Captech Classic. Richmond, VA. May 26, 2005. If I happened to be a pro, this is the type of race I’d like to win: a real tough guy course with oodles of climbing packed into 100 savage kilometers. As one can gleen from the results, this was an exceptionally demanding event. The race paid 30 deep and only 30 men finished. Actually, it appears that only 27 made it. The final three look like they were pulled and had their times pro-rated. The largest group finishing together contained only 8 riders. Well, that’s what happens when you cram about 8000′ of climbing into 100km.

The race promoters certainly improved on last year’s lack of spectators by switching the date from a Saturday afternoon (when downtown Richmond is apparently deserted) to a Thursday evening, hoping to entice thousands of downtown office workers to stick around and enjoy the show. If one happens to offer beer, a Jumbo-tron at the start finish showing the entire race, palatable music, spectacular weather, enthusisastic announcers, plus exciting racing courtesy of nearly every domestic professional cycling team, you’ve got a recipe for success. Well, all you really need is beer and a giant tv. And if you want to meet every single spectator in attendence, walk around the venue with a couple of greyhounds like my wife and I did. They are the ultimate gawker magnets. I think a naked super model would garner less attention than our canine companions. It was actually getting hard to watch the race while we fielded questions from the peanut gallery.

I mentioned it last year, but I’ll say it again. Richmond has an impressive population of fixed gear bikes. It seemed that most trees, fences, and parking meters around the course had track bikes stacked up in droves. I don’t know how they negotiate the steep hills without brakes. That’s just me channelling my inner geezer. I’m still stumped about surviving my Evel Knievel-esque youthful BMX shennanigans without breaking a bone, totally devoid of protective gear.

“I don’t win anything, but at least I ride faster than other pros with websites”:
5th Erik Saunders
11th Mike Jones
DNF Todd Herriott (in his defense, stricken with illness)

Downtown Raleigh Criterium. Raleigh, NC. May 27, 2005. This event kicked ass, especially for its first incarnation. This has the ingredients of Athens, GA’s Twilight Criterium. The course was fast, demanding and spectator friendly. It was a Friday night in the part of downtown with an active nightlife. And the weather was perfect. Crowds estimated to be about 10,000 in number lined the course for the men’s event and the Endeavor and Aerospace Engineering pro teams showed up with strong squads eager to take home their share of $10,000. Also in attendance were the odd Health Net, Seasilver, and Jelly Belly pros plus all of the Southeast’s strong amateur squads. The pace was fast, but not too crazy fast. Unfortunately for me, my three solid weeks of training were not enough to undo 6 months of riding once a week. Or perhaps it was the lungful of pot smoke I inhaled inside the porto-john prior to racing. Somebody was flaming up at the race and left a cloud behind for unsuspecting racers to enjoy while seeking relief from pre-race jitters! Anyway, I was unceremoniously shelled after only about 12 of the 50 miles. Next year I’ll be back with a vengeance, hopefully not disappointing my legions of fans turning out to witness the action in person.

While I was stuffing my face with a heaping plate of Chinese food the previous night in Richmond, standing by the course’s KOM line, I was thinking, “Damn, I’ve got to race against some of these dudes tomorrow night in Raleigh.” And when I rolled up to the start line next to Aerospace Engineering’s Eric Murphy, a strong 4th place the previous evening, and looked a few guys over and spied Karl Menzies, 2nd in Captech, I knew there’d be trouble. At least my teammate Charlie Storm had a romping evening, finishing third in a late-race break behind Endeavor’s Garrett Peltonen and the aforementioned Eric Murphy. Here’s my bold prediction for Philly next week: watch out for Aerospace Engineering. Ivan Stevic, Eric Murphy, and Clement Cavliere are ready to light it up.

