Vuelta
- (Photo Credit PezCycling)
I've felt my age this week. I've rediscovered how fragile my body is. I had to explain to a customer how to use the shop's (rotary) phone. And reading the reports coming in from this year's Vuelta brought me back to my own racing heyday, and one of the most exciting grand tours I can remember.
The 1985 Vuelta wasn't supposed to be Robert Millar's race. My friends all thought that Delgado and his Orbea team had the race wrapped up before it even began. Rupérez was too old. Indurain was too young. Skil-Sem-Reydel had a strong team, but I didn't think that there was a clear leader between Caritoux and Kelly. I was kind of rooting for the Colombian rider, Parra -- and as a young Communist, naturally for Ivan Ivanov, riding in the Soviet national kit.
I suppose I liked the Scottish Millar for his climbing abilities and quiet demeanor. But it was and is difficult to cheer on Anglophone cyclists. I can't help but think about Benny Hill, Mr. Bean, or Monty Python when I look at a rider like Bradley Wiggins...
But there he was, with two days to go in the race, in the leader's jersey and a cushion of over six minutes. Surely, this would be Britain's finest hour: the first GC victory in a Grand Tour.
But these were the days before the Internet, of course, and so following European racing from North America was no trivial matter. There were two newsstands within walking distance of my flat that carried European sporting newspapers. The two that mattered were La Gazzetta dello Sport, printed on beautiful pink broadsheet, and L'equipe, printed on yellow. The Italian paper was of firmer stock. I would fold it into quarters and stand it up on a small cafe table downstairs, balancing a pocket Italian dictionary in my left hand and moving between a pencil for annotations and a tiny Illycaffe cup in the other. I'd taken a year of Italian in high school for the sole purpose of reading La Gazzetta, but it wasn't much use. I was still a terrible linguist.
L'equipe was printed on softer paper. I felt better about reading it because my French was (marginally) better than my Italian, and nobody would mistake it for the Financial Times. And the photos, though smaller, were usually printed much more crisply.
That summer, I spent a small fortune on newspapers -- but I was an obsessed fan, Europhilic and race-crazy. I was also delusional, as my coach had assured me that, in fact, this would be my breakthrough year -- and that if only I worked hard enough, it would not be long before I would be off to ride (in the back) of the pro peloton with luminaries such as Fignon, Hinault, etc. Besides washing dishes in the dormitory cafeteria, wrenching in the local pro shop, and staffing the library on weekday nights -- that summer I also raised funds by selling blood. There were two blood banks in the area, and neither kept track of the other, so it was quite possible to give blood once per week, rotating between the two. Knowing nothing about nutrition, I settled on a diet heavily focused on foods that would replenish my blood supply, such as plums, radishes and tomatoes. Having a natural aversion towards needles and blood, I figured this strategy would kill two birds with one stone. Not only would I have extra money for newspapers and tires, but I'd build up a tolerance for the stuff when doping would be an integral part of my athletic regimen. I fainted a lot that summer, but did succeed in dropping below 57kg.
After reading (though not completely grasping) L'equipe's account of the day, I wished that I could track down a Spanish (or for that matter) British newspaper with Vuelta coverage. But for whatever reason, I was unable to get a different journalistic perspective. I did, however, get into several heated discussions in the following weeks with my teammates -- hailing from Germany, Italy, France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Most hated the Spanish generally, and did believe that the Spanish teams colluded to defeat Millar. "Why didn't they just pay Zor?" asked Jean-Michel. Remember that these were the days before earpieces, and Millar indeed had no idea that there were riders up the road. At least... not until it was too late.
The story is that Millar flats at an inopportune time, and the two Spanish riders attack. Despite riding for separate teams, they work together and build an insurmountable lead. Millar bridges back to the second group, unaware that Delgado is off the front. The Peugeot team car eventually informs him of the problem, but by this time it's too late, and his riding mates won't help him.
Watching over this video, I am reminded of so many things. How in fact, we were taught to ride and race precisely as Delgado had -- perhaps without utmost honor, but with a sincere need to vanquish our competitors. The backwards cap = hammer time. Thirty six hole GEL330s and early Dura-Ace. Ill fitting and odd smelling polyester uniforms, and perfectly fitting Duegi shoes. We were taught that mild bulimia is just part of being a climber, and that cracked skulls are bad, but concussions? Not so much. If only Eurosport would play such fine music.
Permalink