Jackson is a cute little old town in California's Mother Lode. Its population probably hasn't changed much since the waning days of the Gold Rush. It has delightful old buildings; some of its streets are wide, while others are narrow. The town's annual criterium was a simple loop of almost a mile. Its most prominent feature was a precarious sharp turn right after the start/finish line that dumped one onto an extremely steep (for one block) and narrow street. The course used both the main street as well as a nice residential area behind the town.
Because of the demands of college, I had not ridden a criterium (other than the Sacramento Twilights) for over a year. My apprehension quickly evaporated after the sound of the starting pistol when I found myself in familiar company and surroundings. Most everybody looked and rode the same as a year earlier, however, there were some new faces in the pack that I had to learn.
One of these new guys must have been a recent upgrade as he seemed incapable of handling himself within the pack. I made a mental note to avoid him, but later got slammed by him and ended up in a very deep gutter. I managed to get it together before the doom presented by an upcoming culvert. This guy got yelled at by several folks, but failed to hint at offering an apology. He ended up right behind me at the edge of the road, so I decided to express my displeasure in a non-verbal manner that would not affect others. He did not look like the climber type, so when we got to the hill, I backed off until we were well behind the pack, and when he finally realized that we were loosing contact with the back of the pack, he started to come around. That's when I rocketed back to the pack. This guy was caught off guard, and didn't seem to understand what (or why this) was happening to him. This guy was clearly new to the higher categories of bicycle racing. I repeated the offense on the next lap, and again he took the bait, this time towing me back to the rear of the pack.
The new star on my team was Mark Caldwell, so it was to him that I had to pledge my allegiance. He was familiar with my abilities from my Oakland Twlights performances and with several laps to go, he asked me for my assistance in getting him off the front. When it was time to go, I accurately assessed his abilities and lead him off the front of the pack at a just barely tolerable velocity. The pack did little to react, so we quickly build up a large margin.
A lap later, I looked back and saw nothing but a clearly inactive pack. A lap after that, I saw two riders attempting to bridge the gap. And despite the efforts of Mark and myself, one of those two guys did all of the work and they both bridged the gap. Lo and behold, this strongman turned out to be the guy who had earlier put me into the gutter. I was still upset about the earlier incident and didn't want this guy to end up beating my teammate.
I performed the same stunt as before, and again, this guy took the bait. I couldn't believe that he would continue to let me wear him down, but it was apparent that he had no idea what was happening. He paced me back to Mark and the other rider, and then to my surprise, he just rocketed away from us. It was all the other rider and I could do to watch as Mark clung to this animal's wheel for all he was worth. The pack was far, far behind us.
Much to my relief, Mark prevailed in the sprint, but I had to find out about this amazing rider. His name was Glen Winkel, and we soon observed his quick ascension into the highest levels of amateur racing. In no time he developed good tactical skills, though it took quite a while for him to iron out his bike handling abilities. After doing so, he turned professional and is now one of this country's most successful masters in the history of the sport.