Bobke II

CHAPTER 1

Way Out West

May 15, 1982

Driving north on I-5 in a hippie-mobile loaded to the gills with the bikes and bikers. Me, Phil Woo Woo Wosley, and Allez Mark Cahn are traveling north to the biker metropolis of Etna, California, to stay at Mike Neel’s house and prepare for the Coors Classic. In Yreka, we stopped at the Roach Diner for the greasiest gut-bomb burgers I ever ate. They make the swill I serve at Perkos Koffee Kup taste like filet mignon at the Cordon Blue. Got to Etna at 2 a.m. and remembered I forgot to get Mike’s address. Sheeit. So I go to this bar and ask. Open the door and forty lumberjacks all stop what they are doing and look at me. I look back. I guess I look white trashy enough and don’t get chainsawed in the Trinity Alps, shit. The bartender says Mike lives over there. Thanks, etc. . . . As I hit the hay, them hamburgers are doing triple-back sommies in my belly. Geez, I feel dizzy.

May 16

Woke up to a glorious day and we all went out bikin’. The idea is to have us up here at some decent altitude for a couple of weeks to get ready for the Coors Classic in Boulder, starting June 18. Geez, I’ve got to get in shape. We rode down to this town called Fort Jones—and looked at all the locals—hi there. We kinda stick out like a thumb that has just been crushed by a 20-pound sledge.

May 17

Did an incredibly beautiful ride in the mountains around here. We rode west to a micro town called Callahan, then north over this hill, then down to the Salmon River, which was gorgeous. We stopped for lunch in Forks of Salmon and prayed we wouldn’t get shot by any of the local growers. Then we rode back to Etna on this totally cool dirt road over Etna Mountain. I stopped to wait on top and, hoping for some water, flagged down these Baba Ram Bonehead, freaked-out, logger-grower hippies, who stopped their calendars in 1968. All they had was Annie Green Springs wine and some local reefer. I said, thanks anyway.

May 18

Mellow ride due to fatigue. Just cruisin’ the Scott River Valley. The locals are getting used to us and have holstered their guns. After dinner, we went down to the local watering hole. So me and Mark Cahn were playin’ some pool and Woo Woo was skatin’ on some very thin ice talking to this local woman. These two burly loggers came in and challenged me and Allez to some pool. We said fine. They were creaming us and had knocked all their solids down before we got a single stripe to go in. The biggest, ugliest guy then nailed the eight in the corner. The cue ball hit the far bumper and slithered through all seven of our balls and plopped down into the far corner. The logger at the bar didn’t even look up to see if they had scratched, ’cause he could hear his partner’s cue stick splintering to bits. Me and Mark exchanged sly smiles and made five bucks apiece and split. When the woman Woo Woo was talkin’ to found out he didn’t chew tobacco or poach deer or drive a pick-up, Woo Woo struck out like Casey at the Bat.

May 19

130-mile, all-day-long ride—up into Oregon by Ashland and all over the place. I felt okay, but Woosley was flying and tried to tear me and Mark’s legs off. We had a great time dodging the scourge of Nor Cal: gigantic Winnebagos driven by blue-haired maniac escapees from retirement communities all over America. Anyway, we survived the ride and cruised to Etna—which is a nice place to live, but pretty hard to visit, man.

May 20

Some of the other guys got to town for the Tour of Ashland. Toby Power and Ned Gallagher showed up, and Norm Alvis. The house is getting crowded. You got a bunch of guys shaving their legs and riding bicycles and listening to strange music. So the neighbors are getting a little uneasy and hope we clear out soon.

May 21

Stage 1, Tour of Ashland

We did this lame criterium around the park in the town of Ashland, Oregon. There were around nine spectators—not counting relatives. I got a flat and hid in the bushes so I wouldn’t be docked a lap for mechanicals. Hope I don’t get poison oak or something.

May 22

Pretty hard road race, and David Mayer-Oakes took off with Woo Woo and they killed everyone. Our team did pretty good today and Mike is happy, I guess. He and his wife and daughter came up from his warehouse in Reno to see who should race the Coors.

May 23

We raced to the top of Mount Ashland, and I wanted to do good. So at the bottom I attacked and nobody caught up to me, so I won by myself about two minutes ahead. I couldn’t believe it. So rode back to the hotel in Ashland and cruised into my room feeling pretty happy. There was chain grease on the walls, bikes in the bathroom, blood on the towels from road rash, and garbage from the ten guys staying in two rooms. The manager was a gigantic, bearded version of Norman Bates; he was pacing back and forth between our rooms, lividly cursing all bikers. I didn’t say a word, but started cleaning up as fast as I could. The rest of the guys were happy to be having a nice snack by the pool counting their primes. I was happy to be with the living.

May 24

This was a cool road race because our team was in a six-man breakaway. I mean, six of us were in a six-man break from the first hill to the finish. I hope we can do half this good at the Coors.

May 25

Back to Etna, California, at Mike Neel’s house. Every cyclist in Nor Cal is staying here, and it is tense. Mike’s wife is not too happy to have her house overrun by gigantic termites, who live off pasta and meat and fart a lot and play loud rock. I guess most guys do not think of themselves as larvae, but hey, we’re all lucky that pterodactyls are no longer ruling the skies.

June 6

Driving to Colorado with teammates to Copper Mountain for the Coors Classic. Us city boys are stayin’ at a condo, owned by the family that is sponsoring our team. I can’t believe I am going to do the Coors. But when we went for a ride, I was swimming down the road in a haze of oxygen debt. I’ve never been to Colorado or this altitude, and I am nervously dying of pulmonary edema. I walked up the stairs to our condo and passed out cold. If I don’t adjust soon, I will be dead bloody meat, boys and girls.

June 7

Just about to explode from anxiety. Tomorrow is the prologue. So I rode over the hill we are going to race up. We start at this cool restaurant and climb up this hill called Flagstaff. I just pedaled around Boulder and had a great time eating pretzels and drinking lemonade with a bunch of tie-dyed Deadheads playing Frisbee in front of the courthouse. In the afternoon, we all went to this reception at the Coors Brewery in Golden. Gawd, what a smelly place. A bunch of people were giving speeches, which were probably real interesting, but their words were quivering with a strange drawl and so laden with barometric pressure, I could not understand anything. I guess I’m ready to race.

June 8

Prologue, the Coors Classic

All right! Finally got this race started. I went as fast as I possibly could . . . and I still got slaughtered by Steve Bauer, who is on the Mengoni team. They also have Jacques Boyer and Harvey Nitz, Wayne Stetina, Mayer-Oakes, and this madman named Alexi Grewal. I have heard of him, but today I heard him. He was screaming at the top of his lungs at some poor mechanic for some reason. I am going to try not to make him mad at me.

June 9

Boulder Mountain Road Race

Well, today I went harder than I’ve ever gone in my life, up this climb to Wondervu. God, I was gagging. Two Colombians, Martin Ramirez and Patro Jimenez, and Mexican Norbert Caceres flew up the hill and nobody could catch them: They killed everyone and won by three minutes. I was in the main group, with some of the best cyclists around, until I flatted.

June 10

Drove to Estes Park, up in the mountains, for a circuit race. Boyer won the stage, and I was just barely hanging on! I was crossed-eyed trying to stay on the wheel in front of me. Gawd, I hope I feel better soon. If I don’t, I’ll be a short-order cook at Perkos for the rest of my life.

June 11

Oh my God. I think I’m going to die. Did a race over these mountains from Golden to Vail Pass. My legs are so sore I can’t believe it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish this stage race. I do not want to quit, but I don’t want to die, either. The Colombians are killing everyone.

June 12

Vail Crit

I never thought 50 miles could be nearly fatal. Vail is at eight or so thousand feet, and I swear I just couldn’t breathe. While my teammates are wondering who is doing well on G.C., I am wondering what town I’m in, what day it is, why I can’t walk, and what the hell I’m doing in a Colorado bike race.

June 13

A double stage and I’m seeing twice as many stars as usual. We did a hard circuit race called the Tour of the Moon, which Ron Hayman won. I felt better today and didn’t get dropped—for the first time in this race. I barely avoided a huge pile-up, but bumped into a guy named Tom Prehn. Neither of us fell, but he seemed to feel the crash was my fault and said, You don’t belong in this race. I said, One more word from you and I’ll break your kneecap. In the evening, we did a fast crit, won by Alex Stieda. There were twelve turns in 0.9 miles, and I am dizzy as M. Monroe in Some Like it Hot.

June 14

McClure Pass Road Race

I was pedaling along today and all of a sudden, a herd of horses jumped over the fence and started running along in the pack. That wasn’t too bad, but they started shitting all over the place and then, they all got the bonk and started slowing down. Then when we would try to get around them, they started sprinting desperately. I started to get nervous and went to the back of the pack. There was a huge crash; I went down hard and started bleeding all over the place. The pack split up and I was happy to miss the split. Then we finished up this big hill and I went to the doctor to get stitched up. Since they had no pain killers, it was quite painful. I guess I’ll survive. The Colombians are really killing everyone now.

June 15

Doing a circuit race today called Suicide Hill. That is no joke—the course was straight up, then straight down, and the Colombians romped again. I didn’t feel too bad, but on the second lap, I missed the turn at the bottom of the hill and went flying into the crowd. I landed in the bleachers on top of some spectators, who were totally freaked out. I didn’t get hurt, so I got back up and kept going. This afternoon, we did an uphill time trial, and I felt pretty good. I caught my one-minute man and finished 17th. Feeling better now in the races . . . or maybe everyone has come down to my exhausted level.

June 16

We had a criterium today in Denver. There were a ton of crashes and I moved up to 27th place on G.C. This Canadian Hayman won again—in a crazy sprint that I watched from about 50 guys back.

June 17

Morgul-Bismarck Road Race

A huge storm blew in last night and this was one miserable, nasty race. But the elevation is less here, and I can breathe a lot better. So I hung in the main group, got 11th on the stage and moved up to 20th on G.C. The pack blew to bits, and a Russian guy named Viktor Demidenko won the stage—but the Colombians are still killing on G.C.

June 18

Last Day

I was hoping to do this criterium nice and mellow, but instead, I couldn’t stay upright. I crashed three times, tore open my stitches, and bled all over the place. Still, I got up each time and caught the group, so I wouldn’t lose any laps. I tried to go for a prime $50—but I got creamed by Davis Phinney, who put a finger up and put it down like a cash register. I hope Davis needs them $50 as bad as I do. Anyway, the Coors is over. I’m going back to California to try to heal my wounds.

March 1–3, 1993

Took a Greyhound bus to Reno, Nevada, from Oakland, to meet Norm Alvis. Piles of busted, flat, hung-over gamblers were breathing whisky on me while I waited. Yummy. Norm picked me up and we went to the warehouse in Sparks. We were supposed to pick up a car and drive to Austin, Texas, for the Tour of Texas. Our coach called the promoter and told him we were coming. Then he gave us this grocery bag full of weed as our housing and entry fee. We stuffed it at the bottom of the trunk and split. We drove out of Reno past the Mustang Ranch and had no thoughts of stopping. Then we turned right on Highway 95, and headed south. We drove across the desert for hours into the night.

We got to Las Vegas at about 3 a.m., got our bikes out and started racing around the streets. There were so many lights we could see fine. We kept driving and stopped at Hoover Dam and took a piss that fell about three miles. We took turns driving and sleeping across Arizona and New Mexico, then pulled off the highway in Fort Stockton, Texas, to gas up. As we left, I forgot to put on the lights, so a cop pulled us over about a half-block later. Norm was very nervous, due to our cargo. I said relax, and don’t say anything. The cop wanted to know what two skinny California white boys were doing in the middle of nowhere, driving at night without our lights. After I explained where we were going, he said, Good luck in the race . . . and keep the lights on at night. I was sweating and relieved to be back on the highway. We kept driving.

We’d been in the Peugeot 205, which shimmied down the road at a maximum of 45 mph, for about 38 hours—and I was getting groggy. About 10 miles past the Davy Crockett Monument, I fell fast asleep at the wheel. I woke up heading for some trees, jerked the steering wheel back toward the highway, and flew across a few lanes of traffic—scaring the crap out of some truckers and myself. Norm never even woke up.

We finally rolled into Austin, totally wasted. We were early for registration, so we waited under the street in a drainage ditch, because it was about 95 degrees. Then we went to the office of the Tour of Texas, got the bag out of the trunk, and walked in. The secretary had her eyes on the desk, and jumped