Moments later, here Heinz comes, strutting across the street, cardboard box in hand. Heinz immigrated to New York from Germany as a kid. He’s part German, part New Yorker, a ferocious combination. We’re scared to death of him. He always has his eye on us. He frequently casts us glares from across the street. It makes our knees weak.
Thump, thump, thump!
He’s knocking on the door. Answer it, Jay says. Crap. I open the door.
“We didn’t do it!” I say.
“Let me tell you something,” Heinz says. “Anybody throws any more stones at my house, I break your arm off!”
He drops the stones right there at the entrance to our house. Then he leaves.
An hour later my mom, Gail, comes home. Round two. She sees the box of rocks. “What the hell is this?” she asks. Here we go, back across the street. She’s got a handful of Jay’s hair in one hand, my hair in the other. I’m a big kid, tall and rangy, but I don’t mess with my mom when she’s pissed.
Heinz opens the door.
“My kids have something to tell you,” my mom says.
“I’m sorry,” Jay says.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
We’re looking at Heinz’s feet. Heinz thinks for a second.
“Come downstairs with me,” he finally says. He takes us into his basement, where he keeps all the team’s bikes and equipment. They’re custom painted, identically. Each bike is adorned with bleach white handlebar tape. Everything white, everything gleaming. It’s the Heinz treatment. The chrome parts shine under the fluorescent lamps. Heinz explains to us how the racing bikes work. Jay and I stare at the bikes, awestruck.
Heinz knows Jay and I will like the bikes. He and Mike have watched us ripping around the neighborhood, up and down the dirt mounds, and they’re impressed. “Those kids, they’re fearless,” Mike tells his dad.
“Why don’t you do something productive, instead of just throwing stones?” Heinz says to me. “Throwing stones doesn’t get you nowhere.”
“Look, there’s a program for kids your age at the velodrome,” Heinz says. He knows my dad is Pennsylvania Dutch, as cheap as they come, and would never buy me a track bike. “It’s free, sponsored by Air Products,” Heinz tells me.
“They’ll even let you borrow a bike,” he says.
Out of guilt, more than anything, I say okay.
“Okay, I’ll give it a shot. I’ll try out the velodrome,” I say.
In the afternoons, when my mom is at work, Jay and I watch Happy Days. Who the hell are these people? we wonder. I know my mom and dad love me and all the rest of their children intensely, but in no way is my upbringing ideal.
My family is directly descended from the German immigrants enticed to settle in America by William Penn, the namesake of Pennsylvania. Prior to the Revolutionary War, tens of thousands of Germans immigrated to Pennsylvania, seeking religious freedom and lush farmland. In the fertile plains and rolling hills of the Lehigh Valley, about 60 miles north of Philadelphia, these immigrants adopted a farming lifestyle similar to the one they had led in their homeland.
(Though, not all of the Germans came to Pennsylvania as farmers. A band of feared mercenaries, the Hessians, fought alongside the British redcoats during the Revolutionary War.).
In the Lehigh Valley, these German immigrants are now known as the Pennsylvania Dutch (or simply, PA Dutch). “Dutch” is related to Deutsch, the German word for “German.” The PA Dutch here even speak their own dialect of the German language. I listen to my dad and my grandparents speak PA Dutch growing up. I never learn the unique idiom myself, other than the correct German pronounciation of our family’s last name, Note-Stine.
The PA Dutch take pride in their blue-collar work ethic and propensity for physical labor. They eschew a lavish lifestyle (to the point of obsessive stinginess) and invest in property before all else. Family comes first and foremost for the PA Dutch. Cultural delicacies include the fluffy, molasses-filled shoofly pie; stuffed pig stomach; and liver and onions. Yum.
My dad’s PA Dutch stinginess sometimes forces my family to live below our means. My first bike is a used girl’s bike because my dad doesn’t see the need for something newer and sex appropriate. I miss out on school field trips because the meager cost is deemed frivolous. Toughness is a prized trait, often instilled in us at the expense of affection. My family considers privacy sacred—even when it comes to our own emotions. I’m taught to never cry. Tears are for the weak, I’m told.
