This was my first race ever. The juniors were split between two races; being new, I naturally went into the slower race whose eight juniors were mixed with the veterans (now known as Master 40+) and women. Casey Kerrigan and I had travelled to the race with his parents in their motorhome as neither Casey nor I had a driver's license. We rested very well, and Casey's mother cleaned my dingy old waterbottle so thoroughly that I didn't recognize it. My bike was squeaky clean, and I felt that I was as ready as possible. We surveyed the course, a 1.9 mile loop with eleven turns designed for auto racing, and marvelled at its smoothness.
It was a very hot day, and it is said that the temperature above the wide, dark asphalt at Laguna Seca can be fifteen degrees warmer than that of the surrounding countryside. There were some real nice looking specimens on the starting line straddling bikes that I could only afford in my dreams, and I had butterflies in my stomach. The starting pistol went off, and the race started at a leisurely pace. Some of the older folks were conversing, but fell silent on the hill. We climbed the hill at a comfortable pace, crested the top, and whoa, all of a sudden these guys just dropped like rocks away from me. I had to pedal for all I was worth with my restricted junior gears (48x14), and caught back up by the last turn. All was well again as we went by the start/finish line, but a few other juniors hadn't been so lucky after that downhill. I then remembered the advice of an unknown contestant from a race earlier in the day; he said that they only way a skinny guy can keep up on the downhill was to find a very large rider, and to get right behind and to never let a gap open up. I followed this advice, and was glad for the close quarters schooling that I had received from my elders in the Berkeley Wheelmen.
As time wore on, the air got even hotter, and the race spread out all over the course. It was my best guess that there were about as many people ahead of me as there were behind, but I was completely in the dark regarding my current position amongst the juniors. As we began to lap slower riders on the climb, I noticed how my big sweat drops would fall and bounce off of the galvanized (and now oxidized) spokes of my front wheel. My competitors seemed to be feeling the heat much more than I, and nearing the end of the race I started to feel more confident, so I rode harder up the hill, and passed a number of people in the process of doing so.
Then suddenly, the race was over. Many of the veteran riders seemed very anxious to get off of their bikes. Hal Tozer, who along with Tom Simonson had taught several of us juniors how to ride in an orderly fashion, congratulated me on a job well done. He then said, "Hey bozo, you are needed over there!" There was a simple awards ceremony taking place, and a guy who looked a little like Groucho Marx said, "And are you Mister Walsh?" Upon responding, he said, "Well don't be shy, step right up!" and he gently steered me toward the makeshift podium. Everybody seemed to know this guy whose name was Bob Leibold. He read the results from a piece of paper. A guy I knew from the East Bay had won the race! Then Mr. Leibold said, "... and in second place, from the Berkeley Wheelmen, Mark Walsh!" Holy cow, I couldn't believe it!