later learned, his collarbone. get well soon amigo!
finally we caught up with the HK kid, then with Pouly a few kilometers later. his reappearance drew an interesting round of cheers and the odd cat whistle.
next lap we all took it easy on the climb, everyone knackered and dry as a communion cracker. there is a near-continuous stream of cold bottles of water being handed out by the scooter guys that follow us (and a great job they do too, despite being shouted at at regular occasions – an angry cyclist is a fearsome beast, I tell ya, about as pleasant as a large boil on the arse).
we were all waiting for the final climb, the build-up to which seemed interminable. then we hit it, which came late – not late as in I didn’t know it was coming, but late late. you know how annoying it is when you have the race distance that you’ve copied from the race book written and taped onto your top tube, but then that number passes by and you’re still fisting yourself up the backside with a rusty studded glove, hanging over the stem and wating for Deliverance at the same time?
well, that happened. I hate it when that happens.
finally though we were on the foothill. riding at the head of the group, I turned to see that my two closest rivals, Takei (16 seconds) and Pouly (22 seconds) were 20 meters back at the rear of the group. I figured they thought I would be waiting for their attack.
so I attacked.
that’s crankpunk logic for you.
boom! ka-pow! biff! I was brilliant, balletic, cutting through the air and laughing at gravity with an insouciant flick of the eyebrow, mocking fate and Old Mother Time as I danced, Pantani-like, up the 9% gradient.
that lasted for all of 14 meters.
then I groveled like an obese kid on one of those assault courses they have on those fat camp tv shows. it was unpleasant, to say the least. some would say obscene. I felt very abruptly no longer like a prancing elf, suddenly more like one of those female dogs you see in Indonesia with their teets massively stretched, swinging and ringing like ten bells when they walk, ever so slowly, on by.
‘Mama! is it church time?’
‘no little one, the pregnant dog just walked past the house. get on with your schoolwork…’
as I struggled up the hill, 4km to go now, grown men averted their eyes, women wept, children ran for shelter. it was not pretty. I have always fancied myself as a bit of a climber and do a little fist pump when I see a lumpy profile, but the truth is not often that which we believe. especially when it comes to our cycling abilities. many of you will know, I expect, exactly what I am talking about.
so, Takei came up to me followed by Pouly, still 500m of the hardest part of the climb to go but neither could go again. I got on Pouly’s wheel and settled in just as we settled onto the false flat that came before the nasty last km.
they started weaving for position, trying to get off the front of the line like kids pushing to not be first for a dose of medicine – not sure it really makes that much difference when you’re doing 12km/hr, but whatever, they seemed to be having fun.
had either of them kicked then I think I might have wilted, but as it is their messing about allowed 4 or 5 others to bridge up to us. the congregation was growing, but growing ever restless for the final sermon to be delivered.
Takei then kicked with 1km to go just as the road rose. Pouly jumped past with me on his wheel, then we got a gap, then Pouly dropped me. then I really blew and Takei passed by me again, and man, there was the line just 300m away and I was fighting for seconds. inexplicably hard, that last 300m.
the line would just not come soon enough.
in the end Pouly took 3rd and got a 1 second bonus – thankfully two guys had gone way earlier and stayed clear, taking the ten and 5 second bonus respectively.
I dropped 10 seconds on Pouly and just 4 on Takei, so am now 22 up on Pouly and 14 up on the Japanese guy.
sermon delivered, confessions made, and the penance wasn’t too bad.
Baby J popped along as I blinked the black dots from my eyes just past the line and said ‘well, could have been worse chap, could have been worse,’ then tipped his baby trilby and lit another Red, then poof! – was gone just as quick as he’d appeared.
the last and final stage coming up today. 85km, climbs look ok, not too long, downhill 10km to the line. it’s gonna be hard, but it is doable.
