This is the Alberto Contador we expected to be dealing with all along: tough, resourceful and bold. Remember, this is the guy who took all the psychological warfare Lance Armstrong could dish out and still won his second (and now third) Tour de France. Lance couldn’t break him, Clenbutrol ain’t got a chance.
Until today we’ve seen a surprising Contador, tearful, weepy, wallowing in depression, talking retirement, bemoaning the unfairness of the world like some teenage girl. The whole clenbuterol-plasticizer affair had him on the defensive, beleaguered and lost, clueless and befuddled.
Act one, Alberto came out with his “freeze-my-blood-and-urine-forever” statement, putting the UCI, WADA, L’Equipe and any and all German muckrakers on notice that he wasn’t afraid to be tested for anything, anytime, anywhere. Even after the worms eat UCI President Pat McQuaid’s dead body.
Then act, two, a quick run to the nearest tattoo parlor in Pinto for a tainted steak tattoo. Unconventional, yes, provocative, yes again, don’t mess with me, freakin’ yes. He’s saying el steak was el problemo and flexing his tat to make his case. Cold blooded cold cuts. Take your Cologne testing lab and shove it up your colon.
This is the man who dropped Andy Schleck when Schleck dropped his chain, baby. This isn’t Li Fuyu, booked and sanctioned and back in China selling cheap knock-off SRM Power meters.
AC is turning the PR in anger. He’s made it clean he expects this issue to be resolved in a week to 10 days. Twisted Spoke says the man in yellow is not going to get kicked around anymore. The tears are dried and the crying jag is over.
El pussy is gone, El Pistolero is back, guns blazing.