I believe Tyler appreciates the sentiment of this message.
I believe Tyler blood doped autologously.
I believe Tyler and Santiago Perez both blood doped autologously.
I believe Tyler and Perez accidentally mixed up their blood in the Phonak fridge.
I believe Tyler and Perez thusly tripped the homologous doping test.
I believe Tyler will curse the guy who mixed up their blood each and every day for eternity.
I believe Tyler should give back his Olympic gold medal.
I believe Tyler was clean in 1991.
I believe Tyler and I raced each other in some big money Rhode Island crits during 1991.
I believe Tyler made the winning break each day.
I believe Tyler was already showing glimmers of his potential.
I believe Tyler kicked my ass handily.
believetyler.org no longer exists.

Forget the typical Euro-pro retirement charade of winning a local “race” in one’s honor. Kudos to Giovanni Lombardi for envisioning the suavest possible farewell to cycling. From the CSC site:

The veteran Italian had planned on ending his professional cycling career on September 25 at the conclusion of the 2005 road world championships to be held in Madrid. Lombardi, who lives in the trendy Madrid neighborhood of Cheuca, was planning to race in support of the Italian national team, ride straight through the finish line to his apartment, hang up his bike and officially call it quits.

If Lance Armstrong had it his way, I’m sure the 2005 Tour de France would have ended up in downtown Austin instead of Paris so he could have ended his career in a similar manner. When the sun set on September 25th, Lombardi must have been a tired man. After all, in January he helped his CSC teammate Lars Michaelsen to victory in Qatar, that very day in late September he strung out the field (in vain) on the last lap in service of a hurtin’ Petacchi, and in the interim Lombardi became only the 22nd and oldest (at 36) cyclist in history to finish all 3 Grand Tours in a single calendar year. And since Bjarne Riis and Ivan Basso sweet-talked him into prolonging his career 2 more seasons, I’d wager he’s on his bike right now putting in the miles for 2006.

 
Evidently, winning a stage at a ProTour event, finishing 5th on GC in that same event, nearly winning a Tour de France stage, and nearly winning the USPRO championship on only several weeks of training gives one a license to do, well, whatever the hell one feels like on a bike. Such as racing back-to-back UCI ‘cross races sporting a downtube mounted water bottle and cage on your tricked-out, carbon Scott. Did anyone on the start line mock Mr. Horner? Did all the other pit denizens chastise Horner’s mechanic for allowing such a fashion faux pas to alight itself on Horner’s rig? Horner’s perma-smirk says it all: “Quick, everyone racing on a ProTour team next year raise your hand! Anyone?…anyone?…Just me?…Well alright then. Let’s fast forward 5 months. While you smug, parched bastards are trying to divvy up $80 and a box of GU five ways in an industrial park criterium parking lot, I’ll be living large in the Tour of Flanders.”

Push Yourself Just a Little Bit More by Johnny Green.

Journalist Joyce Stillman writes, “Clash fans will remember Johnny Green as the tall guy in studious horn rims who was always bounding onto the stage to adjust The Clash’s guitars or to pull excited fans off the lead singer, Joe Strummer. A bookish punk fan with degrees in Arabic and Islamic studies, Green had been pulled into The Clash’s orbit at the comparatively mature age of 27 when they asked him to help work a spotlight at a gig; he ended up as a combination workhorse and nursemaid, hauling their equipment, brewing their tea, scoring their dope, and washing out their socks in his hotel-room sink.” Green, head roadie for The Clash from 1977-1980, may seem an unlikely character to write a first hand account of the 2004 Tour de France. But who better to chronicle a culture populated by unhealthily skinny prima-donnas, characterized by the tedium of living out of a suitcase for months on end, rife with the specter of drugs, suffused with premature death too infrequent for mere happenstance. It is the tale of The Clash; it is the tale of professional cycling.

