Old Yarn - The Brash Newb

Introduction

Here is the fourth “old yarn” on albertnet (following in the footsteps of “The Cinelli Jumpsuit,” “Bike Crash on Golden Gate Bridge,” and “The Enemy Coach”). This is the kind of story that would normally be a “From the Archives” item, except I’ve never before written it down.

Today’s yarn is a bit of a departure, though. Whereas those others are stories I’ve told a hundred times, thus keeping them alive and well in memory, what I’m about to relate isn’t a tale I’ve often told … perhaps never, in fact, because in this one I don’t come off so well. (Ah, now I’ve got your attention!) Since I haven’t told this a hundred times, some details are missing so I’m having to guess about certain things. But the core of the story is certain, as it’s left an indelible mark on my memory.

The Brash Newb – Fall/Winter, 1989-90

Eric Č— joined our UC Santa Barbara cycling team in the fall of 1989. We were a big team, something like 60 or 70 riders, with a well established pecking order. New riders typically started out as Ds unless they had racing experience, in which case they might start as a C or (less commonly) a B. But that was just for racing categories; of course there was also the social element. Who was popular, who was admired, who would be honored for “Grossest Chamois Award” at the post-season banquet, etc.

Eric presented a bit of a problem, because he was a) hella fast, and b) a former (I would say “recovering”) triathlete. If you are a cyclist, particularly a snobby one, much of the following preamble won’t be necessary; you already get it. For the rest of you, let me just say that, culturally, there has never been any love lost between cyclists and triathletes (or “triathlopes” as we often sneered). Bicycle road racing has its origins in Europe dating back to the 19th century and carries a lot of tradition and mystique, and an aesthetic, cultural code that—while often challenged—has always exerted its force on road cyclists. You can see this codified in The Rules, an over-the-top list of cycling dos and don’ts from a group calling itself the Velominati (that I lightly mock here). Triathlon culture, on the other hand, dates only to the late 1970s and started up in southern California (which, as a NorCal guy, I’m all but required to disdain). Triathlon culture seems much less staid, to say the least, and many of its practices rub us diehard roadies the wrong way.

Let me give you some examples. In the mid to late ‘80s, the restrictions around clothing for bike races were endless. Socks had to be worn, they had to be white, and I think they couldn’t come up higher than a few inches. (I had to loan an older friend my socks once, after having just raced in them, because he’d forgotten his.) Shoes were allowed only one logo, which was unfortunate because nobody, apparently, told the shoe companies. (This rule was actually enforced … I knew several guys who actually had to tape over logos on their shoes.) Sleeveless jerseys were forbidden in races. For juniors, even the top end of the bikes’ gearing was regulated, with assiduous enforcement. And these were just the written rules. The unwritten ones were, and are, endless … no visor on your helmet; no full-finger gloves unless it’s cold out; no big puffy jacket ever; proper cycling socks even on training rides where there’s no referee to hassle you; shaved legs always; shorts that are black and come down to a precise point of the mid-thigh; and on and on. I challenged the Velominati rules in these pages (well, at least 37 of them) because I don’t feel like they should apply to all cyclists and not even to all racers. But UCSB was a unified team, with a cohesive culture, which was decidedly old-school. In fact, two of our A riders didn’t even wear helmets on training rides.

Triathletes, in stark contrast, have all types of wacky departures from tradition. Especially back in the ‘80s, they were known to ride a bicycle while wearing only a Speedo; to write their race number on their arm with a Sharpie; to ride without socks; to wear garishly colored clothing; and to use aerodynamic handlebars, particularly the ridiculous Scott DH model. Here’s what those bars looked like:

It’s worth pointing out that his refusal to use aero bars cost Laurent Fignon the 1989 Tour de France. Only one team in that Tour used aero bars in time trials (the one American team, big surprise), plus Greg LeMond, even though these bars had proven beneficial in triathlons for years. (After LeMond stunned Fignon by taking 58 seconds out of him in the short final time trial, the rest of the peloton followed, but only then.) The fact is, roadies just hated those dorky bars. In fact, when I won a pair of Scott DH aero bars in a bike race (about a month before LeMond’s surprise victory), I was pissed. What would I do with them? I worked at a bike shop and tried to get the owner to let me trade them for shop credit, but he refused. Even though this was a full-service shop catering to cyclists of all kinds, he wouldn’t have them on his shelf. He finally offered to let me trade them for two inner tubes, at which point I balked and offered them up on the shop bulletin board instead. Astonishingly, I sold them immediately to some rando for $80. I just couldn’t believe anybody would want them, but then, they were standard issue for triathletes.

(Even at the collegiate National Championships as late as 1989, all the teams eschewed aero handlebars, this being a couple months before LeMond’s triumph. Here is our team time trial team, old-school to almost every detail except my sideways-turned helmet cover and T—’s cover-less, barbed-wire-stamped helmet.

Yes, we bent the sartorial rules, but within the roadie tradition, never in the direction of triathlon culture. In the photo at the top of this post our team time trial bikes have aero bars, only because LeMond and the rest of the pro peloton had recently made this okay.)

Getting back to Eric, the main thing we couldn’t stand was his attitude. He was proud of having been a triathlete, and far from apologizing and repenting (the least, we felt, he could do), he was totally up front about his glorious tri past, and continued to ride without socks and rock these goofy tri-shoes that were, like, pink and blue. (The adjective “tri” was always used scornfully by us, but proudly by traithletes—including Eric.)

Not only was Eric cocky, he seemed to feel that he could just expect to be accepted by our team—even the A team—right off the bat. It’s like he felt we owed him respect just because he was a phenomenal athlete with a solid work ethic. Looking back, I’m kind of surprised how unwelcoming we actually were, since we should have been thrilled to be gifted with really fast new teammate. I guess I felt like we were a pack of, say, coyotes, and this random hyena had started running around with us like that wasn’t anything unusual.

I suppose it was necessary for us to find some fault with Eric’s riding—something more solid to pin our scorn on—and so a few of us decided he didn’t have clean lines when descending, and thus was a threat to our safety. Somehow it fell to me to call him out on it. So, as we neared the summit of a climb during a group ride, I said to him (diplomatically, I felt), “Hey, how about on this next descent you go behind me, and watch my line, and try to match it as closely as possible.” He looked really offended and retorted, “Look, I’ve descended in triathlons in Nice!” I think I might have actually laughed in his face, or at least snorted. Reports of this exchange immediately swept through the whole team, and “I’ve descended in Nice!” was on everyone’s lips, almost like the slogan of the unofficial campaign that was being waged against this arrogant newb.

Making matters worse was the first practice race (for category selection). It was a time trial, in which riders go off at one-minute intervals to see how fast they can complete the course solo. We always did these out on Cathedral Oaks Road, a long, straight, mostly flat out-and-back course. Stopping the clock in under 16 minutes was considered hella fast, and almost nobody broke 15 minutes (perhaps only T—, our star rider, and not by much). I was stoked to have clocked a 15:02 in what was one of those all-the-planets-lined-up efforts. Eric showed up with—you guessed it—aero bars (though at least something less garish than the Scott DH) and rode a literally unbelievable 14:03. This was so astonishing, in fact, that the guy doing the timing figured he must’ve screwed up, and added a minute. A 15:03 was still a great ride and would guarantee Eric a spot on the A team.

Eric was furious. He knew what time he’d done, and was highly offended that we simply couldn’t believe he was really that fast. But we presented a wall of unified denial to his claim. There’s a tendency for people who agree to assume they’re therefore right, and we held firm. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll do it again. I’ll do it right now. You can all time me.” We were practically laughing at him, so sure were we that he was delusional. But by God, he went right out and clocked another 14:03, smashing the previous record for that course. We were astonished. (Some of Eric’s speed, of course, was the aero bars; in fact, T— proposed that going forward we would maintain separate records for standard vs. aero bars … a nice asterisk on Eric’s achievement.)

I was starting to get concerned about the A-team dynamic. This newbie was apparently even stronger than T—, who was not only our A-team leader and team president but was widely considered the fastest collegiate racer in the state. Team cohesion depends on a well-defined, universally respected pecking order, and when this is contested, the battle of egos is not pretty. (Think LeMond vs. Hinault in the 1986 Tour de France, or Wiggens vs. Froome in 2012.) For this reason, I told myself, something had to be done about Eric.

If you’re crying bullshit on that last paragraph, good for you. Deep down I suppose I always knew that my resolve to “do something about Eric” wasn’t about the team. The fact is, I was a snob, and I didn’t like his lack of socks, I didn’t like his shoes, I didn’t like his bike, and most of all I didn’t like his defiance. I wanted him to kiss the ring, like I had. I wanted him not just to adjust and fit in, but to want to fit in. In fact, I wanted him to need to fit in. His rebellious spirit, which I should have admired, offended me. I admit these things to my shame.

This next part of the story is where memory starts to fail me. I might have intentionally devised a scheme to bring Eric down a notch, to publicly embarrass him, to teach him a lesson and to pile on to the “I descended in Nice!” lampoonery. I hope that I was not so small, even at that age, as to be that deliberate and Machiavellian. And in fairness to myself, it’s also possible I was just being mischievous.

Exhibit A in my “mischievous” defense (not because you care, but because I think it’s funny) is the following side anecdote. In 1988, when I was racing for the Cuesta Community College team (using my brother’s ID because I wasn’t a student), I did a road race that was one long loop. About halfway through I flatted, and had neglected to put spare wheels in the neutral support car. Not knowing this, the driver of the car (a racer’s girlfriend) saw me on the side of the road and pulled over. She jumped out, eager to help, and said, “You’ll have to find your own wheel because they all look the same to me!” I confessed I didn’t have a spare wheel and asked if she could just drive me to the finish line. She said sure, no problem. So I put my bike on the rack and got in the car.

Shortly later, a rider dropped back from the pack and rode alongside us. “It’s my boyfriend!” the driver said. She rolled down her window and he said, “Give me a bottle.” Not even “please.” I hated him immediately. She hurriedly dug through his gear, found a bottle, and handed it up to him. As he rode back up to the pack he took a drink, and then came back to the car. “Dammit, this is water,” he said. “I want Carbo-Plex!” His girlfriend got all flustered, digging through a pile of bottles with of course no idea which contained what. I said to the guy, “No problem, I’ll mix you up a bottle. Come back in a couple minutes.” He rode back to the pack and I got a fresh bottle, filled it about a third full of water, and then put in at least half a cup of Carbo-Plex mix—far more than the requisite scoop or two. I shook it up really hard, then topped it up with water. “Gosh, you really mixed that up thick!” marveled the driver. I assured her that yeah, it takes a lot of mix.

The guy came back again, took the bottle without a word, and started riding back to the pack. I tapped the driver and said, “Watch.” Sure enough, the guy took a big pull of the bottle and then violently spat out the sludgy drink, spraying it from his mouth like a hydrant. His girlfriend and I laughed mirthfully. (In a perfect world she’d have thrown him over for me right after the race, but this isn’t fiction.)

So, yeah, it might have been more in this same spirit of mischief, rather than through actual premeditated sabotage, that I gave Eric some deliberately bad advice regarding our first race of the season. As it happened, I was going to have to miss the race since I would be out of town for a wedding. I can’t remember if Eric came to me for advice, or I sought him out and gave it, but I told him, in confidence if not actual hushed tones, “What I think you should do in this race is just go solo, right from the gun. Like, literally from the very first mile. Nobody knows who you are, they’ll just let you go. Ride all-out the whole time and maybe you can stay away.” This struck him as crazy advice, even in the absence of road racing experience, because this race was like 70 miles. To fight the wind all that time, vs. a pack of 50 or 60 guys … it was insanity. Of course I knew this; that was the whole point. He was going to fail spectacularly and get his comeuppance. But I wore my best poker face and acted completely serious. And who was he to question my advice? We A-team riders were revered on that team, and I was the second most experienced guy after T—. Eric seemed grateful for the strategy and said he’d give it a try.

I didn’t tell anybody about my little scheme, because I regretted it almost immediately. The fake advice had rolled off my tongue easily enough, but who does that to a teammate, even an annoying one? I soon recognized my behavior for what it was: a dick move. But there seemed to way to roll it back. For one thing, Eric didn’t often ride with us, being still new and probably not feeling accepted yet, so I didn’t have much opportunity to talk to him again. Plus, what could I say? That I’d just been screwing with him, so that I could laugh behind his back at his credulity?

And so it seemed the die was cast. I would come back from my trip, hear about his foolish misadventure in his very first bike race, and possibly deal with the blowback should he tell everyone he’d only been following my tactical advice. If our teammates concluded that I’d simply been an idiot and had naively given Eric bad guidance, well, I could handle that. But what if they not only realized I’d been purposely setting him up to fail, but appreciated my ruse and had a good laugh about it? What if my treachery was admired as a much-needed way to secure the comeuppance of this brash, arrogant upstart?

Somehow—and remember, there was no Internet back then, no smartphones—I didn’t hear how the race went until I was at the Monday bike team meeting, and the first person I talked to was Eric himself. As he approached me I really didn’t know exactly what I’d say, only that it would be an apology. But he spoke first. “Dana,” he said, “you’re a genius. Your plan worked perfectly. I went from the gun, soloed the whole thing, and won by eight minutes!”

Holy shit. It absolutely had not occurred to me that my ludicrous tactic could actually work. Such an outcome is virtually unheard-of in cycling. It’d be like a quarterback leading his football team to victory without ever throwing a single pass, or a basketball player outscoring the entire opposing team without passing the ball once. It turns out that as talented as Eric had already proven himself to be, we’d only seen the tip of the iceberg. Sure, there are other possible reasons for his crazy move working: the other racers might simply not have seen him go, or might not have believed it, or thought he was going off ahead to take a piss. Or maybe they intended to reel him in but waited too long. Had there been a breakaway, the speeds would have been too high for any lone rider to stay out alone that long, but perhaps the sprinters’ teams (ours included, T— being hella fast) controlled things all too well. Whatever the case, Eric had won and was on cloud nine. And I had to pretend not to be surprised.

I have a pretty good poker face, and I think I gave an Oscar-worthy performance. “See?” I replied. “I knew you could do it. Great job.” Eric was beaming. He had no idea what a dick I’d been, and actually thought I was not only a good guy, but the first one on the team to do him a solid. I continued, “But here’s the thing. You can never try that again. They all know who you are now. You’re a marked man.”

I was essentially telling him he was a made man. If there’s one surefire way to silence your critics, it’s by proving them wrong, and Eric certainly had. Nobody snickered about him anymore … he was a winner, and he was ours. And something else changed: in light of what he perceived as tactical genius on my part, he now fully respected me and he showed it. Ironically, I now felt unworthy of this respect, built as it was on my undiscovered treachery. Not that I would ever have come clean; that could have served me somewhat, in tempering my guilt, but it certainly wouldn’t do a thing for him. I had to just live with my lie, which actually wasn’t that hard because hey—no harm no foul, right?

Perhaps more unexpectedly, given Eric’s glorious victory, is that it didn’t increase his bravado, and in fact, over the ensuing weeks and months, his tri ways fell away. He started wearing cycling socks, got some basic black shoes, stopped talking about triathlons, and eagerly tapped into our expert knowledge of road racing, asking all kinds of good questions. I suppose he didn’t feel the need to push up against us anymore, because he finally had the simple thing he’d sought all along: respect. And isn’t that what everybody wants, after all?

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