Wide-Eyed and Legless: Inside the Tour de France by Jeff Connor, 1988.

This book is long since out-of-print and has eluded me for years. Finally, through the magic of ebay, I purchased a copy from a bookseller in Australia.

Jeff Connor spent the 1987 Tour de France embedded with the British ANC-Halfords squad and pulled no punches chronicling their trial by fire in the team’s first and only Tour appearance. The book assumes the reader has virtually no knowledge of cycling since that’s what British sportswriter Jeff Connor possessed before his editors sent him to France, but the educational elements don’t seem too gratuitous. What the book deftly delivers is the internal power struggles of mixed nationality management and staff (British, Belgian, German, French), creative financing (none of the riders received payment due to the bankruptcy of the title sponsor during the Tour, echoing the future debacles of Le Groupement, Linda McCartney, Mercury/Viatel, Team Coast), and the wholly improbable cast of characters thrown to the wolves-Brits Malcolm Elliot, Graham Jones, Paul Watson, and Adrian Timmis, Aussie Shane Sutton, Czech defector Kvetoslav Palov, Frenchmen Bernard Chesneau and Guy Gallopin, and the scourge of Lance Armstrong, youthful Kiwi Steve Swart. Malcolm Elliot was the team’s star and came oh so close to winning stage 12, but the team’s fortunes were unflatteringly summed up by one of only 4 ANC riders to finish, Czech Kvetoslav Palov, “We have done nothing”.

I remember a phrase coined by some anonymous Cat 2 rider in New England regarding the feeling of getting dropped but still persevering to the finish: “off-the-back grumpies”. Every little thing would piss him off- a piece of litter, a smoking spectator polluting a small section of the course’s air, someone on the side of the road wearing a stupid hat, sharing a paceline with riders wearing ugly jerseys, in other words just about anything and everything was eligible fodder for venting the humiliation of being shelled. Off-the-back grumpies aptly sums up the collective mood of ANC-Halford’s riders, mechanics, soigneurs, and director sportif, but what a story they tell in the background of Delgado’s and Roche’s duel for Tour de France supremacy.

Aaaaah…1983. My first year as a licensed USCF competitor, my first national championship. This was back when nationals competitors were chosen through district championships. Each state/district was allotted riders on a percentage basis; basically, more riders in your state means more riders go to nationals. National team riders were given automatic spots and a select few as well were given exemptions from the district championship system, but everyone else had to deliver the goods in their state/district race to compete at the national level. At that time I was living in NY North (NY at that time had 3 districts: NY North, NY West, and NY South. There wasn’t a state championships per se, there was Empire State Games but you couldn’t count on all of the best riders taking part.) I was extremely naive and clueless, yet I managed to win the NY North Intermediate championship which gave me a starting slot in nationals. Not knowing if I’d ever qualify again, my parents decided (with a bit of pleading on my part) to fly me out to San Diego. I’m not quite sure where I finished (I think I got 21st or 31st). All I remember was a guy from Virginia won (Andrew Gellatly) and I don’t think I ever heard of his name again. It’s funny how people win titles young and disappear from the sport.

There was rising excitement about next year’s Olympics in Los Angeles. Who could possibly imagine that the 1983 men’s silver medalist Alexi Grewal would trade that in for an improbable Olympic gold in 1984. And how about the future achievements of these riders: Davis Phinney, Andy Hampsten, Ron Kiefel (1983 national champion), Jeff Pierce. Dig a bit deeper and check out these names: #42 Chris Carmichael, #72 Richard Fries, #83 Boone Lennon, #123 Ned Overend, #244 Bob Roll. A number of riders are still going strong today: #8 Steve Tilford, #53 Dave LeDuc, #113 Ronnie Hinson, #127 Michael Carter, #144 Paul Curley, #147 Chris D’Alusio.

You also may recognize the names of a few of the youngsters:
Junior Men…#1 Roy Knickman (1983 champion), #30 Scott Moninger, #98 Greg Oravetz, #107 local rider Derek Powers, #109 Matt Koschara, #123 Kurt Stockton, #129 Lance Donnell, #133 Richard Scibird

Intermediate Boys…#6 Aaron Frahm, #28 Mike McCarthy, #32 Yours truly (with a typo), #90 Rich Hincapie, #124 Jame Carney

Midget Boys…#28 Jonas Carney, #55 George Hincapie, #67 Robbie Ventura

So many of the men became the first generation of road pros in America, off the top of my head I counted at least 35 who went on to ride professionally. And how about the women? Connie Carpenter, Rebecca Twigg, Cindy Olavarri, Betsy Davis, Jeanne Golay, Beth Heiden, Marianne Martin…

