I go back to the compound. It’s still not over. Tomorrow I race for gold.
It’s 1976 and I’m 5 years old. I sit next to my mom in front of the TV and watch the Montreal Olympics. Nadia Comaneci scores a perfect 10 on the uneven bars. Bruce Jenner wins gold in the decathlon. A teenager named Greg Louganis takes silver in diving on the 10-meter platform. I’m enthralled with the pageantry of the Olympics and intensity of the competition. I’m only 5 and the Olympic dream is becoming my dream, already.
An athlete on the TV bends forward as the gold medal is draped around his neck. The national anthem plays. I jump up on the coffee table and raise my arms.
“I’m going to win the Olympics someday,” I shout.
Cute, my mom thinks.
More rain crashes down on Stone Mountain the Sunday morning of the match-sprint finals. It peels down the rock’s smooth face in thick sheets. The track is too slick to race on. So we wait. It’s a long wait. The kind of wait that tests athletes’ nerves and makes them wonder if today really is their day. This kind of wait cracks a lot of athletes. I see it all the time. I see it in athletes’ eyes. I can tell who’s going to crack just by looking at them. Two days before the event, they’re riding world-record pace. Then they tank.
Some athletes say the Olympics are just like any other event. I’m going to approach the Games just as I would any other race, they say. They try to take the pressure off by denying that it exists. I do the opposite. The Olympics are not just another event. This is the biggest sporting event in the world. And you better bring your best, because everyone else is bringing theirs.
I’m not nervous, even as the rain pelts the putting green outside our rental house, and we keep waiting. I pride myself on being unflinching. I’m like Stone Mountain. Control what you can control, I tell myself. I thrive on the pressure. I feed off it. The closer the race gets, the more excited I become. I can’t wait to get it on.
On the TV there’s nothing but news about the explosion that occurred at 1:30 a.m. on Saturday in Olympic Park. A woman died. A hundred more people suffered horrendous shrapnel wounds from a crudely made pipe bomb. I’m pictured in Sports Illustrated observing a moment of silence before Saturday’s semi- and quarterfinals.
“It’s a shame and my heart’s out to everybody,” I tell Gary Blockus from the Morning Call, my hometown paper. “But I’m here to win a medal at the Olympic Games and nobody’s going to stop me.” Control what you can control.
Today is the last day of track cycling at the Olympics. And so far, the USA Cycling team has underperformed, horribly. The only medal came from Erin Hartwell, Erv, the guy I’ve roomed with on the national team since I was 18. Erv and I are peas in a pod. Best buds. We bring the same tenacity to training and racing. He was born in Philadelphia and raised in Indiana. Erv shares my blue-collar work ethic. He’s also dreamed about the Olympics since he was kid. Neither of us believe we’re capable of losing.
Erv is my leadoff hitter. He sets the bar, and I try to clear it. On Wednesday he rips the 1-kilometer time trial on his Superbike and bests his previous Olympic performance by a podium spot. He brings a silver medal back to our house. He’s ecstatic. I’m pumped. Now go get the gold, he tells me. I’m USA Cycling’s last opportunity to justify Project ’96—hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of pressure.
Finally, the track dries. Time to race. I’m ready. I face the German, Jens Fiedler. He’s the defending Olympic champion, a vestige of the East German sprinting machine. These athletes didn’t choose sprinting, they were chosen. Fiedler studied under Lutz Hesslich, the most feared match sprinter ever. Hesslich won the 1980 Olympics, skipped ’84 because of the boycott, then came back and won again in ’88. The Germans are methodical and precise. They expose their opponents, then mercilessly dissect them.
Fiedler’s sprinting style is absent of holes. He’s bulletproof tactically and among the quickest in the world. Give him a sliver of space and he’s gone. I’m faster than him at top speed. The problem is, he knows it. The tactic is out on me. He will race me from the front. He knows if I have the front, he can’t come around me.
USA Cycling sprint coach Andrzej Bek holds me on the start line. Andrzej’s from Poland and won his own bronze medal on the tandem at the 1972 Olympics. He’s been with me since I won worlds in ’94. He brings an Eastern European mentality to competition. He knows how tough Fiedler is, but for some reason, tells the press that I’ve intimidated Fiedler recently. We’ll find out. He doesn’t look scared.
