Recently in Racing & Cycling Category

My gambling problems started at 13 years old. I was selected for a gymnastics team competing in an invitational in Spain; one of those trips where parents don't come - just coaches. As the youngest person on the squad by about four years, I was stupid enough to do anything my teammates suggested. So when they started playing a card game called Between the Sheets (explanation), I dove in.

At first, it was just a pound here and there, but then I got on a roll and landed what had to be the Holy Grail of the game - a high ace and a low ace. "Bet the pot, kid! Bet the pot!" Back then, I was an albino outcast with mad athletic ability but no social skills. You have no idea how good it felt to be palling around with 17 and 18 year olds who were living and dying with your every move. So I did exactly what they told me to do, and, perhaps justly, went down in flames when another ace landed in-between.

As devastating as it was to lose, I'd never felt such a rush. From then on, when I wasn't competing, I was gambling. The last of my £100 pounds spending money was lost to a 17 year old boy on the plane back home. We bet on the flight attendant's hair color. Turns out she wasn't a natural blonde after all.

These days, I'm backed by a self-replenishing gambling fund that keeps me from turning into Antoine Walker. Though I still betting on everything from horse races to sporting events to whether I can beat you in a footrace (you don't want to take that bet), I like to think that I go about things with more smarts. But every once in a while, gambling nirvana sends down signs that force me to remove any amount of good sense from the equation. Case in point:

Radiohead to get crack at Breeders' Cup

Radiohead, the impressive winner of the Norfolk Stakes at Royal Ascot during the summer, has been sold to the New York-based owners of 2008 Kentucky Derby hero Big Brown for a crack at next month's Breeders' Cup Juvenile.

IEAH Stables have purchased a controlling interest in Radiohead for an undisclosed fee, with current connections Carmen Burrell and Jonathan Harvey retaining a 10 per cent stake.

Radiohead will remain in trainer Brian Meehan's care until Santa Anita but the colt's future beyond then has still to be determined.

The deal represents a calculated gamble on behalf of IEAH, as Radiohead has yet to race beyond 1200 metres or on an artificial surface.

In addition to doubts about his stamina to see out the 1600-metre trip of the Juvenile, his new owners will also need to fork out the bulk of an entry fee because Radiohead was not Breeders' Cup registered as a foal.

However, on the upside, his sire, Johannesburg, successfully bridged the distance gap from the Norfolk to the Juvenile during his unbeaten two-year-old campaign in 2001.

"IEAH have been keeping a close eye on Radiohead ever since Ascot, specifically with the Breeders' Cup in mind," said Bloodstock agent Andy Smith, who helped broker the sale.

"He reminds me of Wilko, the horse Jeremy Noseda won the Juvenile with five years ago - a feisty, well-built sort who should do well out in America."

First, WTF on the Wilko bit? How random. Second, long time readers of this site know about my Radiohead fanaticism. The band captured my heart a good year before gambling did, so even though this mighty steed "has yet to race beyond 1200 metres or on an artificial surface," this whole thing just seems like destiny.

The Breeder's Cup Juvenile race is today at Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, California. Since I can't beam myself to California from London, I'll do the next best thing -- get liquored up and hit Ladbrokes. Right now, Radiohead is a 20/1 but I've never been more sure of a bet in my life.

(Picture courtesy of Pitchfork)

I got in my office around 6 am today, hoping that with a diligent morning, I could wrap things up and skip town for 6 or 8 weeks. My diligence only lasted 17 minutes before I hit hulu.com. In the 12 hours since, I have watched 5 episodes of Lost, 3 - 30 Rocks, 3 runs of Arrested Development, left once for a sausage egg mcmuffin, again for lunch and had a nap. But lucky for you, I remembered that I have a blog about 10 minutes ago, so I'm going to take a break from sucking at life to negatively contribute to your day.

Today's question: Does PETA actually hate animals or are they brain dead?

I'm not a serial killer, which means I have a fondness for animals and think that they have an inherent worth. And while I don't believe an animal's life has more value than yours or mine, I wholeheartedly believe that groups should exist to advocate for their protection from cruelty, increase social awareness and expose abuses. So in that vein, I'm glad that watchdog organizations like PETA exist. But while PETA's heart always SEEMS to be in the right place - or, at least, the general area, its unabashed stupidity has done more damage to its cause than any other rights group in history. And by the looks of their activity since Eight Belles' death, they have no intention of changing course.

Tangent - am I the only one that thinks this prefer to go naked over fur campaign of theirs is ridiculous? Being naked is awesome. Being naked under something warm and cuddly like a mink on a crisp winter day is even better. Stupid PETA. 

Since horse racing is a sport fueled by greed, the tragedies that have befallen it of late should come as no surprise. To say that the horses aren't as sturdy as they used to be is like saying David Beckham has a voice like a pre-teen girl. Bred for speed and strength, today's animals are majestic, tremendous athletes whose bodies have become too strong and heavy for a skeleton that is still too light and fragile. To put it simply, they have chicken legs like Babe Ruth. And when you have 2 - 4 year old animals with that frame that are mad to compete, mad to win and bred to burn like roman candles that explode like spiders across the stars, career ending injuries and euthanasia are going to be the nature of the beast.

But with racing suffering two casualties in as many years on its biggest stage, this should have been an animal activist's wet dream. With true backing from the public, they could have made a legitimate push toward changes and improvements in breeding rules, track safety and veterinary medicine. What's more, they could have burrowed deep in the ear of the Jockey Club to demand that they spearhead initiatives on changing the nature of an overpriced breeding market. Though it's true that plenty of level-headed groups have been spurred to action, the largest, most influential one of all has only proven itself to be operated by mentally defective, exploitative pods. Again.

In the last 5 days, PETA has done everything from claiming that the jockey whipped the filly so mercilessly that he didn't know she was injured until after the finish to raking Hillary and Chelsea Clinton across the coals for giving a rah-rah in support. Now, don't get me wrong, the Clintons need to be bashed on - and even kicked in the face - but when you go so far off the deep end that even they seem like innocent victims, something in the plan has gone horribly awry.

At this point, I have to wonder - is PETA really an animal rights group? Is it possible that they're actually against animals?

There are really only two choices here -- its people have shoe size IQs like Leon Spinks or PETA is intentionally trying to do harm to animals by operating on a level of self-sabotage previously reserved for James Dolan. But unlike Dolan, these tools aren't just destroying a franchise; they're causing millions to turn a blind eye to the true problems of horse racing with their reprehensible, outrageous behavior. By this Saturday, the reaction to the Eight Belles tragedy won't be "Horse racing needs better policies and regulations." It will be "Meh. PETA sucks. They won't rest until the animals rule us."

Truth be told, I really don't know what I should have expected from an organization whose primary activists are porn stars, bad actresses and a woman whose vagina could've hidden Roger Clemens and his ego from the Senate and still had room to accommodate Tommy Lee's forearm-sized penis.

But whether it's stupidity or sabotage, these people should find a large sword on which to throw themselves.

It's the humane thing to do. 

Is there anyone in your life that lives below the Mason-Dixon line? What about NASCAR-loving friends that wish they did? If so, you might want to arrange an intervention or place them on suicide watch because my buddy Patrick just dropped a little scoop on me:

Patrick: I know you aren't a huge race fan, but there is earth shattering news going on right now that's breaking rednecks' hearts everywhere
Me: Which is what?
P: Junior is announcing that he will be driving for Hendrick tomorrow (Jeff Gordon's team)
Me: Which means what?

I didn't get it. Who cares about Jeff Gordon's team? But as I mulled things over, I remembered the first of four rules that I was ever taught about NASCAR:

Rule 1. Jeff Gordon is the devil.
   Rule 1a. ... and a big gay.

And NASCAR fans, especially, Dale Earnhardt, Sr. fans, can't have their golden son playing nice with the likes of a midget-sized, rainbow warrior queen that has only uttered an intelligent statement when he's started it with, "Earnhardt once said..."

Worlds are colliding, boys and girls. It's like a battle between good and evil. Light vs. Dark. Jedi vs. Sith. A tragedy like this could be fixin' to rip a hole in the fabric of the universe - or at very least, generate a 50-square mile black hole around the belly of the beast - Talledega Motor Speedway, Alabama.

For the good of any affected friends and family, be prepared tomorrow afternoon for Little E's pending announcement. Nothing says love like having ambulances and prayer circles in place for the aftermath.

Hat-tip: Curveballs for Jesus 

My NASCAR knowledge is fairly limited. I know of Talladega, Darlington, Daytona and the Brickyard 500. I know that Bristol is raced at night. I know that Tony Stewart has had one Twinkie too many and that Robbie Gordon seems to be a bit of a dandy. I know that Carl Edwards #99 car is 10th in the standings - but only because my friend Chad is on his PR team and I try to keep a look out. This is where it begins and ends. But since I believe that I should know as much as I can about something before trashing it, I've been keeping up with the "sport" a little more lately. The only danger to this plan is that I might end up liking it.

In any case, the big news these days is Dale Earnhardt Jr's departure from DEI... something about his step-mother being a money-grubbing, power hungry demon. NASCAR is wholly consumed with the Earnhardt watch - will he go to Hendrick? Joe Gibbs? RCR? The most likely candidate, according to rumors, was Joe Gibbs Racing. Not only is Gibbs the coach of Earnhardt's favorite NFL team, his group has also managed three Nextel championships since 2000. Who can resist that type of winning tradition, especially when it's also the home of the aforementioned Twinkie pounder? 

