Cycling in the South Bay

Do you watch the Olamepics? You should be ashamed.

Or ignorant. You should be willfully ignorant.

Or in pharma sales. You should be in pharma sales.

A relative asked me if I thought anyone in the Olympics was clean. “Sure,” I said. “The lifeguard probably is.”

I can’t even get out of bed without a cup of coffee that’s strong enough to jump-start a Boeing. And you’re telling me that some dude won 28 Olympic medals clean?

Fairy tales are nice, but when there’s a huge disclaimer on the front of the book that says, “THIS FAIRY TALE HAS NO BASIS IN REALITY” and you keep citing it as the linchpin for your scientific evidence that climate change is a hoax or that Noah really did build an ark with two of everything, including all of the antibiotic-resistant bacteria that hadn’t even evolved yet, I’m going to politely refer you to a psychiatrist.

In this case, the disclaimer was the admission that everyone in Russia doped, including the cleaning lady. If you were a Russian Olympian, you doped. And then, instead of booting out the whole rotten bunch, the IOC punted and let the federations decide because it would take too much courage to publicly admit what had already been publicly admitted. And we wonder why governments can’t ‘fess up to the use of chlorine gas in Syria against children? That icky old yucky truth.

The decision to let the cheaters in actually makes sense because why should we pick on the Russians when Team USA’s star track cycling Olympian tested positive less than a year ago? As punishment for his positive test he’s going to have to ride in the Olympics and maybe get a gold medal.

Or just gazing at the teenage U.S. gymnasts who have the muscular development of a 25-year-old man … that was all done pan y agua, for sure. Con esteroides.

Sports have transcended politics and become a race for human performance with no ethical or health obstacles in between. Whatever gets you to jump higher, or just gets you higher, is legit because all of the people who complain about doping are glued to their TVs transfixed by performances that are as real as pro wrestling.

Each one of those viewers is a tiny tick in a giant algorithm that says the beer and Visa ads are working. So watch away, but I’ll pass. I prefer to watch my drug cheats at the local masters crit. At least that way I can be sure that the dopers aren’t getting rich.

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