My dad wooed my mom when he was only 21, ingratiating himself to her parents by speaking their PA Dutch dialect. He grew up in the car business, starting out as a semi driver for his dad, and later inheriting the Nothstein trucking company, along with his brother. They manage a fleet of nearly 50 trucks and own more state-granted rights to haul limestone than any other trucking company in Pennsylvania. During my childhood he also owns a Ford and a Dodge dealership and acquires a number of local houses.
My dad works hard and ends nearly every day with a stop at the bar before coming home. Just a couple of drinks with the guys, he says. But too often, he’s home late, reeking of booze. My mom used to yell at him, but she’s done yelling now. Now she waits by the front door, tears welling in her eyes.
Many nights Dad doesn’t come home at all. Mom knows booze isn’t Dad’s only vice. He charmed her once, too. So Mom loads me into the car and we go looking for Dad, driving around town to his known haunts. Eventually though, Mom stops looking.
My dad gets a letter in the mail from my mom’s lawyer. My mom is seeking a divorce, and it’s best if he moves out. Though he doesn’t admit to any transgressions, and never will, my dad agrees to leave the home and custody of the kids to my mom. He moves to his hunting cabin on Christman Lake, 20 miles away.
My gregarious older sisters, Waynette and Carlene, born a decade ahead of Jay and me, help my mom raise me. In my dad’s absence, our family’s oldest child, Tim, is part big brother, part father figure. He coaches Jay’s and my Little League teams.
Though I never feel unloved or neglected, the fact my parents aren’t always around, that my home life isn’t like the other kids’, often makes me angry. Really angry.
I know of the velodrome, but I don’t actually know anything about the velodrome. My family’s Dodge dealership backs up to the parkland the velodrome sits on. Every Friday night during the racing season, I see the flags waving and the lights beaming high above the track. I can hear the roar of the crowd and the excited voice of the announcer crackling over the PA system, calling out the names of riders from far away countries such as Switzerland, Australia, and Germany.
Nothing could seem more out of place in the farmland surrounding Trexlertown than a velodrome. Locals dub the complex the crater in the cornfield. But week after week, the community programs and pro racing at the velodrome extend the reach of track cycling to a completely new demographic, which includes me.
I’m told the track exists because of Robert “Bob” Rodale, chairman and CEO of Rodale Press Inc. Rodale was an Olympic skeet shooter. He even represented the United States at the 1968 Games in Mexico City. It was during his international competitions that Rodale first saw track cycling and became captivated by the sport.
Though he never raced, Rodale had a fondness for bicycles. He frequently took long rides in the countryside to clear his mind (and to satisfy his other passion, discovering and collecting old Volkswagens). After the Olympics, he envisioned a velodrome in the Lehigh Valley that would provide a recreational and competitive outlet. So, in 1974, he donated 25 acres of farmland to the county and oversaw the construction of an unusual new park, which would contain the nation’s premier bicycle-racing track.
As word of the new velodrome spread, a handful of ardent track racers from the East Coast arrived in the Lehigh Valley. Dave Chauner and Jack Simes, a pair of Olympic cyclists, were hired as the new velodrome’s directors. Chauner and Simes knew how to put on a show. They hired an organ player to accompany the Friday night pro races and d
rew top international talent to competitions. Even Eddy Merckx, the greatest cyclist who ever lived, appeared at the track in 1978.
The track, and the small town surrounding it, became known simply as T-Town.
Families even relocated to the Lehigh Valley because of the new velodrome. That’s how Heinz and his son Mike, who lived in New York City and raced at the ragged Kissena velodrome, ended up in Trexlertown. Heinz had heard about the track and was anxiously awaiting its completion. Then, one night, he had an inkling that the velodrome was done. “Load up the car,” he told Mike. “We’re going to ride the new track.”
When Heinz arrived at T-Town, only Bob Rodale was there, checking in on the progress of the constructed, but not yet fully finished, velodrome. Mike and Heinz rolled their bikes up to the edge of the site, where Rodale stopped them. “I’m sorry, you can’t ride the track yet,” he said in a diplomatic, but firm voice.
Heinz, who had no clue that the man speaking to him was responsible for the track’s existence, replied in his guttural German accent, “Now you look here! My son and I drove all the way from New York to ride this track and I’ll be damned if anyone stops us.”