The one puzzling element of the race was the lack of media coverage in the paper the following day. The race was sponsored by Raleigh’s News & Observer newspaper, yet the only article (a weak, brief account of the women’s race) appeared in the City section with a box score of the women’s results tucked away in the sports section. It certainly seemed that the reporter split after the women’s event. I don’t think that the 10:30pm finish of the men’s race should have been too late to file for Saturday’s paper. It was perplexing that an event that attracted possibly 10,000 people put on by the city’s newspaper didn’t even garner an article on the front page of the sports section with solid accounts of both the men’s and women’s events. I guess it’s not too surprising, considering the weak newspaper coverage afforded to major events such as Philadelphia’s USPRO race. Equally as bizarre was the weekend’s other criterium taking place in Raleigh on Sunday, sponsored by Durham’s ABC News Channel 11. Curiously, no reporters from the tv station seemed to be in attendance. A piddly neighborhood parade attracted oodles of attention on the news, but not a sporting event the channel sponsored. At least USPRO shows live coverage of the men’s and women’s events start-to-finish on a local tv channel, but that’s an anomaly. Otherwise, cycling events seem to take place in a black hole outside the realm of space and time unless Mr. Armstrong happens to be in attendance. And that gravy train ends in July, 2005.

Since I don’t really have a job right now, and I don’t really have grad school to deal with (and I’ve got a spare $5.95 kicking around), I decided to send the cash OLN’s way for their live, commercial-free, announcer-free Giro feed. And I must admit, it’s been quite an experience watching the drama unfold live on my computer screen. Today for instance, at about 42km to go, some crazy, drunk fool (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Father Guido Sarducci) stood out in the middle of the road and threw punches at the Giro competitors. Quick Step had some riders on the front working to bring back the Aussie, Russell Van Hout, away on a solo break and Davide Bramati, riding 3rd in line, beaned doppleganger Sarducci full-on with a water bottle. Great aim! That just enraged faux Sarducci, and he started flailing about with his arms and legs all the while getting nailed with more bottles from pissed off pro cyclists. And after a frightening span of about 20 seconds for the peloton to pass, the guy just walked off the street like nothing happened. I thought for sure some amped up Italian cops would kick his ass, but no such luck.

And then about 30km later it was…

Koldo Gil Perez (Liberty Seguros) vs. Moto 1

Poor Koldo was about to be swept up by a super-charged, Di Luca led group near the summit of the stage’s sole KOM when Moto 1 got up close and personal. Koldo either blew up or missed a shift resulting in a significant de-acceleration and crazy-close Moto 1 rammed his rear wheel and put him out of commission. Doh! What a sickly sound as his back wheel got crunched. Well, this is Italy after all. Eight of the top 10 riders of today’s stage were Italian and Liquigas tried their damndest to take the pink jersey off of McEwen’s shoulders and onto its rightful place on an Italian’s. Di Luca came up short, but Bettini will do for the tifos’s sake. That some hapless Spaniard had his Giro dreams crushed is inconsequential…

I was initially hoping that some Italian would rub off on me from listening to hours of Italian commentary, but to my surprise there’s actually no commentary whatsoever. Just the whirring of chopper blades or the revs of motorcycle engines. I’ve translated the few Italian words that pop up on the screen and can now carry on a conversation revolving around chasing people a few minutes ahead of me, or my position either at the head or tail of the peloton. So much for my grand plan to speak cycling Italian in 3 easy weeks.

and last week, on my way to Southern Pines for Tour de Moore it was…

Peter Hymas vs. North Carolina State Police

I have never, NEVER, seen any cops lurking north of Sanford on 15/501 but The Man was ready and waiting this particular morning. I was doing maybe 63 in a 55, but The Man had a heart and let me off with a warning even though my driving was “conduct constituting a potential hazard to the motoring public”.

I don’t buy the “fog” story for a second. Here’s what went down at OLN headquarters about 10:30am eastern time Sunday morning. Some OLN executive put this formula into the resident Deep Blue super computer:

OLN Amstel Gold Race programming calculus: [(No Lance Armstrong) * (Top Discovery Channel finisher was Ukrainian Volodymyr Bileka, 47th place and more than 2 minutes off the winning time) * (Discovery Channel’s George Hincapie was sole American finisher, not a factor, and 67th place more than 3 minutes back) * (Danilo Di Luca…who’s that?)]/(It’s not the Tour de France)=

Answer: No more than 8 minutes of coverage (including commercials). Follow 1980s CBS cycling journalism formula: 1 random peloton shot, 1 crash, and the final 30 seconds of the race. Create fake, weather related cover story to account for the missing 82 minutes of planned Amstel Gold footage. Provide Phil Liggett, Paul Sherwen, and Bob Roll with gratuitous amounts of alcohol to keep them quiet.