This type of union would be ideal but there's one problem -- this Bud is NOT for Joe Gibbs.

"For us it would be hard. It'd be hard," said J.D. Gibbs, president of Joe Gibbs Racing. "They've been a great partner of the sport and do a lot for us but personally that would be a hard deal for us to do. I'll just leave it at that right now." - Yahoo! Sports

Personally, I would object to owning a Budweiser sponsored car because that shite tastes like gnat piss but the JGR rationale centers around its evangelical beliefs and religious objections to the consumption of alcohol. Fine. You'd think that Gibbs' willingness to forge his livelihood in two beer-soaked industries would create a conflict but I suppose there's a little hypocrite in all of us.

That brings me to my actual problem -- if Gibbs is going to use his religious beliefs to object to Budweiser and, in turn, Junior, shouldn't he pass that same judgment onto Clinton Portis, who is quite possibly the stupidest man in America?

On Michael Vick's dog fighting operation: "It's his property, it's his dogs. If that's what he wants to do, do it... It can't be too bad of a crime. There's a lot of stuff that's crimes, you know. It's killers on the loose over here and you want to hunt down Michael Vick over fighting some dogs... I'm sure some police got dogs and fight them, some judges got dogs and everything else."

How can you condone one and not the other? How can one tolerate, and at times, champion, a person too stupid to understand the fundamental immorality of dog fighting (or anything else, really) and yet be too high and mighty to own a car with a beer logo on it... especially when JGR driver, JJ Yeley, already races like he's drunk. I guess this is the type of sterling logic that is leading the Redskins back to Super Bowl glory.

Look, I know Gibbs has little to no control over the Redskins roster but for a man of such high values and principles, he seems to tolerate the behavior of criminals and amoral, braindead asshats extraordinarily well.

I was returning to the office from a run this morning when one of the secretaries told me that Barbaro had been euthanized. She was so affected by the news that she had to put down her cheese danish to relay the information:

"Ohhhh Flash, did you hear the news? Barbaro, the racing horse, has passed away. He’s just fought SO much!"

If she knew that furrowing her brow caused her forehead to wrinkle like Lou Holtz's sack, she wouldn't do it but rather than focus on that, I responded...

"The New Orleans Saints and Barbaro all in one week? Take that, media!”

She shot me a nasty look and shook her head. I walked away.

So later on, I made a brief post at Critical Sports Blog about the issue. While saying nothing of note, I did mention that I haven’t seen the nation so captivated by a mindless creature facing inevitable death since the State of Florida wasted millions of dollars on Terri Schiavo.

What? Too soon? My ticket to hell has already been stamped. Frankly, I had nothing to lose. Anyway, I was in another person’s office about an hour later when Jim Rome started freaking out about the issue on the radio.

After what was likely 2 and a half hours of reading "Barbaro=Elmer’s" e-mails and being mock offended, he berated the clones for taking such disgusting glee in the horse’s death.

How dare they trample on the graves of champions? Sick freaks. Barbaro’s death broke Romey’s heart and for the clones to behave in a manner that he encourages and rewards every other day of the year was beyond him; he was ashamed. In order to hammer this point home, he crumpled e-mails loudly over the microphone.

That’ll learn em.

Around that point, my co-worker called Rome a douchebag and said that he didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Foolishly, I shared my Barbaro/Shiavo line.

“What the hell is wrong with you? It’s not THAT big a deal but it’s still a big deal! The horse could have won the Triple Crown! I thought you liked animals!”

I'll be honest, I didn't see the animals line coming but I should have known better all the same. Just three weeks ago, this bloke called me a sociopath for bagging on the woman that died of water toxicity after trying (and failing) to win a Nintendo Wii for her kids. Lesson learned.

But to my original point -- it's always a shame to see greatness cut down in its prime. But in this case, it’s not as if Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods, you know - actual human beings - lost their lives at the zenith of their careers, leaving a nation to mourn the loss of not only great athletes but also great role models and humanitarians. Please explain why a horse that won ONE great race should get similar treatment. Would the world have been a better place had Barbaro waged a full recovery? Would we have learned something or somehow gained from his existence?

"Oh but he fought so hard! He was so brave!"

No, he wasn't! This isn't Disney. Barbaro made no conscious decision to survive. He didn't know that his body had betrayed him or that he was in a life-threatening situation anymore than he knew that he delivered a violent beatdown to the Kentucky Derby field. Calling him brave or determined does nothing but make people feel better about the agony he was forced to endure. It doesn't matter how many human qualities are uselessly bestowed on him, at the end of the day, he's an animal that brought little to the table beyond an exhilarating 2 minutes followed by windfalls for the lucky. And for that (and the possibility of selling his ridiculously priced sperm), he had to suffer for eight months while the media and soccer moms with bedazzlers shoveled garbage about his valiant fight down our throats.