From Sprint Boner to Mountain Boner and everything in between. Celebrating the peculiarity of the EuroCycling Scene whereby it seems that it's customary in the peloton to see who can be photographed with the biggest boner.
Who does this belong to then?
Shame there’s no rain in the desert, with those outfits. ￼
Alas, there was almost no more BITP as of this morning, since I nearly got knocked down by a car this morning. Oh yes, person from Surrey you’d be upset. Happily I only got shouted at by the man in his car. Damn Manchester traffic. It’s Friday, and who comes out on Friday?
That’s right, everyone’s favourite arrogant, alcoholic, who happens to be one of the most beautiful men to get one leg over
Andy Schleck a saddle. Fabian Cancellara.
See, look at his hair. He could give Boy a few tips, if he had his clippers with him.
And here he is again,
Shameless! One was under the impression that this blog examined the potential girth of a Peter Sagan boner. Well, we don’t mind Fabian, as long as we can watch.
Is it the on season yet? Give it a few months yet. Ultimately the off season has been quiet in the form of boner photos, those pelotonic philanderers being on not quite so much testosterone as before.
OMG! The Tour de France will go right past my house (well the main road) in 2014 to Littleborough in the Pennine Hills. Fabian better watch out, he might get used to seeing the inside of my wardrobe otherwise.
Aditional thoughts which occured to me in the off season, besides planning the kidnap of Fabian Cancellara. In no particular order.
1. Why does the wider public not know that all cyclists when not riding a bike are taking drugs and having sex with each other? Work colleagues appeared shocked when Oprah weighed in to the argument. (Literally, given her girth.)
2. Where is Fränkie Schleck? Answers on a post card.
3. Does Bradley Wiggins EVER go away? He’s on the television, on the bloody radio, having crashes with women at petrol stations. Etcetera.
4. A slightly dubious thought and one no one will get properly- there is a man who sits in the next office to me at work. I can see him but he can’t see me. He’s the spit of Bloody Wiggins. He rides a bike to and from work, we’ve christened him Sideburns and one day we pulled up the blinds and he waved to us. All that and he feeds his colleague, artfully named comb-over, biscuits all day. Who is this man and would be like to be on BITP?
“No Levi, I’m telling you, I didn’t steal your testosterone patches.”