And in honor of the abbreviated OLN coverage, here’s the post-race comments of disgruntled Rabobank teammates Michael Boogerd and Oscar Freire in haiku form:

Boogerd
Botched Cauberg leadout
Glanced back…torched by Di Luca
I hate you Oscar

Freire
Read the script, biatch
Who’s thrice donned rainbow-striped threads?
Go cry to Breukink

“> 

Redlands Prologue: While the likes of Ben Jacques-Maynes, Eric Wohlberg, and Todd Herriott broke out the aero TT gear, The Tallest Man In Cycling blazed to a fine 10th place finish on his ‘cross bike. In case you’ve been ignoring his ‘cross and mountain bike results for the past several years, this man has a motor.

Man of Letters

While I was strolling through UNC’s Bulls Head bookstore a few days ago, a name on the spine of a book in the new arrivals section caught my eye: Kevin Guilfoile. Sure enough, after checking the author photo and brief bio, it’s the same guy that was in my graduating class from high school (not that I imagined there were doppleganger Kevin Guilfoiles strolling the planet who also happened to be writers). Periodically I catch up on his contributions to McSweeney’s, but Kevin’s really pulled out all the stops with a first novel published by Knopf. Of course, with the publication of this book, Kevin has laid waste to the competition in the CCS class of ‘86 Where-Are-They-Now? arms race. My only hope for retaliation is to not only rekindle my designs on signing a pro contract, but now I’d have to make a podium appearance at USPRO in Philly to boot. Damn you, Kevin. Still, I did plunk down some cash for Cast of Shadows and hope to read it one day once my grad school book learnin’ days have come to a conclusion.

I’m stuck in the 1930s: here’s a glimpse at a few ads from some recently acquired 6 day race programs. The Litesome and Ovaltine ads came from a 1934 event in London. The Litesome ad seems like a flashback to 7th grade gym class. Ah yes, the pseudo-science “shock and awe” lectures channelled through a punch-drunk, bellicose, football/wrestling coach delivered with zeal and revelry bordering on evangelical speaking-in-tongues. I’d pay good money to witness this character blaze through the ad’s copy, particularly to see the spraying phlegm and chest-poking rigamarole. The Ovaltine ad reminded me of Jacques Anquetil’s statement about Tour de France champions, something to the effect of “No one can expect pros to race on mineral water alone” as well as Johan Museeuw’s recently revealed coded conversations. It’s amusing that Ovaltine appears within quotes, and the cynic in me translates this as a veiled reference to performance enhancing substances. Of course all riders have trained on ‘Ovaltine’ (wink wink). How do you think they ride so fast for 6 days in the throes of sleep deprivation and supreme physical exertion? The Canada Dry and French’s ads came from a 1937 event in Madison Square Garden. Sadly, not too much has changed prize-wise since the Canada Dry ad was created. How many races have you been in where the bell was rung for $5 primes? The French’s ad is interesting to me due to the carnage in Hot Dan’s wake. Many programs seem to play up the danger element and fuel the spectators’ bloodlust sensibilities.

Cheap Seats hosts Jason and Randy Sklar chime in on Paris-Nice winner Bobby Julich’s Cervelo:

Randy Sklar: Don’t pro teams normally have nice sublimated decals denoting a rider’s name?
Jason Sklar: Randy, most pros do have exquisitely crafted stickers, but CSC is apparently too strapped for cash after ponying up some major lucre to enter the UCI’s latest boondoggle: the ProTour. The custom sticker line-item was hacked from the budget.
RS: That pitifully scrawled “Julich” looks like the work of your typical chain-smoking, boozing, angry old man Euro mechanic with a raging case of the shakes wielding a bottle of Wite-Out.
JS: Are you sure? I thought it was a new font face called “Doodling Toddler”.
RS: Nice try brother, but you would be wrong.
JS: I’m also confused by the period.
RS: Bobby’s making a statement. Although, having just stomped the field at Paris-Nice maybe the period should be turned into an exclamation point.
JS: I hope there’s still enough Wite-Out in the toolbox.
RS: I’m a bit rusty about the inner workings of professional Euro cycling, but don’t they earn prize money for victories?
JS: That’s right. Maybe Bobby made enough cash winning Paris-Nice that he can splurge for some stickers.
RS: Hell, we can probably scrounge enough cash in this couch to outfit every bike in the CSC stable.
JS: Our in-kind donation should probably also be enough to get “Cheap Seats” a spot on their kit…
RS: …and the VIP treatment at US PRO week.
JS and RS: High five, brother! (cue 1970s Hong Kong kung fu film smacking sound)
JS: We’ll be living large in Philly…
RS: …chomping down cheese steaks with Bjarne Riis and Scott Sunderland.