With that, Heinz took Rodale’s shoulder, steered him out of the way, and rode onto the track. Rodale, taken aback both by Heinz’s abrasiveness and his passion, didn’t intervene. After moving to Trexlertown, Heinz Walter and the Rodale family became close friends. The Rodales even briefly housed Mike’s mother after his tragic accident so she could be near the hospital where he was being treated.
Growing up, I’m taken by all things competitive. During my parents separation, I temporarily live at my grandmother’s house in Allentown. One day I’m playing basketball by myself on a court near the rougher part of town when a group of local kids surround me. They intimidate me and take my ball. I go home and tell my grandma what happened. Go get it back, she says.
The next day I show up at the court and the kids are playing with my ball. I whip their butts. I get my ball back. The next day, and the day after, I show up again. I don’t want to play basketball. I just want to fight. I learn that I like fighting. I’m a fighter. (Maybe I have a little Hessian in me.)
Jay and I pummel each other so badly and regularly that my mom asks the family doctor, “Is this normal?” She’s concerned. But my fighting spirit makes me good at sports. I love sports. Baseball: I rip the bat as if I’m trying to decapitate someone. Football: I can run full speed, right into this kid with two happily married parents at home? Yes, please. Wrestling: I pin my opponents with such tenacity that the coaches tell my mom I can’t come back. He’s hurting the other children, they say.
When I show up to the velodrome for the first day of practice, as part of the Air Products developmental program—wearing cut-off jean shorts and riding my BMX bike—I’m not looking for friends or a fun time. I’m looking to beat the shit out of some people.
I like racing more than any ball sport. Track cycling requires speed and tenacity, traits I possess. But best of all, I no longer must depend on teammates to win. If I perform, the rewards follow.
One Friday night, Jay and I watch the pros race from underneath the bleachers on the back straight. We know the racers dish out their most vitriolic barbs and semi-legal tactics on the side of the track opposite where most of the spectators sit. On this evening, Mark Whitehead, nicknamed the Outlaw, a pro racer for the team Heinz manages, is dominating the pack with his superior fitness and bike handling—as well as through sheer intimidation. He’s whipping the crowd into a roaring frenzy.
As the riders round the second turn of the track, Whitehead is jostling for position with Pat McDonough, an Air Products coach and an Olympic medalist. As the pack sweeps past us, Whitehead knocks Pat’s wheels out from under him, sending him flying across the track and down onto the blacktop that rings the bottom of the banking. Pat’s wearing pearl white patent leather shoes that leave two parallel stripes as they slide across the asphalt—like a pair of thick chalk lines scrawled across a blackboard.
Speed. Aggression. Showmanship. This is my kind of sport, I decide.
Though I’ve never ridden on a velodrome before, I’m no rookie bike racer. My two brothers and I grew up riding motocross, until my older brother, Tim, crashed and shattered his ankle in a race. My dad decided no more motorcycles, but offered to let me race either go-Karts or BMX. I chose BMX, figuring it more closely resembled motocross, and started tearing up dirt tracks across the Lehigh Valley. With my BMX experience, I quickly graduate from the beginner Air Products classes into the more advanced program.
A pro named Gil Hatton (or, Gibby, to most of the racing community) is assigned as my coach. All the kids know about Gil. He’s one of the best sprinters in the world, and a crowd favorite at the Friday night pro races. We both admire and fear him.
He’s nicknamed the Bear, and rightly so. Gil’s barrel chest is supported by a pair of short, thick legs. His helmet does little to contain his mop of curly black hair. A thick mustache adorns his upper lip. He’s notorious for his volatility, which draws me to him. I know Gil’s always up for a good fight.
Gil’s just as much a part of the velodrome’s history as anyone in T-Town. He grew up in Southern California and started racing on a small track in Encino. Soon, he was beating up on every kid in the state, then the country, and then the world. In 1974 he won the junior world championships and was heralded as America’s next Olympic medal hope.
But Gil started running with the wrong crowd after high school and forsook any Olympic aspirations. He’d been to T-Town before and knew that a bike racer could make a living riding the track there—that local girls fawned over the top riders and celebratory beer flowed freely at local pubs for the victors on Friday nights.
