United Airlines chief Rono Dutta apologizes for shipping his passengers like feedlot-bound cattle. The Bureau of Indian Affairs repents for its 175-year history of serving Native Americans about like Col. John Chivington did at Sand Creek. George W. Bush apologizes for calling Adam Clymer of The New York Times "a major-league ..." well, actually he didn't apologize, which must leave many of his fellow born-agains wishing that whichever baptist immersed Dubya had given his mouth a good soaping while he was about it.

  This trend toward confessing one's sins is an admirable departure from the norm in government and industry, where the guilty usually run for the limo while platoons of aides, lawyers and spin doctors fight a delaying action.

  If instead of daring reporters to follow him around, Gary Hart had simply said, "Yeah, I was all over Donna Rice like a cashmere sweater," he'd have been the 1988 Democratic nominee.

  Shortly thereafter, George Bush the Elder would have been flogged back across the Texas border like a flea-bitten coyote, and today his insufferable wanker of a son wouldn't have the juice to buy a mobile home in Terlingua, much less the White House.

  You Tawkin' Ta Me? Americans love a good confession, as long as they're not the poor saps sweating under the lamp while Andy Sipowicz rolls up his sleeves. If Bobby Knight had said he was sorry for acting like a Mafia goon instead of a college basketball coach, he'd be happily beating the snot out of teen-age athletes right now, and getting top dollar for it, too.

  But no, he had to stand tough, calling a press conference and defending his right to manhandle kids for neglecting honorifics. So out Knight went with the rest of the garbage, damned to a hellish underworld of talk shows and book deals. Before very much longer, down to his last few million, Knight will be forced to accept his final humiliation — thumping and throttling players for some second-rate hoops program.

  Like the Knicks, maybe.

  Bless Me, Father, For I Have Sinned. Which brings me to my own admission. Just as assaulting undergraduates has nothing to do with basketball, this column has nothing to do with bicycle retailing. In fact, this paragraph marks the first appearance of the word "bicycle" in this installment.

  The truth is, I know absolutely nothing about the bicycle business. Zip. Nada. Oh, sure, you'll see me strolling the halls of Interbike, wearing a Bicycle Retailer shirt, looking pensive and scribbling madly in a notepad. But I'm just jotting down the names and numbers of product managers and communications directors who'll give me free stuff because I am a cycling journalist, with a shirt, notepad and pensive look.

  "Cycling journalist," indeed. I ride a bicycle, and I write for money, but so do most college kids. In fact, the only time I've ever worked in retail was in college, when my roommates and I ran an herbal-products distributorship out of our dorm room. My goal was to be able to afford a car so I didn't have to ride a bicycle everywhere, which is what I do now for recreation. Proof positive that the stuff damages your brain.

  The Tears Of A Clown. What better place to confess this masquerade I've been living than Las Vegas? Nothing in this neon desert is what it appears to be. New York New York isn't isn't. That drop-dead gorgeous woman may be hung better than you are. And now, the unkindest cut of all — that bald-headed dude in the Bicycle Retailer shirt is a hick hack from the outback who's making it all up between trips to the bar.

  It's true what they say about confession being good for the soul. I feel better already. When Larry King calls, tell him he's bidding against Letterman, Oprah and Rosie. Go ahead, fire me, see if I care. I hear Bobby Knight needs a PR guy.

  And if you think I'm ignorant about bicycling, wait until you see what I don't know about basketball.