The Library of Congress is a true treasure trove of photographic images from the early 20th century, many of which document the world of 6-day cycling. I recently found the above photo of Floyd MacFarland in the newly digitized George Grantham Bain Collection, and I knew I came across his name in the rash of New York Times articles which I’ve skimmed regarding the early 20th century cycling scene in New York City and Newark, NJ. As luck would have it I’d saved the article in question because the story is just too rich to ignore. This story made the front page of the New York Times, April 18, 1915:

“Some 150 fans, men and boys, were watching practice yesterday afternoon at the Newark Velodrome when they saw Floyd A. MacFarland, the former sprint and six-day bike racer, now General Mangager of the Cycle Racing Association, which operates the velodrome, approach David Lantenberg of 240 Grafton Street, Brooklyn, who has a concession for the sale of confectionary and refreshments at the track. Lanterberg was placing signs advertising his business along the rail guarding the edge of the track, about opposite the bleachers, and some of the crowd could hear MacFarland as he remonstrated with Lantenberg.The manager did not want the signs along the rail and Lantenberg appeared to believe he was within his rights in putting them there. The crowd heard the men argue heatedly, and at last saw Lantenberg turn again to a sign, into which he was driving a screw. As he put his screwdriver against it MacFarland grabbed his arm.

Instantly, both men appeared to lose their tempers. Lantenberg, according to witnesses the police found afterwards, struck at MacFarland with the screwdriver and the manager turned his head to avoid the blow. The point of the screwdriver struck back of his left ear and the point was forced through the skull into the brain. MacFarland dropped senseless just as a crowd of riders, preparing for the races today, and many of the fans rushed around the couple…”

Ouch. Evidently, screws from the advertisements were working their way loose, falling onto the track, and causing flat tires. MacFarland was pissed when he saw Lantenberg defy his no-sign policy. MacFarland was rushed to the hospital in Lantenberg’s car, but he died later that evening having never regained consciousness. Many of the world’s greatest cyclists were at his bedside when he passed. MacFarland had twice won 6-day events held in Madison Square Garden as well as 6-day races in Europe, but he was even better known for his skills as a race-promoter, both in the US and Europe, once his professional cycling days came to an end. The 1915 track season at the Newark velodrome was set to be the grandest of all time since MacFarland had spent the previous winter bringing all of Europe’s best riders to the U.S. since WWI put a stop to racing on the continent. I think it speaks volumes about the prominence of the sport and the importance of MacFarland that the New York Times made his murder a front-page affair.

Most likely the photograph was taken at the Newark Velodrome, but the exact location and date are unknown.

Do you know who Billy Fiske is? I didn’t until about a week ago. I just happened to catch a History Channel documentary about him, most probably a piece of groundwork for the Hollywood extravaganza (“The Few”)to be released this year starring Tom Cruise and directed by Michael Mann. Fiske is perhaps best known for being the first American to die in combat in World War II. He schmoozed his way into the RAF and made the ultimate sacrifice during the Battle of Britain, approximately one month after he earned his wings as a Hurricane fighter pilot and more than a year before Pearl Harbor was bombed. Fiske is a rather fascinating gent, born into a wealthy Chicago banking family but never quite comfortable behind the desk. He spent most of his 29 years in Europe with a particular passion for skiing in Switzerland and raging along twisting Cote D’Azur roads in a Bentley. He also laid the groundwork for Aspen’s ski resort and possibly had a fling with Cary Grant’s fiancee while Fiske was on location in Hawaii for the filming of “White Heat”. For those of you who wish to know all the details of his life check this site out. As an aside, some elderly RAF veterans of the Battle of Britain are getting pretty amped up about the upcoming Tom Cruise flick since it appears that the truth will be twisted to parlay a very pro-American bias. It seems that Fiske (Tom Cruise) will be portrayed as someone who showed up and saved Britain’s ass even though the historic record states that in his month of combat he had no confirmed kills before he brought his wounded plane back to Tangmere airfield and died of burns suffered from a fire onboard.

