Illusions: Fake Twitters and Strange Looks

Firstly, I'm afraid I have an order of mundane business I need to get out of the way. You may recall that some time ago I was "Twitterjacked." However, people do still seem to be under the impression that this is in fact me, since whoever Twitterjacked me cunningly linked my email to the fake Twitter account. This means I receive notifications when people begin "following" my fake Twitter. So if you are one of those people, please know that this:


...is not me. (I did contact Twitter at some point, but so far they have been unresponsive.)

Furthermore, my fake Twitter officially jumped the shark yesterday when I received an email notifying me that my fake Twitter is now being followed by another fake Twitter:



Please note that this is not me either, and that these are not my twitters, tweets, twats, or twangs. Mind you, I have nothing against Twitter, though I don't really see the point of an anonymous and loquacious blogger using a medium that is based entirely on communicating your intimate personal details with a paucity of words. Should that change in the future and I do start twaddling, I assure you I will let you know, but in the meantime you can assume that any Twitters bearing my name are counterfeit and that I am reserving my words for this blog and Bicycling magazine. (My Bicycling column is pretty short, so in a way it's my monthly Twitter.) And in the meantime, should I feel compelled to express myself with even more brevity, I'll just use Knuckle Twatter instead. Here's one of my recent Knuckle Twats, which is a ride report of my last offroad epic:

Get your own knuckles at the knuckle tattoo gun.

Get your own knuckles at the knuckle tattoo gun.

Get your own knuckles at the knuckle tattoo gun.

It was truly an awesome ride. I "slayed" some singletrack, and then I slayed myself.

Now that I've gotten the whole Twitter thing out of the way, I find myself wishing that the fiasco that is Bike Month was also out of the way, since things are getting pretty bad (or "gnarly," as they say in singletrack-slaying parlance) out there. Certainly I don't expect things to get any better in June, but run-of-the-mill mistreatment just feels worse when it's supposed to be Bike Month in the same way that insults tend to sting just a bit more on your birthday. Indeed, a mere 24 hours after I was nearly the victim of an extremely douchey Malachi crunch, I was nearly hit by a cab.

This was a scenario familiar to most cyclists. I was riding along in the bike lane, minding my own business, obeying all traffic laws, and enjoying the feeling of the breeze ruffling the feathers of my chicken suit. Little did I know a cab was approaching from behind:



I got to the intersection well before the cab. Furthermore, I had the green light, so I proceeded straight ahead with the confidence of a prized gamecock. However, at this point the cab driver decided to make a left. Moreover, he didn't see me, so he cut me off and almost hit me in the process:


Naturally, I didn't want to end up like this:

I loudly admonished the driver with a series of obscene clucks, but he still didn't notice me and continued to bear down on me. So next I unclipped and kicked the side of his cab. Amazingly, he still didn't notice me. This was no gentle tap, and I was not wearing my dainty little Vittoria ballet shoes, either--I was wearing something with a substantial sole. By this point, he had completed his turn and I had avoided being hit, though I was still amazed that after both the invectives and the kick he still hadn't acknowledged me. Granted, cab drivers are used to running down people and small animals and it takes a lot to get their attention, but a swift kick is usually sufficient.

Curious, I followed him and eventually intercepted him. I explained what had happened, and mentioned I had even kicked his cab. He laughed, and said, "Really?!?" He responded in exactly the same way your stoner friend does when you've been standing outside in the rain, he finally lets you in, and you say, "What the hell? I've been ringing the buzzer for 20 minutes!"

"Really?!?"

At any rate, he assured me he'd be more careful, and he didn't even seem to mind when I told him I had to photograph him for my project:



Not only that, but he even continued to laugh. It could be that despite the fact that it was Thursday morning he had begun his shift on Wednesday before midnight, so perhaps he was still under the influence of the "Wednesday weed." In any event, I think he adds some much-needed mirth to my Wall of People Who Have Almost Killed Me Fame:

Speaking of mirthful countenances, few people can rival Ivan Basso when it comes to smiling in difficult or unpleasant circumstances. If you've been watching the Giro d'Italia or even simply perusing the photos on Cyclingnews, you'll notice that no matter how tough things get he's always grinning helmet strap-to-helmet strap:


Of course, the fact is that Basso simply has a grimace that looks like a smile, but I'm sure that makes it no less irritating to his stone-faced rivals. In conditions such as these even the illusion of mirth can wreak havoc with the psyche. Take the chilling scene in "Platoon" for instance, in which a frightened Charlie Sheen Kevin Dillon murders an innocent villager whose grimace of fear he misinterprets:



But as disconcerting as Basso's facial expressions must surely be to his rivals, when it comes to facial contortions nobody comes close to Thomas Voeckler:


The above photo is not from the Giro, but it might as well be--he was in a breakaway yesterday and he was doing the same thing. You may recall that Voeckler's stint in yellow during the 2004 Tour de France inspired Phil Liggett's famous "suitcase of courage" comment, and Voeckler has been delivering maudlin performances ever since. Basically, he's the cycling equivalent of present-day Al Pacino--there's a lot of bluster and overacting, but in the end it goes nowhere. Voeckler may have a "suitcase of courage," but he's also got a "valise of schmaltz," a "velvet evening clutch of futility," and an entire steamer trunk of twisted facial expressions. I wonder if he looks like that when he mows his lawn.

On the other hand, if you want an impenetrable race face, look no further than Letle Viride:


Feeling strong? Suffering? Thinking about cheese? It's anybody's guess:


Leipheimer is riding well so far, but that's not stopping the commentators on Universal Sports from completely ignoring him. If you thought Phil and Paul mentioned Armstrong a lot, Universal have taken it to a completely different level--I think they're actually recording the broadcasts and then going back into the studio and overdubbing additional Lance Armstrong mentions. They're like that guy in "Crazy People" who can't stop saying "Hello."

Since Leipheimer's visage is so stoic, I visited his Twitter to see if I could get any insight:

Strange that he's pleased about the doping control--I guess things have gotten so Orwellian in cycling that the riders have to pretend to like it. Clearly, Leipheimer's Twitter is as stonefaced as he is. So, desperate for some dirt, I checked in with Dennis Hopper:



I couldn't help thinking this giant ad is a figment of Hopper's imagination, and this suspicion was reinforced by his next "tweet:"



Scraps must have been giving him the Basso.