14 seconds, just 14 little units of time.
is it to be the wrath of Revelations? or the honey dew melons of Eternal Salvation?
all will be revealed, with religious reverence, very soon, right here on crankpunk…
the Tour of Friendship is a curious beast, at once appropriately named, yet also oddly inappropriate. i mean, how can a bike race truly be friendly? surely by our very nature we’re essentially a bunch of cranky spanners, right? cast out by The Norms, with their jigsaw puzzles and politeness, a grip on their tempers and devoid of the need to kick the crap out of themselves, we chunder our thunder in streams of carb-loaded bile on… well, ourselves and people just like us.
no two ways about it people, we are fucking weird.
the last time i was here was back in 2009, at the very start of my then-nascent stage racing career, and there was one very amusing post-stage hullabaloo at the finish line. a white guy who lives in Thailand was dishing out some ire at some Philippino guys, who forehanded it right back, as you do.
at one point, said white guy pointed a bony finger at his rivals and shouted:
‘shut up! you’re not even from here! you’re Malaysian! this is MY COUNTRY!’
at which point all involved fell completely silent and looked at each other, not quite able to confront the ill-logic they’d just heard.
quite hilarious. they then all stomped off to the car park behind a convenience store and no doubt ended up hugging and swapping email addresses soon afterwards.
definitely the Tour of UnFriendship…
but i’m being too harsh, partly for comic effect, i love you guys really, and you may be weirdos but you’re MY weirdos!
anyway this is a kind of elite amateur race with various categories, some are more elite than others, and the atmosphere in the race may well be full on but afterwards it is a real breath of fresh air. in fact, i am still in touch with several of the guys i met back in 2009 and a few of them are here now too. there’s a lot of chatting and interacting and heck, even the odd beer washed back after a stage – and sometimes with people not on your own team!
yes, a world away from the UCI circuit, and to be honest, far from worse off for it.
anyway i’m rambling. yesterday your very own crankpunk managed to snag the win in the opening 7km ITT, and today managed 3rd on the 130km stage after a bit of a Battle Royale up the final climb. me and the other chaser almost caught the guy from the Confero Mavericks team that got away at the very start of the race, and might well have done had the last 3km of the race not been cut without our knowledge – though that is to take nothing away from the solo ride, it was quite an epic.
in fact, i found myself at one point hoping he would stay away for the win, such had been his effort. didn’t last long though, i was soon back into grrrrr mode….
tomorrow is a 170km over rolling hills all day, should be fun.
let us crank on.
yes. at last. man, is anything in life as painful as a slow internet connection? waterboarding, you say? 5 years in a cage at Guantanamo? watching all of Lance’s 7 – yes SEVEN – Tour non-victories all over again stage by stage?
pish posh. could do those with my eyes closed. well, apart from the last one. still, i do like a good 21-week long comedy from time to time…
so your neighborhood friendly crankpunk finds himself in Thailand, Bangkok of all places, awaiting tomorrow’s 7km ITT that will start the Tour of Friendship, a 5 stage stage race that is (excuse me whilst i just look over my shoulder and whisper in your ear, and yes, i have been eating garlic) a non-UCI sanctioned race!
so yes, i am breaking the law! just like that night at the funeral parlor. and the ostrich sanctuary.
anyway, feels good to be back in the fray, lots of friends here i haven’t seen in a while. i shall endeavor to keep posting daily reports but with the net connection so will-o-the wisp like, that may be difficult.
what is also nice is that finally i am racing again and not commenting on dopers.
at least for the next 12 hours, that is…
um, not quite like the image above…
more like this below…
ah, the last of the great spring classics has come and gone, oh woe is us!
what a corker of an early season it’s been, already looking forward to 2014.
highlights? too many to mention, but Spartacus and Vanmarcke battling like true gladiators over the cobbles and on into the hallowed Roubaix velodrome will live long in the memory.
‘delicious’ is the word i’d choose to describe that one.
anyway, here’s the link to the Pez article, hope you like it.
do whatever you do, but whatever you do, don’t forget to crank on…
and if you can, add a little punk.