Anyway, back to my TV watching…Fiske’s life story is certainly worthy of international man of mystery status, but what really caught my attention was his escapades as a Winter Olympian. Billy Fiske, at the age of 16, piloted a bobsled to a gold medal in the 1928 St. Moritz Winter Olympics and then repeated the feat four years later in Lake Placid. What raised my eyebrows as I flipped through the channels and kept me watching the History Channel for the rest of the episode was his behavior in St. Moritz. Young Mr. Fiske christened his bobsled “Satan” and then proceeded to create 5 matching turtleneck sweaters for his team (4 crew members in the sled plus 1 reserve) to wear in the Olympic Village, each adorned with a letter on the back that all together spelled out “S-A-T-A-N”. Needless to say, the US Olympic committee shit their pants. The sled was quickly renamed USA II and the sweaters never saw the light of day again. The Winter Olympics seemed pretty bush league back then, and apparently word never filtered back to the US about his behavior. Could you imagine the furor if someone pulled a similar stunt today? Well, it just so happens that a little birdy at Portugal’s Volta ao Algarve stage race photographed some mysterious behavior from the Team Discovery Channel camp which inexplicably flew under the radar of the otherwise eagle-eyed cycling media. Somebody must have seen the same show as me…

Exhibit A–Team issue Trek frame decal:

Exhibit B–Team Discovery on the front (how did nobody see this?):

I’m sure Discovery Channel management was eager to put the kibosh in those uppity pranksters.

Each Sunday, the “Fashion & Style” section of the New York Times runs a column entitled “Possessed” in which a person of indeterminate renown (who are these people? the columnist David Colman’s friends?) expounds the virtues of a prized material possession. More often than not, the objects are of a more mundane vein, yet marvels of utilitarian design (i.e.- a razor knife, Nicorettes, Gap jeans, a neckerchief). My typical reaction to these articles is a bemused “So what?”; however, I’m an addict and return Sunday after Sunday after Sunday eager to read the latest installment.

In all likelihood I’ll never be featured in Mr. Colman’s weekly diversion, so I’ll have to take advantage of my personal e-forum to make a contribution to the “Possessed” oeuvre: a 15t Regina CX cog, serving faithful duty as my keychain. This particular cog has quite a story, and is undoubtedly the only thing I own which has been on my person virtually each and every day for almost 20 years. On a balmy summer day in July, 1985, I don’t quite recall the exact date, I lined up with about 100 other juniors in Lake Front Park, Milwaukee, vying for the 16-17 men’s national road championship to be contested over approximately 100km. Unfortunately for me, it would be a rather brief foray in the peloton that morning. For those of you who are veterans of Superweek, we were racing on the long Lake Front loop, and I hadn’t even completed one circuit before my trusty 6-speed Regina freewheel had a meltdown. We had negotiated the dicey switchback descent to Lincoln Memorial Drive, raged along the lake front, and turned left up the wooded climb at the northern end of the loop. I made it about 75 meters uphill, shifted from my 53×15 to my 42×15, and then abruptly ceased to make any forward progress despite feverish spinning on my behalf. I was running pretty typical junior gears for the flattish circuit, 53/42 up front and 15-16-17-18-19-21 in the back. The 15t cog on the freewheel also served as a lockring, and the little bastard’s threads disintegrated at the base of the climb. I’m not sure of the internal mechanics of this freewheel, but I do know that with a stripped small cog the freewheel no longer engaged and my 120rpm spin wasn’t propelling me uphill at all. This problem should have been remedied with a simple wheel change, but again, luck was not on my side. I was in the top 1/3 of the peloton and somehow managed not to be creamed by any adrenaline-crazed junior comrades as I coasted to a halt. I took off my bum wheel and expected neutral support to come to my assistance in a matter of seconds.

Nope.

It turns out a rather large crash at the base of the switchback descent occupied all of the neutral support vehicles and I had to wait about 2-3 minutes before anyone came to my assistance. I got a new rear wheel and set off in steadfast pursuit of the peloton, but only managed to hold the gap at 2 minutes on my own for the next 30 miles. Angered and frustrated, I then retired. Ultimately, Paul Orwicz rode in solo for victory while I begrudgingly spectated instead of competed. One of the few other moments of that day still in my memory was watching fellow upstate New Yorker Steve “Tough as Nails” Deutschmann, sick as a dog, ride tail gunner all day long and ultimately finish in roughly that position. (Whatever happened to him?)

