Bike Barb Stories

1976 Paris, France

The summer that I turned 15, my family and I went to Europe for a year. At a newsstand in Paris, right next to the Miroir du Cyclisme, was a single copy of "Competitive Cycling!" I could not believe it! I read and re-read that thing a million times for the next month. The two best columns were those of the "Bike Barb" and "Sundown Slim." Nick's column had a tiny little picture of just his head; leather helmet on, mouth wide open, probably doing one of two things: talking loudly, or gulping in massive quantities of air on his way to winning one of his many national or district championship jerseys.

1979 Berkeley Twilights

I had told my parents about this remarkable man who was known as "The Bike Barb." It was amazing to me that he was a year older than my father, yet he was still racing with the big boys. I suppose that I idolized him in a way, wondering what I would be doing at that age. Then came the day that my parents went with me to the Twilights to see me race for their first time. Before the race, I was walking through the parking lot with my mother, when Nick just happened to be walking towards us. As discreetly as possible, I told my Mom that the guy up ahead was the same guy that we had discussed over dinner. In the pre-race hub-bub, he didn't note our presence, but when he was just about thirty feet away, he stopped, grabbed his crotch with one hand and the corner of a picked truck with the other, grimaced, and let out a bellow of flatulence so violent, I was sure that stitches would be required to repair the torn flesh. "Uh, yes mom, that is him."

1979 Berkeley Twilights

1979 was the year that I first had the privilege of riding with the better riders at the "Berkeley Twilights," a Tuesday evening summertime racing series. That race was split in two such that the slower half (juniors, 'vets,' women, category 3s) started first, and "the big boys" (category 1s and 2s) started a minute or so later. The two halves would always end up merging just before the end of the race, but Nick, in the first wave, usually ensured that it was as difficult as possible for them to do so. In time, I found myself joining him on this escapade. It was remarkable to ride behind this man; unbelievable thighs hammering away, while pedaling incredibly smoothly, all while riding an absolutely perfect line. I did my darndest at taking measly 'pulls,' and he barked somewhat less than eloquent but always helpful advice that made me a better (and slightly useful) companion. And the summer wore on, it took the big boys longer and longer to catch us. Nick was always the same, but I was improving, and one of the most flattering comments I ever received was when he said, "At the rate you are improving, I just hope that you remember me by next year!" A year later, I was indeed going quite well, and became known for leaving the others behind with two laps to go. Not having a name that can easily be twisted around to be something else, Nick dubbed me "The Walshing Machine," but come on now, how could *anyone* not remember Nick!

1980 NCCA Banquet

The end of the year always saw a great social occasion, the Northern California Cycling Association (NCCA, now NCNCA, as Bob Lemond reminded us that we had forgotten that quirky state to our east) Banquet. As always, Nick had a Directeur Sportif role in the kitchen. The banquet was great; it was worth the price of admission just to see Mike Zickermann get hit in the side of the head with marinarad pasta. As the festivities were winding down, in the failed hopes that we would be welcome to rent that veterans' hall the next year, I made myself available to help clean up. The revelers streaming by were complimenting the volunteers on the great food, as I was told to empty the three almost empty pasta sauce vessels into one vessel, and to clean the other two vessels. As I emptied the last vessel, I looked down to its bottom, and in my horror, saw a big, dead rat stuck to the bottom. Just then, yet another passerby yelled to us, "Hey, thanks guys, that was the best pasta sauce I've had in a long time!"

1981 Berkeley Twilights

In 1981, I was the Chief Referee for the Berkeley Twilights, and I ended up being the official for two contestants that wanted to fight; one with marshal arts, and the other with a knife. I asked them to cool off, but the completely crazed guy with the knife turned towards me, waved the knife, and yelled, "Hey, do you want a taste of this?" I became petrified with fear, but just then the angels sang. A cop car pulled up right behind the knife-wielder, and the situation was soon history. The race was soon over, and an officer briefly questioned me. I then told him that a lifetime of "where are they when you need them" had totally evaporated upon his arrival. I then asked him how they had gotten there so fast; it couldn't have been more than a minute. His response was, "Well, actually, sir, we were responding to another call at this location. See those bushes over there? Well, some lady was working late, and she saw some guy in bike clothes step behind them bushes, right in front of that one-way glass window. He then apparently defecated on the ground, and pulled leaves off of the bush to use as toilet paper." Trying my best to appear concerned, I asked, "Did you get any kind of description such as the advertising on the jersey?" He said, "No, none of that, but she did state that he was a large, balding man, with little bits of paint on himself." Who else could I think of but Nick; then it occurred to me that in his Czechness, he probably wouldn't bother with the formality of toilet paper. "Hmmm, that's most interesting..." Portable toilets are now available at bicycle races.