Accompanied by his son Earl, a mysterious Euro cycling savant known simply as The Brief, and a rental VW sedan dubbed Black Magic, Green parlayed forged journalist credentials into an all-access TdF press pass and the means to pursue the essence of the grandest of the grand tours: charisma, live performance, and logistics. Fuelled daily by gallons of espresso and a frenetic fervor to bear witness to the Tour’s multiple dramas, Green largely ignores the cult of Armstrong (and the invasion of his jingoistic American posse) to chronicle the story left untouched by what he considers a lazy and dispassionate press corps. Cipollini unfortunately abandoned early denying Green a chance to witness a victory and conduct an interview, but Green quickly warmed up to Vladimir Karpets, Salvatore Commesso, and Gerolsteiner domestique Ronny Scholtz as characters largely under the radar, yet worthy of his attention. Green is certainly no staid Samuel Abt. I’m sure Green was probably the only journalist nervous about being picked up by Belgian police for an outstanding warrant (he skipped out on a drunken driving conviction stemming from clipping some Belgian road furniture with The Clash equipment van) and while in Belgium he likely was the only member of the press curious about the ASO’s battle with the legacy of Belgian serial killer Marc Dutroux. The first several stages of the 2004 Tour took place in Belgium and one of the stages passed in front of Dutroux’s home (with its basement dungeon). The ASO wanted the home leveled prior to the Tour passing by, but the organization’s bid to tidy up the route proved unsuccessful.

Possession of a press pass does not a journalist make, and Green’s attempts to interview a handful of English speaking pros went dismally. They called immediate bullshit on his inept questions and likely gave their press staff grief for setting them up with such a hack. The only interviews which went well were instances where Green was in his element, talking to rock stars and talking to roadies. Green penetrated the Armstrong security scrum on the summit of La Mongie to chat with Sheryl Crow. Crow, thinking she was talking to a reporter from the music publication Mojo, called off Armstrong’s hired goons and treated Green to a lively dialogue. Late in the Tour, Green finally corralled the “living, pumping heart of Le Tour de France”: Directeur des Sites, head roadie Jean-Louis Pages. Just as Green turned a chance 1977 encounter with The Clash on a Belfast stage into a life-defining change, Pages’ chance encounter with the Tour 20 years prior unexpectedly turned into a career opportunity worthy of Green’s envy. Le Tour doesn’t follow the route of some large rock bands which have two road crews leap-frogging from venue to venue to make setting up and breaking down a bit less time sensitive. Not so in le Tour. Whether it’s due to professional prowess or (likely) cheapness, le Tour only has one start line crew and one finish line crew who must get the infrastructure around France without a safety net.

Frank Zappa once said, “Rock journalism is people who can’t write, interviewing people who can’t talk, in order to provide articles for people who can’t read.” Substituting “cycling” for “rock” isn’t too far off the mark. While I voraciously consume most everything under the Sun written about professional cycling, I’d be the first to admit there’s quite a copious amount of noise, dissonance, and chatter obscuring the path to worthy reads. This book is not dry prose devoted to the daily race narrative. What Green captures particularly well is the magic of live performances. No matter how good the television coverage, no matter how well written the journalistic narratives, nothing compares to the electricity of witnessing an event in person. Green told of how Joe Strummer knocked a television camera man off the stage because he was interfering with the audience’s view of the band: “I’m not playing for the camera, I’m playing for the fans right in front of me”. The ultimate homage for Johnny Green would be to emulate his wondrous infatuation with the living, breathing le Tour outside of the dingy confines of the press room. Most of us probably don’t have access to world-class forgers to supply faux press credentials, but the simple immersive act of spectating at a race is what Green would wish for each of his readers, even if it’s to experience the ephemeral moments such as this, chance intimate encounters unlikely to occur in other pro sports:

“I passed on a trip across town to the official celebrations. It was all over. The motor cruised slowly down a quiet small road. In the warm, clear evening, all our passion was spent, at peace finally. Ahead of me were two riders in the red of Team Saeco, dawdling on their bikes. One of ‘em was Salvatore Commesso with his dark goatee beard and devilish grin. As I pulled level, alongside, Earl climbed half outta the open passenger window, clapping his hands hard and shoutin’ ‘Chapeaux’. The cyclists bowed their heads in humble proud acknowledgement.”