No excuses, says Andrzej.
My personal coach, Gil Hatton, stands at the track’s apron. He wants to hold me on the start line, I can tell. Gil’s trained me since I first set foot on a velodrome as a scrawny 15-year-old. Over the years he’s morphed from my mentor to my training partner to my closest confidant. Every battle we’ve fought together over the last decade culminates in this moment. I’ll need every trick he taught me to win this race.
I reach down and yank on the leather straps that hold my feet into the pedals. Two straps on each foot, pulled tight like nooses. If my foot comes out of the pedal, I’m done. If I crash, I’ll crash with my bike, machine and man tumbling across the track together. I say a prayer, as I do before every race, not to crash. I pray my competitor and I will stay safe. I’m not especially religious, but if there’s a time to believe in God, this is it.
Andrzej leans into my ear. His voice is the deepest I’ve ever heard, and it’s thickened by his Polish accent. “You must take the front,” he says. Fuck, Andrzej, I think, I know.
I look over at Fiedler on my inside, closer to the apron. He’s wearing a black-and-white skinsuit with swatches of orange and yellow German stripes. His helmet is an aerodynamic round, white cap that makes him look like a water polo player. He sits atop a black carbon-fiber bike with thick, bladed tubes. His body is a specimen: 6 feet tall, 200 pounds, not an ounce of fat on him.
I prayed we won’t get hurt, but I want to kill him. I want to rip his fucking throat out. I want to win this race, and I want to make his death quick, decisive.
Fiedler takes a deep breath and stares straight ahead. He shoots the air out of his narrow nose in three quick bursts. Then he puts on his dark sunglasses. It’s time to race. The official looks at Fiedler, he nods. The official looks at me. I nod. Fiedler’s won the prerace draw. He assumes the lead.
Fiedler does exactly as I suspect. He’s riding defensively, guarding the front. He doesn’t want me to pass. And because he’s required to lead the first lap, it makes his job a lot easier. He eyes me as I stalk him from a few bike lengths back. As we round the backstretch, I start to wind up my sprint.
I make a charge at him. One quick burst to pass him and claim the front, then guard the position until I’m ready to sprint for the line. But Fiedler sees me coming. He opens up, and because he’s so goddamn quick, it takes him no time to match my speed. I draw even with him through the fourth turn. We’re shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow. I’m leaning into him as we enter the home straight. But Fiedler won’t back down, even though I outweigh him by 25 pounds. He keeps me high on the track’s banking, making me ride a longer distance to get around him. He’s not intimidated at all.
I back down. We’ve traded jabs, and Fiedler has landed one on my chin. I won’t outmuscle him. So I try to trick him, just like Harnett. I’ll fake that I’m coming over the top and try to drop underneath, anything to get back to the front. But he’s bulletproof tactically. He’s more experienced than me and he learned from one of the best, ever. He positions perfectly. There’s no room for me to drop underneath him or come over the top.
If I’m going to see the front of this race it will be a few feet before the finish line. I must time my sprint perfectly, using Fiedler’s draft to build my speed and pass him just before the line. One lap to go. Fiedler starts winding up his sprint. By the middle of the first turn he’s flying, and I’m planted right behind him, aiming for his right hip.
We hit the back straight. Fiedler
accelerates. He’s going faster, faster, all the way to the finish line 200 meters away. But I’m gaining, narrowing the gap to his rear wheel. I’m still in the draft, but the draft diminishes as I move to his right and prepare to pass. The air breaks over the front of his body like the wake coming off a boat. Behind him it’s placid and smooth. Sprinting is effortless. But to Fiedler’s right, the turbulence of the air starts to hit me. I’m in the choppy surf, and I must pedal twice as hard.
So I do. We’re in the final turn and he can feel me coming, bringing more speed. I’m going to whip past him as we drop out of the last turn onto the homestretch. But Fiedler rides higher on the track than a sprinter normally would. Normally the front rider takes the quickest route to the finish, low on the track, which also leaves no space for an opponent to sneak underneath them. But he stays above the red line denoting the sprinter’s lane.