1985 Sausalito Criterium

In 1985, I was the Chief Referee of the Sausalito Criterium. There were loudspeakers around the entire course, so that rider and spectator alike knew what was going on. The hired announcer was sick, and Leonard Ke (a.k.a. the Flyin' Hawaiian) took over. By mid-race, my job was going very well, and Leonard was doing a wonderful job of mixing music with his knowledgeable commentary. He was also playing with both my stopwatch and a portable cassette tape player, but I just could not for the life of me figure out what he was doing (and didn't want to ask). One of his stories was about going to a race in a van (no, not the infamous Talbots story) with several guys including Nick, who wanted as much time as possible to prepare for the race, so he was changing his clothes while they were on the move. Nick momentarily left his shorts unattended, and during that time, unbeknownst to him, somebody smeared some Musclor #3 (the hottest leg rub oil known to man) on part of the shorts' chamois. Leonard timed the telling of the story perfectly such that he finished it just as the riders approached, then he paused, and turned up the music a bit. Everybody then heard the familiar, "Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!" Even Nick was laughing as they rode by.

Early 1990s Tour of Marin Criterium

I was the Chief Referee of the Tour of Marin every year from 1985 to 1995. I had heard the story from the early 1980s about Nick cutting off the criterium's switchbacks in full view of everybody. At the starting line of the Masters (35+) event, I instructed the riders that I would only pull lapped riders if it was necessary due to safety or scoring issues. As things got underway, all looked well, but partway through, the race became very fast. Nick (by then about sixty years old) cut the course as he had years before, and it was as clear as day from where I was standing. A few laps later, he did it again. Some of the newer riders were yelling at me as the pack went by, but those who knew Nick were just chuckling about it. In hindsight, I realize that I should have done something to placate the newer riders, but I was really busy, so I pretended to be totally clueless, hoping that the issue would soon dissipate. On one lap, Nick came by alone, and I asked him to not affect the outcome of the race, he agreed, and did as I had requested. When the final sprint came, Nick was nowhere to be seen. After the finish, some of those yelling riders came up to me and they were hopping mad. I still pretended to be completely ignorant, and said that it really didn't matter anyway because the alleged behavior did not affect the results, and nobody in the top twenty had filed a protest. I was under severe time pressure to get the next race underway, but two of these guys just would not leave me alone. When I suggested that there was no evidence that they had not made up the whole thing, they went non-linear, yelling niceties at me like "you stupid f@ck@ng @ssh@l@" and "G@d d@mn idiot referee," before angrily riding off. Moving quickly, I got the next event started just two minutes behind schedule, and finally, there was peace at last, but the brief momentary silence was broken by Nick's distinctive laugh. There he was, standing less than a hundred feet away, grinning from ear to ear, contents of shorts in desperate need of re-arrangement, chatting with some cute young lady, completely oblivious to what I had just endured on his behalf.

1996 Fletcher Peak (Sonoma County)

In early 1996, I was building a house way up a dirt road in rural Sonoma County. Nick came up for some festivities, happened to see my mountain bike in the garage, and made some comment about the "pansy gears" on the bike. One thing led to another, and before long, I had taken the pedals off of Nick's road bike, put them on my mountain bike, and was myself soon straddling my cyclocross bike (also with those "pansy gears"). A number of us went for a ride, including Nick on my (too small for him) mountain bike. At the end of the ride, the last climb was in the gravel and was seventeen percent. I knew that Nick, who was used to road bike geometry as well as smooth, flat, and paved roads, was taking in an entirely new experience. I stayed close behind him, and it was a good thing he has those awesome legs because he was just barely able to get up that last hill without showing duress, and without having to use (by just one click) that lowest of "pansy gears!"