Just as NBC Americanized the BBC program The Office for an American palate, I couldn’t help but commit a similar act of cultural appropriation in my reading of Green’s book. Johnny Green bears more than a passing resemblance to Lenny Clarke: comedian and irascible “Uncle Teddy” on FX’s remarkable drama Rescue Me. Green’s voice and dialogue seemed even more outlandish channeled through Clarke’s exuberant, Boston-accented ravings. And The Brief? For some reason every reference to his character conjured up a mental image of The Cheat, simply for the similar ridiculousness of their respective monikers.

November 6: Superprestige #3. Hamme-Zogge, Belgium. After a fine hour of riding, Tom Vannoppen quenches his thirst on the podium. No wonder Richard Groenendaal cowered in fear at the thought of dodging airborne beer glasses while racing through Belgian beer tents if this is the size of the glassware they bust out on race day.

11/11: Prix de l’armistice. Chateaubernard, France: It wouldn’t surprise me a bit to see a gigantic barge, staffed by perturbed Frenchmen wielding a crane and blow torches, float into New York Harbor for the purpose of dismantling and reclaiming the Statue of Liberty. Arguably, our current administration isn’t living up to the statue’s title of “Liberty Enlightening the World” and any French contributions to United States history have conveniently been exorcised from our collective memory. We could learn some lessons from our European ally, for instance the commemoration of Armistice Day with a cyclocross race: young men duking it out in dismal, frigid, muddy terrain (albeit minus the firearms, mustard gas, and barbed wire) is a fitting post-modern sporting event/political pantomime all rolled into one. Lest we forget, 1.4 million French, 126,000 American, and about 14,000 Belgian war dead were denied the opportunity to simply wash off the mud and head home at the end of the day. On top of those sobering numbers are the respective wounded: 4.3 million French, 234,300 Americans, and about 47,000 Belgians. If only it were indeed the war to end all wars.

On a lighter note, my cyclocross muse John Gadret put his stamp of authority on the event, but it’s somewhat bittersweet since this race was the 2005/2006 Euro debut of former NC resident, the-tallest-man-in-cycling, a certain Ryan Trebon. I’ll chalk that 1.36 deficit up to jet lag.

And just how freaky tall is Ryan Trebon? The latest VeloNews cover with Trebon and an inset of Paolo Bettini is actually a true to scale representation of their respective heights.

For 54 years, from 1913 to his death in 1967, Edward Hopper’s primary residence was a 3rd floor studio apartment in Greenwich Village. He was undoubtedly enamored with New York City, and his paintings are infused with imagery produced by keen observation of his surroundings: diners, office interiors, bridges, railway cars, restaurants, and street scenes.

Hopper seemed to paint in flourishes and then suffer idly for extensive periods between creative outbursts. His primary distractive measures during the fallow periods were drinking coffee in a nearby Automat and doing word puzzles in the Evening Sun. Thankfully, on occasion Hopper must have ventured beyond reading the paper and drinking coffee to kill the time since one of his bouts of “painter’s block” was spent attending 6-day bicycle races in Madison Square Garden, ultimately resulting in the work French Six-day Bicycle Rider. Says biographer Gail Levin:

“February [1937] was fallow, but on March 5 he began French Six-day Bicycle Rider. The subject had been simmering since December of 1935 when Jo [Hopper’s wife] complained to Marion [Hopper’s sister] that Edward was going repeatedly to the bicycle races at Madison Square Garden, just to see the same scene over and over again. She was annoyed at the forty-cent tickets he indulged in, when, as she saw it, nothing came of it. At that time, he was stuck and unable to paint and she thought they could take a trip, perhaps to New Orleans, so he could work once again. It was one of the occasions when she simply misunderstood the often lengthy gestation periods that Hopper’s creative process required. Very little of Hopper’s time was actually spent painting.”

