God is Dead

Nothing I can say more than this, reminds me of when Bob died – living the life we loved them for living and it killed them:

Dear Frank Vandenbrouke,
I was a loyal member of your posse, and I will miss you. You were my rider. You were the one I wanted to see in the break away. Your courage and willingness to suffer inspired me, and your inability to live outside of that suffering broke my heart.

You were a cheater. There is no denying that. You doped, both for performance and for absolution. Personally, I don’t blame you for seeking glory, and neither do I blame you for chasing oblivion. I spend the better part of each and every day doing both. I don’t know what is worse. Feeling the pain… Or feeling nothing… If I could take a drug that would make me write like Samuel Beckett, I’d do it. I’d do it no matter what it cost me.

We asked you and the rest of the peloton to do the impossible. We asked that you not only ride 200 kilometers a day with your ass up and your head down, but we demanded that you do it without weakness, without faltering and without complaint, day after day, year after year. We asked that you do it for our pleasure, and for our entertainment, and when you buckled under the pressure, when you gave in and used drugs to improve both your ability to recover and your ability to perform, we crucified you.

In the end, I don’t think it was the drugs that made us turn on you… The cycling world is full of heroes that use dope. It’s not the cheating that bothers us. What bothers us is that you got caught.

Your wife left you. You got depressed. You drank too much. You took drugs, and now you’re dead. I, for one, think the world is a poorer place for it. Rest in peace Frank. I’m drinking whiskey tonight in your memory.

Punk rock is as punk rock does,