Fiedler knows track-racing rules dictate that once a rider establishes a low position, below the red line, he can’t leave. He’s the German tactician. If he’s in the sprinter’s lane, he can’t legally move up on the track to block me from passing. He can’t hook me without risking disqualification. A hook is a violent whip of the bike up the boards, which breaks your competitor’s momentum. It forces him to back off the pressure on the pedals just for a moment, and takes away the advantage gained from sprinting in your draft. To the casual spectator, a properly thrown hook looks like an unintentional loss of control. But believe me, at this level, no hook is unintentional.
We race into the final turn. My front wheel draws even with Fiedler’s rear wheel. Then it comes: He flicks his bike just a foot to the right, trying to beat me back. We’re going 45 miles per hour, and Fiedler’s swerving at me. But I anticipate his hook. I adjust, and by the middle of the turn I’m at his hip. I’m reaching my max speed as we sweep into the finishing straight. I’m flying up on Fiedler, but it might be too late. Fifty meters to the line, and every 10 meters I make up a foot. I’m at his hip, his shoulder, still gaining, there’s the line. The first front wheel across the tape wins. We lunge, throwing our bikes in front of us with our arms outstretched and our heads down.
We’re mirror images of each other. We cross the line and I sail in front of Fiedler.
Photo finish.
The officials go to the tape. The camera, shooting 10,000 frames per second, decides my fate. But I don’t need a camera to know I crossed the line first. Every racer knows whether they won or lost, no matter how close the finish. It’s instinctual. I’m my own camera. Even NASCAR drivers traveling 200 miles per hour can tell if he won or lost by an inch. But my victory is in the hands of the officials.
After 20 minutes, they come back with an answer. I lost. I know I won, but they prove me wrong. An official says Fiedler beat me by a centimeter. By one thousandth of a second.
I’m deflated, down one ride to the reigning Olympic champ. I must take the next two sprints to win gold. The sky is dreary and dark. The crowd is quiet, the energy and excitement from the day before gone. We think about protesting the result. But what are we going to show them that they haven’t already seen?
Screw it, I say. Let’s go kick Fiedler’s ass, right now—twice in a row.
We line up. I’m on the inside now, leading out the first lap, unless Fiedler wants to pass me, which he will. I reach down and tighten my straps. “You must control the front,” says the deepest voice I’ve ever heard. Fuck, Andrzej. I know!
The officials look at me, I nod. They look at Fiedler, he nods. Go. Andrzej pushes me. Fiedler’s coach pushes him, only much harder. He’s half a wheel in front of me right off the line. He takes three hard pedal strokes and claims the front. Fuck!
Same game. I charge Fiedler. He holds me off. I try to dive underneath him. He protects the inside of the track. He keeps me at bay until he’s ready to start his sprint. He won’t let me reach my max speed. He knows he’ll lose. One lap to go. Fiedler’s weaving all over the track as I charge toward his rear wheel. He’s above the sprinter’s lane, below the sprinter’s lane. Never flagrant enough to draw the ire of the officials, just enough to keep me at bay. I’d do the same thing, if I had the front.
We round the last corner, and again I’m gaining ground on him. I’m the faster rider. I reach his hip, his shoulder, there’s the line. Fiedler beats me by half a wheel.
He wins the gold medal. I lose.
It’s 5 days before the Games and I’m hitting golf balls with Andrzej, Gil, and Erv. I hit a ball into one of the little ponds dotting the course. I reach toward the pond to get the ball, and spot a water moccasin, curled up right next to my hand. It’s looking back at me. I dare you, it’s saying. Oh shit. I don’t panic. I slowly pull my hand away from the pond. I leave the golf ball right there. I think, some things happen for a reason.
As we let the gears spin out on our bikes, I ride next to Fiedler. I shake his hand. I rub his round, white helmet. He pumps his fist in the air, triumphantly. It was a fair fight, a good match. I lost to a worthy competitor, one of the greatest Olympic track cyclists of all time. I ride over to my family sitting in the front row of the bleachers.
I haven’t touched them in a month. I isolate myself during the Games, and they know to give me space when I’m competing. We talk once per day on the phone. That’s it. Now I wonder if that isolation was worth it. I love my family. I kiss Christi, my fiancée, and squeeze Tyler, my 17-month-old son. My mom and dad, separated since I was in middle school, and my siblings congratulate me. My younger brother, Jay, my closest ally throughout childhood, slaps me on the back.