In later letters, Hopper described the painting’s subject matter:

“I was unable to remember the name of the rider, only that he was young and dark and quite French in appearance. I did not attempt an accurate portrait, but it resembles him in a general way. He was I think a member of one of the last French teams to win a race at Madison Square Garden. He is supposed to be resting during the sprints while his team mate is on the track or at the time when `The Garden’ is full in the afternoon or evening, when both members of a team are on full alert to see that no laps are stolen from them.”

Based on Hopper’s recollections and the painting itself, the rider depicted is very likely Frenchman Alfred Letourner, one of the era’s great six day champions. He won at Madison Square Garden on six occasions, and as Hopper opined, Letourner was indeed the last Frenchman to win at the Garden. The vivid red jersey also points to Letourner, whose customary jersey choice generated his nickname: “Le Diable Rouge”. While Letourner cemented his reputation as one of track cycling’s greats through years of success on European and American velodromes, he is perhaps best remembered for breaking the paced bicycle speed record in 1941. Letourner was the last person to achieve the record on a regular track bike (albeit with a gigantic, custom chain ring and a 6t cog on the rear wheel for one monster gear). He blazed to 108.92mph Breaking Away-style: drafting a race car on a public highway in Bakersfield, CA. That certainly took nerves of steel.

The December 1935 six-day race at Madison Square Garden witnessed by Hopper was a particularly raucous affair, rife with drama both on and off the track. The race exploded from the blast of celebrity starter Pat O’Brien’s pistol shot and set a new record for the most distance covered in the first hour of a six-day race (a shade under 28 miles). Crashes were plentiful as well, and ultimately about half of the participants were forced to retire due to injuries. In addition to on the track excitement, the undertones of Nazi Germany were felt at the Garden. Two German teams were entered, and the promoter John Chapman refused to let the Nazi swastika flag fly over their bunks. The German cyclists were forced to use the recently retired German national flag (the Norddeutscher-Bund flag used since 1867, forbidden by the Nazis in 1935) instead so as not to offend the audience. Ex-heavyweight world champion boxer Max Schmeling also made a public appearance in the infield, as he was friends with one of the Germans teams (Adolf Schoen and Eric Putzfield) and recently sailed to New York to attend a Joe Louis title bout. Louis fought (and knocked out) Basque challenger Paulino Uzcudun at the Garden about 1 week after the six-day race concluded. A German team (six-day legends Heinz Vopel and Gustav Kilian, who in this particular event became the first German team to triumph in a MSG 6-day race) emerged victorious, with Letourner and partner Paul Broccardo finishing third.

French Six-day Bicycle Rider was purchased in 1937 from the Frank K M. Rehn Gallery in New York City, Hopper’s primary middle-man to the buying public, by the husband and wife screenwriting team of Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich. The duo amassed quite an enviable art collection in their Bel Air residence, even by Hollywood standards, and considered their 2 Hopper oils, French Six-day Bicycle Rider and A Woman in the Sun, the prize items. The Hacketts were unquestionably well acquainted with Hopper’s work since Frances Goodrich’s brother was the art historian/Whitney Museum of Art curator and director Lloyd Goodrich, an early champion and lifelong friend of Edward Hopper. The painting remained in the Hackett’s private collection from 1937-1995, until the death of Albert Hackett. During their ownership, they allowed the painting to be displayed in 9 public exhibitions (primarily at the Whitney, but also notably for a 1965 exhibition of sport related paintings at the location of its genesis: Madison Square Garden). Why did Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett buy the painting? I’ve wondered if the purchase was more related to the prestige of owning an Edward Hopper painting with the subject matter being of a more secondary issue (if it was an issue at all). Interestingly, Frances Goodrich grew up in one of early 20th century America’s cycling hotbeds (Nutley, NJ) while the velodrome’s racing schedule was at its peak. Her childhood home was a mere two blocks from the Nutley Velodrome and one can speculate whether her memory of the track’s presence and prominence in Nutley played any role in the painting’s purchase.

As an aside, through my readings of Edward Hopper’s life I stumbled across the name of a man, a rather wealthy man, who was largely responsible for keeping Hopper financially solvent through the purchase of his paintings. The name struck a chord, since it turns out that this fellow, philanthropist and heir to the Singer sewing machine fortune, is the same man responsible for putting Cooperstown, NY on the map for reasons other than being the home of author James Fenimore Cooper. The benefactor’s name is Stephen C. Clark and in addition to his art collecting, among other things, he was instrumental in locating the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, donated the land and buildings which now comprise the Farmer’s Museum and the Fenimore Art Museum, and created the eponymously named Clark Foundation philanthropic trust. In recent years, about 3 million dollars of his family money is doled out annually via the Clark Foundation to Cooperstown-area, college-bound high school seniors for tuition assistance. The scholarships are based on merit; the better your high school record, the more money you receive. I had the good fortune to attend high school in Cooperstown and graciously applied Clark Foundation money to paying the hefty Duke University price tag. Six degrees of separation indeed regarding the largesse of Clark family cash.

Forty years ago, Tom Simpson emerged victorious at the professional world championships conducted in San Sebastian, Spain. Recently, Edmond Hood elegantly situated Simpson’s legacy amongst the pantheon of cycling’s elite. Fittingly, a piece of Tom Simpson returned to Spain for this year’s world professional road race, borne by young British pro Tom Southam. As this photo illustrates, Southam wore a piece of Simpson’s base layer, used by Simpson during his 1965 world title effort, wrapped around his wrist. Unfortunately for Southam, his gesture of tribute to Simpson came up short and he DNFed in Madrid. Roger Hammond was Great Britain’s highest finisher, rolling in for 41st 25 seconds behind Boonen.

Two weeks ago a solitary American professional made the winning split at the Madrid-hosted World Championships, yet that result raised nary an eyebrow, remaining largely a post-script buried in deep in journalists’ accounts(oh yeah, by the way…Guido Trenti finished 23rd). Maybe it’s because he only finished 23rd, maybe it’s because he speaks Italian and the American press were unable to talk to him conveniently, maybe it’s because many question whether he is actually “American” (despite the wholly legitimate dual Italian-American citizenship due to his American mother), or maybe it’s because he was assisting the victor, Tom Boonen, and merely coasted in as a keenly curious spectator. Even USA Cycling itself, the governing body who issues his racing license, seems a bit perplexed about Trenti, listing the results of a 2001 Cat 4 race as his sole American palmares.

Trenti’s role in the American camp at the worlds seemed rather low key to the point of wondering if he was even there. For approximately one week after the event, the only photograpic evidence that Trenti actually was a part of the American team was this photo taken by team mechanic Chris Davidson. Trenti’s bike is second from the left, #51. Slowly a few more images made their way into circulation, but it just struck me as odd that all of the other American participants had at least one picture posted within 24 hours (if not sooner) of the event’s conclusion. Only Saul Raisin shed some light on the story, posting a pre-race photo of Trenti and confirming that Trenti and Fred Rodriguez were protected riders for the final 2 laps.

If you looked at the results with trade teams after the rider’s names, rather than nationalities, then Trenti’s position looks suspiciously like that of the final leadout rider rolling across the line after dropping off his captain about 250 meters out. After all, Trenti is Boonen’s final leadout rider and Trenti was an integral part of numerous Boonen victories in 2005: from the sands of Qatar, to Paris-Nice, to the E3-prijs Harelbeke, to the Tour of Belgium, to the Tour de France, and ultimately, possibly Boonen’s final race (and victory) of 2005- the world championships. Of the three pre-race favorites on a course deemed sprinter-friendly, only Petacchi had the luxury of having his favored leadout man (Marco Velo) being of similar Italian nationality. Boonen’s favored leadout man was not a Belgian, but an American, and Robbie McEwen actually faced a similar dilemma with Fred Rodriguez. Of course, strange things happen in world championship road races and rather odd and potentially unknown allegiances may rear their head. For instance, I don’t think I ever realized the Phil Anderson/Greg LeMond alliance which took place during the 1983 world championship road race. John Wilcockson weaves quite a captivating narrative involving this Aussie/American pact. This quote by Boonen the day after his victory certainly raised my eyebrows:

“So Bettini attacked on that last climb, Nuyens and Leukemans anticipated that perfectly. The last three kilometres Nick and Bjorn took gas back and I asked Peter to give it full blast. Before the last turn I was comfortable, saw that everything was okay. My QuickStep team mate Guido Trenti was able to come underneath still, but I didn’t need his ‘help’ anymore. I nestled myself in Alejandro Valverde’s wheel, he started sprinting with 300 metres to go. Hundred metres before the finish line I picked my moment.”

While perusing Pez Cycling News, I eventually discovered this photo which shows Boonen front and center and Trenti on the far right, a bit blurry. When coupled with the Boonen quote, Trenti appears to be rolling in on the tops, a bit in the periphery, trying to catch a glance of who emerges victorious between Boonen and Valverde. Two of Boonen’s Belgian teammates, Nick Nuyens (white helmet) and Björn Leukemans (red helmet), are also visible (and blurry) in the far background, hoping to see Boonen raise his arms in victory. Just this weekend I caught the cycling.tv video coverage of the race and repeated viewing proved inconclusive. Boonen and Trenti were lost in the scrum about 600 meters out before Boonen emerges on Valverde’s wheel. About the same time of Boonen’s appearance more towards the center/left marks Trenti’s appearance on the right side of the group. Maybe quick words were exchanged between Boonen and Trenti along the lines of Boonen’s quote (”Guido, don’t worry, I’ve got it myself”) leaving Trenti with nothing to do but sit back and spectate.

If Trenti actually appeared to give it full gas on the drops all the way to the line I don’t think I’d ever question his motives, but sitting up certainly got my attention. Perhaps this is nothing more than the stark realities of the consummate professional. I’m sure Trenti knew who was in his group and surely ruled out a chance of defeating Boonen and Valverde. The bronze would still be up for grabs, but maybe Trenti was fried from the effort to make the split and realized a podium spot was out of the question. Who am I to venture how 273 very fast kilometers feels on a hot day. Peter Van Petegem sure looks spent. I was struck by John Lieswyn’s observations of his own efforts and how he sat up and lost more than 5 minutes in the closing 10 kilometers. Lieswyn knew he was cooked so why kill himself to finish maybe 45th. Just shut down the engines and roll on in (…”my days as a pro are over”…). Trenti likely wagered the odds of bronze were slim, that his contract is firm for some time with Quick-Step, and that his duty as the ace lead out man in Boonen’s posse is secure. He already proved to his American peers that he was the best American on the day and he proved to Boonen that under similar circumstances the other 364 days of the year he could be in there for the kill with his boss Mr. Boonen to deliver an armchair ride to victory. Mission accomplished for employment purposes, but regarding national pride I’m still a bit curious about his passion.

Sorry about the lengthy hiatus from providing fresh material. I’ve sort of recovered from a calamitous laptop failure, but now my computer fails to get online anywhere but the UNC campus. Doh!

I have quite a backlog of material, including musings about Edward Hoppers’s and Ernest Hemingway’s obsession with track cycling; The Clash’s head roadie’s book about the 2005 Tour de France; Giovanni Lombardi: suave, classy, and an iron man; up-close with a pissed off swarm of yellowjackets; local road graffiti; and my take on the new-found adulation I’m encountering (while cycling) from construction crews and contractors.