Yep, The Cycle is still trapped in 1984, tight-rolling our acid-washed jeans, rocking out to Van Halen's aptly-named 1984, and wondering if that Lemond kid might someday pull off a few Tour wins, get shot in a hunting accident, get turned into a brand, and become the Salieri to that brash young upstart Wolfgang Armstrong Mozart.
Jeez, was that an Amadeus reference? I really am stuck in 1984.
Anyway, I have very little snark to aim at today's entry from the premier edition of Cyclist magazine, other than to note that it looks sort of familiar. Judge for yourself: