A bit more than six months ago I had an idea. This happens to me all the time and usually no one gets hurt. Normally, I have ideas that are best executed in prose and then I sit down and bang away at little pieces of plastic until my creative urge subsides. It works out well for nearly all involved nearly all the time. But every now and then I have an idea that requires enlisting the help of people with talents in my distinctive areas of deficit. The artist Bill Cass is one such victim. Bill, as you may recall, was responsible for our Eddy T-shirt based on my Peloton Magazine feature about his 1972 season. My history with Bill goes back to Asphalt Magazine and Bicycle Guide. I’ve not seen another artist who can capture the kinetic sense of cycling as accurately as Bill can.
I realized that we were closing in on the 25th anniversary of Andy Hampsten’s 1988 victory at the Giro d’Italia, a mark unequaled by another American rider, clean or otherwise. That’s worth celebrating, right?
So I approached Andy with my suggestion and asked him what we could do for him. A royalty on this sort of thing isn’t unusual. He suggested that instead, we make a donation to the Colorado league of the National Interscholastic Cycling Association (NICA). I was thrilled by the idea and welcomed the chance to do something to help NICA’s larger mission.
As Bill and I discussed when he might have the bandwidth to do the art and what it should depict, we kept returning to an underplayed reality of stage 14, the stage that took in the Gavia on the way into Bormio. Hampsten’s ability as a climber is what separated him from the pack, what allowed him to get his gap. However, what virtually no photos or video document from that day is how he kept that lead—by descending like a BASE jumper. Only Panasonic’s Erik Breukink was able to catch him before the finish, and even so did that only after the descent was effectively complete. We’ve long celebrated Hampsten’s ability to ascend like an eagle into the clouds, but it’s time to remind everyone that he was no one-trick pony, that this guy knows how to let a bike roll.
Bill’s eye for the details that can make a static illustration visceral is in full force here. When I first looked at the illustration and saw the lean angle, my heart skipped a beat as I thought about the road wet from snow. It’s just the effect he wanted; there is no drama without danger.
So while it’s well past June and Christmas is practically upon us, I’m pleased to announce that Bill has completed the art and it’s off to our screen printer. We’re doing all we can to have these back and shipping out so that you can have them in time for Christmas. We anticipate their delivery the week of 12/16. [Update: The shirts arrived 12/17 and are now shipping.]
To order the Gavia shirt for you and your loved ones, click here.
Finally, on a related note, we recently received a new order of the RKP jersey in medium and large, so if you’ve been wanting one, now’s your chance.
Hailstones, snowstorms and survivors
I was taken aback last week when I heard about a field of pro racers coming to a halt during the opening stage of Argentina’s Tour de San Luis. It wasn’t because they had to stop for a train rumbling through a rail crossing; no, they stopped to seek shelter from a storm, one of heavy rain and hail.
Wait, I thought, aren’t bike racers supposed to carry on whatever the conditions, rain or shine? Next, they’ll be stopping because it’s too hot, or too cold, or maybe too windy! It wasn’t always so….
In my first multi-day race, the Easter Three-day on the Isle of Wight in southern England, we raced through a violent hailstorm. Within 10 minutes of hailstones hitting our bare arms, legs and heads (we didn’t wear helmets back then), the intact pack was reduced to about a dozen. That was perhaps the most unusual way I’ve ever gotten into a breakaway!
A couple of years after that, I took my bike to Italy to report the Tour of Sardinia, an early-season race that Tour de France champions Jacques Anquetil, Lucien Aimar and Jan Janssen were riding. They would all survive a true winter tempest of lightning, rain, hail and snow on a mountainside of that sparsely beautiful Mediterranean island. British rider Derek Harrison told me the peloton was slowed when an intense part of the storm covered the road an inch deep in golf-ball-sized hailstones, and Tour winner Janssen stopped several times to wipe his glasses clean and another time to scrounge a pair of woolen gloves.
That day, I climbed just ahead of the race to the 4,000-foot summit of the Arcu Correboi pass, where a well-muffled spectator gave me two swigs from a flask of Cognac before the riders arrived. As the hail turned to snow, a white blanket covered the bumpy road. And after the peloton passed, I began the steep descent, where the wind-blown snow stung my face. In order to see, I had to close one eye, leave the other half open and screw my head around at an angle.
My feet, hands and face were slowly freezing when suddenly a great booming sound came from behind, and a high wall of metal loomed into my peripheral vision. It was a snowplow. The driver waved me over, stopped, put my bike in the back of his truck and helped me into the heated cab. He dropped me off 10 miles later in the remote mountain town of Fonni, where a group of villagers crowded around this still-shivering stranger, and one of them took me and my bike into a bar to treat me to another tot of brandy!
I had a more frightening snowstorm experience in the mid-1980s after reporting the Étoile de Bessèges, a February stage race in southern France — where rookie American pro Thurlow Rogers from Southern California was shocked one day when the water in his bottles turned to ice. I covered the race by bike. The next day, I headed east on a back road through the Cévennes. As I gained elevation, the light snow grew in intensity, and fell so deep on the road that I had to dismount and push my luggage-laden bike as best I could; I’d gone too far to turn back.
There were no houses on that desolate plateau, and I hadn’t seen any vehicles since early in the day. I was having trouble navigating in the whiteout, and I was getting colder and colder, despite putting on all the extra clothing I could find in my panniers. What should have been a pleasant two-hour ride was turning into a never-ending trudge … perhaps I wouldn’t even make it.
The snow kept falling. And when the road began dropping toward a far valley, I hopped onto one pedal, scooting the bike, in the hope of getting to a village before I collapsed with hypothermia—well, that’s what was going through my mind after all those hours of plodding alone in that bleak, silent, snow-covered landscape.
Just as I was despairing of ever reaching civilization I spotted a truck moving in the far distance. It didn’t come my way, but when I reached where it had been, I found the road had been partially plowed. I was able to start riding (very slowly) again … and I did reach a village, where I stuffed myself with cookies and hot tea before continuing to a real town. I checked into a small inn and soaked in a hot, deep bathtub. Bliss.
As for the most memorable day of bad-weather bike racing I’ve witnessed, that came in 1988 at the Giro d’Italia — and I don’t think anyone told the peloton to stop racing when heavy rain turned to snow on the Passo di Gavia. I know how cold it was because the French journalist I was traveling with stopped his car on the 8,600-foot summit. We stood in snow being driven horizontally by fierce crosswinds and watched the racers climbing laboriously, one by one, through the blizzard.
I’ve written about that (truly) epic day many times: how first-man-to-the-top Johan Van der Velde was so cold he stopped and climbed into his team car, and stayed there for many long minutes, warming up and changing into dry clothes before continuing; how second-man-to-the-summit Andy Hampsten donned ski gloves and a balaclava before tracking a solo path through snow and fog on the treacherous, dirt-road descent, risking frostbite, before claiming the leader’s maglia rosa in the valley; how several riders went hypothermic; and how only a handful actually quit the race.
Bob Roll, who was one of the survivors, wrote a piece titled “The Day the Big Men Cried” for one of his books. Those big men weren’t stopped by a little hailstorm — as their counterparts were last week in Argentina.
That’s a somewhat harsh verdict on today’s peloton, so I was pleased to see a couple of tweets this past Sunday from pros training on the Spanish island of Mallorca. Former U.S national champion Ben King of RadioShack-Nissan wrote: “Miserable training! 4 degrees C, windy, pouring rain and hail, 2 hrs was the max that [we] could face … and I’m still numb.” World champ Mark Cavendish of Team Sky added: “My cheeks are red and stinging from a hail storm….” Yes. But better that than red from embarrassment.
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