Other random notes about San Diego…Bud Light was the title sponsor but was prohibited from selling any beer at the race since it took place in a city park. Doh!…Unsurprisingly, racing in late July in San Diego was hot as hell. 95 degrees on the start line? I’d lived my whole life in the Northeast and I thought the apocalypse was upon us…My dad and I stayed in some crazy hotel that was decorated as a medieval castle…We ate some of the best pizza of my life at a nearly hidden Italian restaurant tucked away in the back of a fish/produce market…As I’ve previously mentioned, I witnessed Andy Hampsten and Roy Knickman ghost ride their Team Raleighs in a Burger King parking lot…My first and only ride on a track took place within the confines of the road venue at the San Diego Velodrome. I remember talking to some elderly Italian gentleman who asked me if I was in town for road nationals. I chatted with him for a bit and he pointed to his grandson who was tooling around the track, “He’s lazy and will never amount to much on the bike. You…you seem like a hard worker. What’s your name?” He then put a little star next to my name in the official race program as someone to keep an eye on. Pretty cool, my first fan other than my parents…

Firstly, I’ve realized that when I made the teaser comment about bikes getting run over by an 18-wheeler a couple of weeks ago I never explicitly stated the bikes were riderless at the moment of impact. I, of course, knew the story behind these pictures, but how could anyone else? Cyclist/motorist collisions are never anything to trivialize and it always makes me feel rather queazy when I read or hear about accidents. That being said, let’s get to the hilarity behind these photos…

The scene: 1989. July. The day before Superweek started. I’d already been in Milwaukee for over a week staying at a teammate’s home in Whitefish Bay. Two more of our friends were en route from Virginia to join us in the whole Superweek experience. One was named Brent (that’s all I can remember, he was a friend-of-a-friend) and the other was a college classmate/teammate named Slice. At about 1ish-2ish am the evening before the first stage Brent and Slice rolled into Whitefish Bay. I was sound asleep but Tom, whose house we were staying at, got up to let them in. I sort of woke up, heard some commotion downstairs, thought I heard some notion of a bike-related horror story, but quickly returned to my slumber.

Then I went out to the patio Saturday morning.

It seems Brent had neglected to re-tighten the clamps holding his rack to his roof even though it had been installed for in excess of a year (maybe even two). Unfortunately, the roof rack parted company from the roof while they were hauling ass through Chicago at about midnight the previous evening. There was some kind of sickening, vaguely metallic noise…then silence…then a shower of sparks in the rear-view mirror. In the partial neon darkness of an illuminated interstate an 18-wheeler following directly behind their car obliterated the rack and its two bikes. Brent and Slice quickly pulled over to the shoulder but the big rig never even blinked. No horn, no brake lights, not even a middle finger from the cab. The driver was probably hopped up on meth and what was a few pieces of scrap metal spot welded to his bumper, anyway. Brent and Slice perused the shoulder and their lane for the remains of their bikes and what’s pictured above is all that’s left. Brent’s bike, the red one, somehow managed to have numerous pieces linked by brake and derailleur cables. Slice’s bike, formerly a sweet, blue Rossin, was really mangled: just a partial rear triangle/seattube/downtube/mangled left crank. Wow.

Brent and Slice managed to get some loaner bikes for Superweek, so all wasn’t lost. I never saw Brent again after those weeks of July, but I did keep in touch with Slice from time to time. Ever the aerobic machine, he actually ended up riding pro for Navigators for a few seasons (1994 and 1995, I believe) under his real name, Frederick Norton. I’m pretty sure he still mixes it up on the road in northern VA these days.

Thank you to everyone responsible for adding clicks to the counter while my brain has been on sabbatical. New material is on the way, including “Remembrance of Ass-Kickings Past” (1999 Long Island SuperCup: Bobke Strut lines up against ‘cross uber-man Daniele Pontoni, find out what a former world champion says to pack-filler when their sorry asses get lapped after a mere 40 minutes), James “Babe” Cromwell’s late 1970s, pre-famous-actor, SoCal cycling career, a “where are they now” treatment of the rider roster from my first nationals experience (San Diego, 1983), and a photo-essay of what happens to nice bikes (one owned by a future Navigators pro) when they get run over by a very fast, very oblivious 18-wheeler on the outskirts of Chicago. Damn that was funny.

For one day out of the year can you succeed in keeping your fossil fuel emissions to an absolute minimum (preferably zero)? Leave the car in the driveway and use any combination of walking, cycling, or public transportation for your day’s travels. Burn some extra calories and maybe, if the message is headed in ample numbers, the air will be cleaner and the roads more pedestrian/cyclist friendly for a change. If you happen to be a cyclist in Durham I hope you’ll attend Duke’s “Pedaling for a Safe Commute” Ride beginning at 12 noon on East Campus. I’ll be out there on my fine MB-4 beater singlespeed, the only one sporting an expansive EVILDOER sticker on the downtube.

World Doping Free Peloton Day

Et tu, Tyler? I know, I know, innocent until proven guilty, but the initial evidence surely seems ominous.
Maybe the UCI should institute an amnesty day like your local library does so scofflaws can come clean with their 12 year old, overdue books. Everyone who’s juiced up on god knows what can publicly clean out their cache of pharmaceuticals and maybe restore some shred of integrity to our sport.

I couldn’t help but furrow my brow in bemusement at the jacket Andrea Tafi was sporting last weekend in San Francisco. No longer will Euro-pros walk American streets in anonymity:

I wish Andrea would turn around so you could read the back:

Hello, My name is Andrea. I’m very famous in Europe.

Ask me about my palmares which get no American press:

Paris-Roubaix?…Won it
Ronde van Vlaanderen?…Won it
Giro di Lombardia?…Won it
Paris-Tours?…Won it
Italian National Championship?…Won it

No, Lance wasn’t there but I would have kicked his ass too.

Yes, all Italian pros sport impeccably coiffed, frosted hair.

I’m available for photographs. Impress your friends!

No, I don’t know where Lance Armstrong is.

The Fred Spencer, Jr. ad dates back to 1928 and appeared in an unknown newspaper. I bought the ad off of ebay and it’s cropped sufficiently to remove any identifying characteristics. And what’s up with that stylin’ robe? Cycling fashion has certainly gone through some changes since the 1920s.

The two Camel ads were scanned from 1935 editions of Fortune magazine. The ad with Bobby Walthour, Jr. is from the June issue and the ad featuring speed skater Jack Shea is from the March issue. If you ever get the chance to read the March, 1935 issue of Fortune I’d highly recommend it. I have the good fortune of living near world-class academic research libraries which happen to have the issues bound in the stacks. There’s a feature article about 6-day racing focusing on the financial aspects of hosting 6-day events in Madison Square Garden. The reporting is pretty detailed and it’s interesting to read about cycling from the economic viewpoint, an issue which rarely, if ever, gets attention in current cycling journalism. While the article is informative, the accompanying visual elements are even better: numerous photos and color illustrations depicting 6-day racing in the Garden. The reclining cyclist in my banner has been shamelessly lifted from that particular article…

Max Sciandri grew tired of being left off the squadra azzuro year after year and excercised his dual citizenship to compete in the world championships for Great Britain, and in a similar vein Guido Trenti took out a USPRO license and has competed wearing stars and stripes in several elite road world chamionships. Davide Rebellin may have a beef as legitimate as Sciandri’s and Trenti’s, but opting to change citizenship approximately 1 month before the Verona world championships to a country that he has absolutely no connection (other than being a friend of an Italian ex-pat highly situated in the Argentinean cycling federation) raises my sporting hackles.

What is perhaps most disturbing is the fact that nobody has explained if Rebellin is denying the opportunity of a lifelong Argentinean citizen (perhaps someone such as Alejandro-Alberto Borrajo who’s shown some form in the recent Tour of Britain) to take part in the world championships. According to the UCI, Argentina is only entitled to put 1 man on the start line due to it’s country’s ranking (38th). Can you imagine this conversation, “Ummm…sorry Alejandro. We know you’ve had a good season and have been building fitness for the worlds but, ummm, Rebellin is faster than you and will start in your place in Verona.” Argentina hasn’t had a strong history of competing in the elite road worlds (I could only find one Argentinean taking part in a world title road race in the past 5 years), so I hope Rebellin isn’t screwing someone. Is this the beginning of the Enron-ization of the peloton? Off-shore citizenship? Will Rebellin operate out of a mailbox in Buenos Aires?

What’s also strange is that Rebellin will have no teammates. None. And I don’t think he can count on any favors from Italy. What can he really hope to accomplish by competing on his own? This is really a lose-lose situation for Rebellin. Imagine these scenarios:

1. Italy, Spain, and Germany self-destruct while Rebellin rides out of his skin and takes home the world title. The tifosi would absolutely shit themselves. How could Rebellin stand tall in Verona, in his native Italy, while the Argentinean national anthem plays (has Rebellin even heard the national anthem?) and live to tell the tale? He would be ripped limb from limb by rabid Italian fans and his still-steaming entrails (along with his rainbow jersey and gold medal) would be Fed-Exed overnight to his new home: a Buenos Aires mailbox.

2. Bettini and Rebellin are in a two-up break and start to play cat and mouse in the closing kilometers. Meanwhile, someone with screaming late-season form, like Alejandro Valverde, motors up to the break in the last minute of the race and dusts them both. Judas Rebellin screws favorite son Paolo Bettini out of an Olympics/Worlds double. Queue the outcome from result #1: Rebellin would be ripped limb from limb by rabid Italian fans and his still-steaming entrails would be Fed-Exed overnight to his new home: a Buenos Aires mailbox.

3. Rebellin isn’t a factor and simply gets to ride 265 km in Verona, showered with spit and venom from rabid tifosi.

What a great idea, Davide.

Here’s a first-hand account of what went down in Manhattan on Friday night during the monthly Time’s Up Critical Mass ride. So much for peaceful public assembly and dissent.