One evening in 1980, Gil was hanging out beside a friend’s pool near LA, partying, when he decided to come east. “Pack up your shit,” he told Pat McDonough, who was a few years younger than Gil at the time and owned the car they would drive to T-Town. “We’re leaving tonight.”
Gil knew that in order to salvage his cycling career he needed to leave California. “I’m going, and I’m never coming back,” he told his dad, who’d driven him all over the country, to all those junior races. He loved his dad more than anyone.
Gil and Pat’s trip east would become T-Town lore. Adamant that Gil was too intoxicated to drive, Pat took the wheel and pointed his Plymouth Champ toward the desert. The sun was just cresting on the horizon when Gil was jolted awake. Pat had fallen asleep at the wheel, and the car rolled off the side of the road, somersaulting several times before landing in the sandy brush. Dirt covered everything inside and outside the vehicle.
They’d only made it 140 miles from LA. Gil groggily looked over at Pat, who had blood matted in his dusty hair. After realizing neither of them was dead, he said, “I’m going to fucking kill you!” Their bikes were trashed, and the car was barely drivable, but Gil remained set on getting out of California. He kicked out the shattered front window, got the car towed back up onto I-40, tied a bandana around his mouth and nose to keep out the bugs, and continued the trip eastward.
Days later, the pair drew the eyes of every racer at the T-Town velodrome when they pulled into the gravel parking lot. The car’s frame was bent, and though the wheels tracked a semi-straight line, the crumpled vehicle looked as if it was constantly making a right turn. Only one set of bike wheels survived the crash, so Gil and Pat flipped a coin every Friday night to see who got to race. Gil earned enough in prize money to buy new parts, and eventually he became the Bear, one of T-Town’s top sprinters.
Now, he’s my coach.
During practice one day Gil overhears me bragging to the other kids. He’s sick of me showing off during practice and cutting up while we’re working out.
“Hey smart ass,” Gil shouts at me. “Why don’t you see how you fare against me, then.” He proposes a 3-kilometer pursuit. I cockily accept. Gil starts on the home straight. I line up on the opposite side of the track
. The first cyclist to ride nine laps and cross his own finish line, wins.
I’m a freshman in high school and as awkward-looking as they come: 6 feet tall and 160 pounds, with a wispy mullet. Gil’s 31 and is still morphing from a youthful punk himself into a cagey vet.
We start.
I put my head down and pedal as hard as I can. I’m too new to know how to pace myself. I just go all-out. Three laps in, I look across the track. We’re even. But Gil knows exactly how to gauge his effort. Six laps in and he’s pulling away. I’m wobbling. Falling apart. My long arms and legs shoot out in every direction. We approach the finish; Gil cruises across the line a couple of seconds in front of me. He’s breathing through his nose.
“I’ll give you 10 minutes, then you’re doing a 200-meter sprint,” Gil says.
I scowl at Gil, but inside I’m ecstatic. The battle continues.
I’m too young to know I shouldn’t be able to sprint after an all-out pursuit effort. I take a flying start for the 200, dropping off the top of the track as Gil showed us, gaining speed, hugging the apron. I cross the finish and Gil thumbs his stopwatch: 11.7 seconds. Just a half second off the junior track record, set by a Soviet rider when the junior world championships were here in T-Town. Holy shit, Gil thinks, this kid is good.
“Get back over there with the other kids,” he growls at me.
I love racing, but I’m just 15 and other sports still interest me, too. I do all the community programs, but I also go months without riding. Luckily, Heinz and Mike are keeping tabs on me. Mike’s mom, Inga, rolls him out onto their driveway in the afternoons so he can get some sun. I see him on my way home from training rides, and I stop to talk.
I tell Mike that I’m getting dropped from the Derby, T-Town’s Sunday morning hammerfest; that my track stand still needs work; and that I even sometimes struggle to get my foot in the toe straps of my pedal at the start of road races. Mike offers me encouragement, sharing some of the same tips he learned as one of the country’s top junior racers. Now that I race, Heinz no longer glares at me as he used to. But I still approach him gingerly. I know he’s tougher on cyclists than anyone else. When one of the racers he manages does poorly, he marks over his name on the side of the team van with black tape until the rider eventually redeems himself.
The Price of Gold Page 3