What do you say to someone who just lost gold? They tell me what they think I’ll want to hear. Boy, that first race was close. We think you won it, too, they say. My mom is in a wheelchair. She broke her leg in the spring, and suffered a complication from a blood clot during the competition. Of course, she made the family promise not to tell me what happened. She’s hoarse from screaming during the races. (Even though she refuses to watch anything but the last lap, for fear I’ll crash.) “We’ll get him in 4 years! The year 2000!” she tells reporters.
“All in all, I’m extremely happy,” I tell the press. “We accomplished the goal of winning an Olympic medal.” I say all the right things. I give the quotes people expect. I say what you expect of an Olympian, a world-class athlete. I speak the words of someone with endorsement dollars on the line. Part of me even believes what I’m saying.
I put on my Olympic podium tracksuit, a special uniform every athlete is given, but only those who participate in a medal ceremony get to wear. I stand atop the medal podium. I raise my arms for the obligatory photo ops. All the while a quiet rage starts building inside me. My mind absorbs what my body just experienced. It makes me mad. I’m the fastest rider in the world, and I lost on my home soil, in front of my family and my friends. I waited my entire life for this moment, and I let it slip through my hands. I lost because I made a tactical mistake. The German national anthem plays, and I nearly snap. I want to punch Fiedler’s lights out. I harness every ounce of mental restraint to keep from physically tackling Fiedler off the top step.
I walk back to the little cubicle, called the cabin, each team gets on the infield of the track. Andrzej and Gil and my masseuse, Eddie Balcerzak, are there, packing. They’re happy. We got a medal. We should go home, clean up, celebrate. Right?
I see my bike. Silver. I hate silver. I let everyone down. I let down my coaches, my family, my country.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Fuck! I think. I toss the medal onto a table as if it’s a bag of nickels. “I didn’t come here for this fucking color,” I say. Andrzej, Gil, and Eddie stare at me blankly. What do you say? Shit, they think.
“We start training for Sydney tomorrow,” I growl.
2
MY KIND OF SPORT
I REACH down and pick up another round river stone from the edge of our house’s aboveground pool. I cock my arm back, aim, and release the stone like an outfielder throwing to home. It soars from our side yard, ac
ross the street, and hits the neighbor’s roof—thwack! The rock rolls off the roof onto the lawn. My little brother, Jay, smirks. He’s 13 years old, 1 year younger than me, and my partner in hell-raising. He can beat that. He launches a rock that hits the garage door square on the top panel. Thwack! I can beat that. Thwack!
Inside the neighbor’s house, Mike Walter, 26 years old, sits in his wheelchair. He’s paralyzed from the neck down. He was riding his bike on a nearby road, when a drunk driver hit him from behind. At the time of the accident, Mike was one of the top young cyclists in the United States, 18 years old and headed to the junior world championships, to be held at the track right here in Trexlertown. Now he’ll never pedal a bike again.
His dad, Heinz, the manager of the Panasonic Shimano professional cycling team, is out shopping. Mike is at home with his friend Ian Jackson, a racer from Australia. Mike can’t be at home alone. They hear the rocks slamming against the garage door. Ian goes outside to see what the hell is going on. He spots Jay and me.
We run inside and hide.
We’re not looking for trouble. We’re just bored. There’s not a single other kid our age in the neighborhood—just a bunch of half-built houses and big mounds of dirt. We race our BMX bikes up and down the dirt mounds. We jump in the pool. Then, for some reason, we start throwing rocks. We know it’s wrong. We’re just bored.
Jay and I peek out the window from behind the blinds. Heinz’s big silver van creeps down the street and pulls into the driveway. The side of the van is decorated with a bike rider and racing stripes. The riders’ names are hand painted on the side. Heinz climbs out. He sees the rocks. They’re scattered all over his perfectly trimmed lawn. He picks them up. He counts more than 30 stones. He puts them in a cardboard box. He sees the dents in his garage door, shakes his head, and walks inside.
The Price of Gold Page 2