A Velonews was waiting for me upon returning to Cooperstown. Inside was a small blurb warning readers about a defective batch of Regina CX freewheels which had entered the US earlier that year. Doh! I had finally got around to getting a driver’s license so the bum cog became my keyring and has been ever since the summer of ‘85. I’m long past any notion of bitterness, although on occasion I just wish I had the chance to have my fate decided by athletic prowess, not crappy Italian steel.

Ninja Skyjacker: While flying back to Duke in the late 1980s, an overzealous Syracuse airport rent-a-cop X-ray technician thought he made the bust of the year. I happened to mosey through the metal detector with the Regina cog keychain in my pocket and tripped off the alarm. I emptied the contents of my pockets for the guard and he totally lost his shit when he spied my keychain. He was eager to bust me for carrying a concealed, deadly weapon (in his mind this was a throwing star) and he called in the real law enforcement officers for backup and assistance. Thankfully, cooler, saner heads prevailed when the real cops showed up. One of the cops immediately IDed the offending “weapon” as a bike part and sent me on my way with apologies for any hassle.

Toga Is The Wave of Motion: While living in the northeast I spent many years competing against riders in Team Toga duds, such as aforementioned junior national champion Paul Orwicz. Once sublimation emerged for jersey graphics I was always enamored of Toga’s distinct green and yellow design. I distinctly recall Matt Koschara decked out in Toga apparel, and a friend from Binghamton, Paul Pisani (where is he now?), also raced for Toga. And one can’t think of Team Toga without the flamboyant man behind the scenes, Lenny Preheim. One of my most vivid race memories was competing in one of the sickest circuits ever laid out in the Northeast: the Ossining Grand Prix in the late 1980s (maybe 1988?). In the course of a 1 mile loop (to be travelled 50 times) was a wall requiring extended climbing in the 42×23 (with the finish line shortly past the summit) and a rapid descent alongside the walls of the prison. Climb, plummet, repeat. Matt Koschara, of Team Toga, emerged victorious. I recall toiling uphill in blistering summer heat, lap after lap, and being jarred from exercise-induced myopia by the apparition of Lenny Preheim, decked out in a neon green suit, a voluminous shock of bleached yellow hair, and cowboy boots, providing feeds for Matt. He was standing in the middle of the road (we were going so slow it was hardly a hazard) and provided a stark sartorial contrast to everyone else’s feeders, primarily parents or nonplussed girlfriends. I never knew him more than that, seeing him at races, but I’ve since become acquainted with people who knew him well and spoke fondly of him. Sadly, Lenny passed away in 1998(?), far too young.

If I were a true man of letters I could read these books, but like most Americans I’m uni-lingual and consequently unable to read Peter Winnen’s Dutch-penned works. I was at a post-race party last summer and found myself in a fairly lengthy conversation with a Belgian, about the same age as me, whose employment happened to bring him to the US. I was envious of his ability to speak not 1…not 2…not 3, but 6 languages fluently. By the time he left the Belgian equivalent of high school he already could speak 4 languages well and he added 2 more later in response to work demands. I’m pretty sure I’ve exhausted the English language’s assortment of cycling literature, and what’s left (a rather substantial amount of books and magazines, utterly dwarfing what’s available to me in English) reside in the tongues of what Rumsfeld affectionately considers “old Europe”.

I’ve been reading an incredibly illuminating book, One More Kilometre and We’re in the Showers, and the author has laid out a rich reading list of cycling books chronicling the history of European cycling penned in Flemish, French, and Italian. Sadly, for me they’d be no more than finely bound paper weights. One of these years we’ll head over to the continent, particularly northern Italy and Belgium, and I’m hoping whether we find ourselves contemplating the Madonna del Ghisallo or in rapt attention atop the Muur de Gramont that I’ll be able to communicate with people. Most likely there will be English speakers around, but I’d prefer to have something to say in their native language. Are there any “Converse With Any European Cyclist” language immersion programs out there? I’d gladly take part.