The "Giro" is a criterium that has seen not only many of this country's best riders, but those from other countries as well. Several different courses have been used over the years, settling on today's course near the Embarcadero in 1982. The highlight of the 1980 course was turn one, a 135 degree right turn from southbound Columbus onto westbound Bay Street. The course also featured a small hill, cable car tracks, a wet and off-camber downhill turn, and mysteriously slippery surfaces.
Having just upgraded to category one the day before, I was proud to sign my entry release form as such. Looking over my shoulder was a man named Kent Bostick who noticed my status, and then asked me if I would like to walk the course with him. I eagerly accepted, knowing that this sage of bicycle racing could teach me a thing or two. He did not disappoint. For every trivial course defect that I could spot, he could spot ten. The most significant was a slight discoloration of the street right in the middle of turn one. Kent really had to make an effort to help me see this seemingly insignificant artifact. He then explained how its proximity to a bus stop made it highly likely that the mark on the street was diesel fuel, a substance far more slippery than conventional motor oil.
It was perfect racing weather, and almost immediately after the start, Greg Lemond and his teammate Keith Vierra left us in the dust. The race settled down to a moderate pace, its peaceful nature being momentarily interrupted by a spectator who breached the snow fencing, and was run over by several of the riders. A lap later, all was cohesive again with the exception of the downed spectator. On several different laps, riders fell on turn one's mystery spot as shown to me by Mr. Bostick. One of those riders was Tom Simonson, an experienced rider who taught me much, and whom I had always viewed as virtually faultless in the mental sense. Like many of the other fallen riders, he had a look of bewilderment as he slowly slid along the slippery street.
I was having an easy time of it, but was frustrated by the off-camber downhill turn which also had two wet crosswalks. Every time through the turn, several riders would pass me, and I would have to make up for it on the following straightaway. An older and very experienced rider by the name of Rick Humphries (now known as Retro Rick) rode up next to me, and stated that if he could combine my body with his brain, he would have third place sewn up. I watched as he effortly passed nearly twenty riders in the troublesome turn. It took me a half lap to catch back up to Rick, and I was impressed. He knew what I was thinking and said, "Okay, this time, stay on my wheel." I had a lot of faith in the man, and did just as he instructed. To my joy, he took me on the perfect line through the corner, effortlessly passing fifteen riders in the process. The next lap, he indicated that he would follow me, and after I stormed his route through the turn, I found myself at the front of the pack. I glanced back to see Rick smile and nod with approval.
With ten laps to go, I could not let such proprietary course knowledge go to waste. Trying to read the faces of the other riders was a fruitless task, and I was hesitant to make a go of it with a solitary effort. Reading my mind was Robert Ford who zipped over to me, and established eye contact with me in that meaningful way. Knowing that Robert would stick to me like glue, I applied the Humphrey's Theorem to the nasty turn from the front of the pack. Looking back, there was a smiling Robert right behind me, and a lot of daylight between us and a non-responsive pack. I rode hard the length of the homestretch, and upon pulling off, saw a huge gap and knew that I was going to be in the money.
Although Robert was not a teammate, I considered him to be a friend as we occasionally trained together. I also knew that the team time trial was not exactly his greatest strength; one of his claims to fame was that at an early age he was Jamaica's national sprint champion. Robert is a true trackie who's sprint must be seen to be believed. So I should not have been surprised when I gave him the front and he rode like a snail up the small hill. I took another hard pull on the backstretch, and peeled off only to find that Robert was having difficulty. Our lead on the pack was growing quickly, and it was clear that I would have no trouble doing the job myself.
The race announcer made a comment about Robert taking advantage of me, so I had him take a pull past the announcing stand which also happened to be the location of the largest concentration of spectators. The net result was that he pulled off early, and at the top of the hill I looked back to find that I had inadvertently dropped a dreadfully struggling Robert. I felt protective of my friend, and waited up for him. This act more than paid off a year later when Robert chose me to be his partner at a big madison (track) race.
As Robert and I gained five to ten seconds on the pack every lap, I became very comfortable. Then I started hearing the sound of another rider. Whoa, it was Greg Lemond! Greg had lapped the pack, and then had kept on going. I really did not want to feel that I had been lapped, and gave Greg a bit of stress. Greg has had to deal with this many times, but I was particularly stubborn. When he found that he could not unload me by accelerating rapidly, he slowed to little more than a walking pace. I slowed as well, not wanting him to slingshot by me. Robert briefly caught up, and Greg sprinted for all he was worth. I barely hung on, causing Greg to slow again. This time, he was smarter, psyching me into accelerating while easing back, and then shooting by me. While I could match his acceleration, he was ahead of me with enough margin that the invisible rubber band had been broken.
I was not sad about not being able to hang on to Greg; he was such a superior being that it would have simply been wrong for me to finish with him. I waited up for Robert, and returned to our previous business, finding that our lead on the pack had changed little during my shenanigans with one of the world's best athletes. As we neared the end of the race, I knew that Robert had the capability to outsprint me, but I was not sure if he would do so. I decided that I would give him the benefit of the doubt.
Sprinters are like pitt bull dogs; in an easy going environment, they can be relaxed and quite affectionate, but when there exists an object in their sights, they will stop at nothing to get it. On the last two laps, I could not get Robert to take even a token pull, and saw him stretching his legs in preparation for the sprint. Knowing that Robert had both the physical and mental resources to beat me in a sprint, I took the only choice available and rode the last kilometer as hard as I could. Robert stuck to me like excema, and waited until the last possible moment to come around. I gave it everything I had, but the enivitable happened and Robert easily took the sprint by half a bike length.
It is customary for top honors to go to the top three places, but this promotion treated the top ten quite well, and gave nice trophies to the top five, so I wasn't too put out by Robert's sprint, though I had lost some of my boyish naivite. My father was especially tickled that we were treated to a very nice banquet and got to shmooze with the city's top officials including the mayor, an opportunity that he exploited while Greg Lemond, his father, and I gorged ourselves on expensive seafood. It was only noon, and it had already been a great day!