Domestique: a road bicycle racer who works solely for the benefit of his team and it's leader.
George Hincapie is the man, even though he isn't the man in the Tour de France. He is in 12th Tour and he has one exactly one stage - the first stage of the 2006 Tour. That was the first year he rode without Lance Armstrong, who retired after winning his seventh Tour in a row in 2005.
George powers up hills for his lead rider. George breaks wind (not in that way or at least, not that we know of) in the front of the peloton on the straight aways. George guards his lead rider in the two-wheeled scrums as the race 120 kms or more to some picturesque place in France. Surrounded by classic chateaus, towering mountains and bucolic fields, the riders breeze by on a mission to claim a yellow jersey. Seems to me that George Hincapie would be more at home with a finish in an industrial park or near a rail yard. In a sport that has been brought nearly to its knees by year after year after year of doping scandals, on rides George.
Never a hint of scandal, never a scent of doping, never a murmur of discontent. George remains the paragon of a domestique: Never selfish in desire for the malliot jaune, never selfish enough to dope, never selfish in riding kilometer after kilometer for the glory of someone else.
All hail Big George Hincapie.
George Hincapie is the man, even though he isn't the man in the Tour de France. He is in 12th Tour and he has one exactly one stage - the first stage of the 2006 Tour. That was the first year he rode without Lance Armstrong, who retired after winning his seventh Tour in a row in 2005.
George powers up hills for his lead rider. George breaks wind (not in that way or at least, not that we know of) in the front of the peloton on the straight aways. George guards his lead rider in the two-wheeled scrums as the race 120 kms or more to some picturesque place in France. Surrounded by classic chateaus, towering mountains and bucolic fields, the riders breeze by on a mission to claim a yellow jersey. Seems to me that George Hincapie would be more at home with a finish in an industrial park or near a rail yard. In a sport that has been brought nearly to its knees by year after year after year of doping scandals, on rides George.
Never a hint of scandal, never a scent of doping, never a murmur of discontent. George remains the paragon of a domestique: Never selfish in desire for the malliot jaune, never selfish enough to dope, never selfish in riding kilometer after kilometer for the glory of someone else.
All hail Big George Hincapie.
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