1982 was the year that the Giro di San Francisco was moved to quiet place in the city's Embarcadero district. The actual course has changed little since that time, and it consisted two long straightaways and two short connectors. The first connector was a little rise, causing the backstretch to have a very slight descent. Speeds were high there despite some rather tortured pavement on the latter half of the backstretch.
The race announcement for that first year stated that the race would be 80 laps or 40 miles. As we warmed up, it was clear to many of us that this course was much longer than half a mile. At the starting line, this problem was addressed by the referees who explained that since the race announcement had advertised 80 laps, that it would have to be so. The sprinter types as well as many others in the pack were not happy to learn that we would be doing 80 laps of almost three-quarters of a mile in length. The officials would not relent, so we got started amidst much verbal complaining.
The race went smoothly and was completely uneventful until the halfway point when we had an unwelcome visitor in the pack. Guy Gelband, who had been a remarkable bicycle racer the previous year, had dropped out of racing at the end of that year, and had not even renewed his racing license. Well, here he had just appeared in the middle of our pack looking very scruffy, was wearing cut-off jeans, a T-shirt, and no helmet. His presence in the pack was not welcomed.
The referees soon caught on to the problem and had the announcer request the removal of the unregistered and unlicensed rider in our pack. This went on lap after lap, and Mr. Gelband ignored the requests from both the referees and the riders to withdraw. Recalling the pack's strong disdain about having to race such a long distance, the referees got the bright idea that they would announce to the pack that the unwelcome rider was now our problem, and that they would simply stop turning the lap cards until the situation was resolved. The racers' anger about the length of the race was now focused directly on Mr. Gelband, and it was clear the the problem would soon be resolved.
I could hear a scramble for position some distance behind me. I could even hear one of our district's most agressive sprinters ordering the other riders to "Let me through! Let me through!" Shortly thereafter, I heard the ugly sound of a single bicycle crash, followed by an unfamiliar voice proclaiming, "Problem solved!" On the next lap, I noticed that at the scene of the incident was a wooden police barricade that had been neatly broken in two. Normalcy returned to the race, and the referees immediately resumed turning the lap cards, much to the relief of most all of us.
Given the duration of the race, I decided to slink to the back of the pack where the riding was very easy. I conversed with teammate Hal Tozer as the miles rolled by. With ten laps to go, Hal asked me if I was going to just sit there as the breakaway disappeared. Huh? To my surprise, I had been so busy chatting with Hal that I had failed to notice that a breakaway group had materialised and was ten or fifteen seconds up the road. Realizing that this was the last big race of the year and knowing that if I failed to go for it that I would later have regrets, I decided to put all of my eggs into one basket.
For no apparent reason, the one hundred man pack inexplicably slowed on the homestretch and drifted to the left side of the road. I left Hal behind and managed to pass all but about three members of the large pack along the home stretch. While doing so I noticed that there were about seven riders up the road, but worried about joining them because they did not look like they were riding tightly together.
Regardless, I decided to continue to push on and join them anyway, and on the backstretch I quickly left the pack for good. I soon reeled in a rider who was about halfway between the pack and the breakaway. It was Norm Alvis (U.S. Olympic team member and U.S. hour record holder), a good man that I really liked. I made it clear that I would give him a free ride, so he latched on, but as I got close to the breakaway, I noticed that he had failed to maintain contact. I also passed Lee Fleming (1981 U.S. Criterium Champion) who also attempted to draft me (by far his greatest skill), but I was feeling very good that day and he too failed to hang on. Finally, I caught up to the breakaway.
I was in a pretty stellar group of riders, but was quite confident after having reeled them in so decisively. Suddenly, every one was working well together, and I fit right in. The lead on the pack soon grew to thirty seconds. At the beginning of the bell (last) lap, the announcer stated that there would be an additional prize for the winner; a pair of wheels with Mavic SSC Blue rims. These wheels were awesome as well as expensive; they were the first properly heat-treated and anodized aluminum rims, and only a priveledged few in the Tour de France had enjoyed them.
I manipulated my position within the group such that I was the last of the five riders going into the second to last turn. The two guys at the front wound it up into a frenzy, and most of us did some pedal scraping through the last two turns. After the last turn, those two guys peeled off like a banana and promptly expired. I was lucky enough to be behind Keith Vierra who was behind Larry Shields. Larry, a guy not known for his sprinting abilities, took us half of the remaining distance to the finish line, and then he too faded. That left me following Keith Vierra. To me it was as if there was nothing else in the world.
Knowing that Keith had ten years of solid experience and that he had been logging 500 to 600 miles per week for the last several years, I should have submitted to the reality that he was simply a superior being, but I could see one of the promoter's helpers standing at the finish line and staring blankly into space, holding those wheels that I would have nearly died to have. With a hundred meters to go, I started to come around Keith, giving it everything that I could muster.
Keith wasn't about to pack his bags and go home. He did everything necessary to match my efforts. As I struggled, I realized that my year away from the weights had taken its toll and that I was no longer such a capable criterium sprinter. Keith was struggling as well, and we crossed the line in the same position that we had held for the last fifty meters; he had beaten me by a wheel. After finishing, Keith complimented me on a great ride for somebody who had had so few miles, and I complimented him on his worthy sprint. He expressed pleasure with his sprint saying that everything had gone perfectly for him yet he had to give every last drop to hold me at bay. Keith Vierra, Greg Lemond's able assistant, truly deserved that set of wheels...
While warming down, I heard a familiar voice yell my name. It was Norm Alvis becconing me to his flock for a social visit. I rolled up and stopped in front of the real star of Norman's show, Butch Stilson. Butch had been a commanding road racer in the 1970s, winning the Northern California Road Race Championship, but had had his racing career cut short by a freak surfing accident that had left him a quadripalegic. While the life had been taken out of Butch's body from the neck down, it was as if he had gotten it all put back from the neck up. His brain worked faster than that of most of us combined, and with an irresistable twinkle in his eye, he would spot the beginning athletes with the most potential (like Norm Alvis) and would coach them to greatness. Few people are aware of how many world class cyclists have come from the Sacramento, California area as a direct result of Butch's touch. While I was too independent and lacked the focus required to be one of his subjects, he had once given me a bunch of used (but fixable) tubular tires after putting the screws to (and dropping) a couple of his up and coming stars at a Sacramento Twilights race.
There was the usual post-race banter emanating from the group as Butch gave me a heartfelt congratulations on my second place finish. As Butch scanned his surroundings, his eyes suddenly bulged, fixated on some part of my bike. He then exclaimed "Oh my dear God," catching everyone's attention. He then explained that the tires on my bike (Barums from Czechloslovakia, a very rare item during the Cold War) had been on his racing bike when he won Northern California's road race championship in the mid-1970s. Some looked at me with great admiration, while others expressed quiet concern about me having raced on seven year old tires. Those remarkable tires saw the heat of battle as late as 1986 before they were through. Thank you, Butch...