If Floyd Landis can win the Tour...
There's hope for the rest of us. I mean - I know the guy is a great cyclist, he must have a threshold of pain that would make a Cape buffalo moan with envy, and he has just sewed up a ton of juicy endorsements and assorted cash with his tasteful yellow shirtwear, but...
Look at the guy..!
Lance Armstrong looked like a Sports Hero. Lean, chiseled, he had that narrow-eyed sheriff-of-a-frontier-town kind of look. Won le Tour seven times. Seven. Plus he had Sheryl Crow as his chick (how tasty is that!) and his adoring perfect kidlets and even his ex-wife seemed to get along with him nicely.
The guy is just too frickking perfect.
And then there's Floyd. Start off with the name. Floyd. The dorky kid that sat behind you in Social Studies and used to blow snot bubbles out of his nose? Had to be named "Floyd". Your freshman roomate? The guy who used to forget where the door was when he went to bed drunk so he'd get up at 2, stumble around clueless until he'd get desperate and piss inside the closet?
Then look at the guy. Jug-handle ears. They wierd little chin beard, or was it he just decided to stop shaving around his chin or something? The bad mustache. This guy doesn't look like he's spending the evening after the climb of the Col Ventoux canoodling in the hottub with Norah Jones. He's one of us funny-looking guys, ice-pack taped to his hip as he's surfing the web in a ratty bathrobe. Sharing bad pizza with the other Phonak guys as they watch "Project Runway" and throw peperoncini at the screen.
He's just a dude. A funny-looking dude. Who can ride a 2-pound bolt of lightning 2,000 kilometers with a hip joint that you couldn't sell at Cowboy Bob's House o' Meat.
Here's to you, Floyd. All is not lost for us funny-looking guys as long as you're up there, waving that goofy stuffed lion for all the rest of us.