I’m warming up for my match when I notice a large military presence in the bleachers. Then, the announcer erupts into a flurry of Spanish over the loudspeaker, enthusiastically shouting, “Fidel Castrooo!” A thickly bearded man wearing a green, flat-topped army cap stands and waves. The crowd erupts in applause. “CUBA, CUBA, CUBA,” they chant. The infamous Cuban dictator is watching my race.
I face an Olympian from Argentina named José Lovito in the quarterfinals. I’m accustomed to encountering top international racers at T-Town, but I’m not prepared for the intensity of an event like the Pan-Am Games. Lovito’s worked his ass off in anticipation of the Games. I’ve just shown up. We go toe to toe in three photo-finish sprints. Lovito wins and moves on. It stings. I learn I can compete against the best in the world as an individual racer, but I’ll need to work harder to win.
After the Pan-Am Games I head to Stuttgart, Germany, for senior worlds. Erv and I aim to win a medal on the tandem. Upon arriving in Germany, we open the door to our hotel room and discover a single king-size bed. Erv and I both stand over 6 feet, and we each weigh more than 200 pounds.
We look at each other. Control what you can control, we think. We build a barrier of pillows down the middle of the bed and go to sleep.
In the tandem sprint tournament we ride well, but not well enough to make the medal round of the tournament. We end up fifth, the highest possible finish outside the medal group. It’s my third trip to worlds, and I’m still only 20 years old.
That fall, I decide not to register for classes. I’m emboldened by my Pan-Am performance, even though I was disappointed by the final result. The Olympics are a year away. I want to focus on racing and training, without the stress of midterms and finals.
My parents are pissed. “What will bike racing do for you?” they ask. Cycling isn’t a career, they say. I don’t argue. I know supporting myself will be a struggle.
I just know I want to win the Olympics one day.
In the winter before the ’92 season, I tell Christi, “We need to talk.” Though we’ve dated since our senior year of high school, we’ve always maintained our individual identities. We’ve never really discussed our future together.
While I’ve become increasingly committed to cycling over the past year, Christi quit racing after high school. Her decision came as a disappointment to her parents, especially her dad, a cycling nut. Christi’s parents stopped supporting her after she stopped bike racing. Now she works 40 hours a week at Prudential Insurance and takes night courses at Cedar Crest College.
As we sit down to talk, Christi braces herself. I rarely approach her so gravely. She’s certain we’re breaking up. “I want you to know that I love you,” I say. “But I really think I could become the best sprinter in the world if I get serious, if I put 100 percent into racing. I want your support, but I also want you to understand, there might be days, weeks when I’m training and traveling and racing, and don’t have time for you. I need you to know this is why. I want to be number one.”
“Go for it,” Christi says. She’s seen the top level of the sport, too. She knows the dedication it will take to compete with the best in the world. We’re not just a couple of talented kids, having fun and riding our bikes anymore. I’m an adult, trying to make track racing my livelihood. I’m set on achieving my childhood dream.
“I’m here. Don’t worry about me. Do what you need to do,” Christi tells me.
In preparation for the ’92 season, I’m in the weight room almost every day, crushing myself. When Erv and I lift together, we end every workout with a contest we call the backbreaker. We rack 80 percent of our max one-rep lift onto the squat bar and see how many times we can put up the weight before collapsing.
Gil, who’s not racing anymore, yells and screams at us as we reach a dozen reps. We strain, wobbly kneed, to put up just one more lift. Then Gil gets in on the backbreaker himself, often showing us up. (Of course, he doesn’t do the whole workout before hand.) The backbreaker guarantees that we don’t cheat ourselves in the weight room. No one will outwork us, Erv and I vow. I leave the gym every day feeling like a piece of scrap iron worked over by an abusive blacksmith.
When USA Cycling snubs me by not selecting me for a national team training camp, I’m only more motivated. The director of the T-Town velodrome, Pat McDonough, one of my coaches as a junior, gets an explanation from the Feds regarding my exclusion from the camp. McDonough says the Feds don’t view me as a worthy project. He says the Feds call me an “undesirable.”
I pledge to get so fast that the Feds can’t refuse me. Then I will set my own terms, hold my own training camps, and invite the riders and coaches I want.
I show up to the Olympic Trials in Blaine, Minnesota, in the best shape of my life. My muscles feel twitchy and primed, as if they might pop out of my skin at any moment. Everyone expects me to challenge for the sole Olympic team spot for sprinters, including myself.
Most of the other sprinters focus on just one event. But I’m young, and I have yet to identify my specialty. Gil encourages me to enter a variety of events. I plan on competing in the kilo and match sprints during the Trials, as well as vying for national titles on the tandem and in the keirin throughout the week. But only the kilo and sprints are Olympic events in ’92. Win one of them, and I go to Barcelona.
The 2-year-old velodrome in Blaine is a 250-meter wooden track, designed to mimic the Olympic velodrome in Spain. With steep, 43-degree banking and a perfectly smooth surface, it rides lightning fast.
The keirin opens the Trials as an exhibition race for prize money in front of a couple of thousand fans—just as at T-Town. The race also serves as the keirin national championships. Last year, I placed second in the keirin at nationals. This year, I beat Nelson Vails, a silver medalist at the ’84 Olympics, and take my first individual national title as a senior. I’m off to a good start.
A few hours later, I line up for the kilo. There’s no standard qualifying time required to enter the kilo. Every racer in the country thinks there’s a shot at winning the kilo and going to the Olympics. The field of racers fills to 49. I’m one of the early starters.
I tighten my toe straps and rip off four laps around the track as hard as I can. The clock stops at 1:06.69, a track record. Dozens of riders follow me, and none can beat my time. But Erv hasn’t ridden yet. He’s won the national kilo title 3 years running. Our parallel paths toward the Olympics awkwardly converge. He’s my best friend, but I pray that I beat him.
Before Erv lines up to race, the sky turns black and emits a booming clap of thunder. A few sprinkles dot the track surface. Then, the dark clouds open up, and a deluge scatters the crowd. With a handful of riders yet to challenge my kilo time, the officials cancel the race. They’ll resume the kilo the following day, we’re told.
The track doesn’t dry out until the next morning, around when I show up to ride my qualifying ride for the sprint tournament. Everyone at the Trials knows I’m riding well, but they don’t realize just how fast I’m going until I nearly beat the reigning king of American sprinting, Ken Carpenter, in the flying-200-meter time trial.
Carpenter is a monster: 6 feet 4 inches and 220 pounds of pure muscle. He’s known for his unwavering work ethic and powerful mid-range sprint. He’s calm, collected, and relaxed away from his bike, but an absolute terror on the track. He frequently wins races by jumping his opponents as much as 300 meters away from the finish, and holding them off to the line.
Carpenter beats me by just 0.02 seconds in the flying-200-meter time trial. Hundredths of a second, not tenths! We essentially ride the same time. In a photo finish, the difference between our front wheels would appear nearly indistinguishable.
I celebrate my second-place seeding in the sprint tournament by clobbering my first- and second-round opponents. Then, I’m told the kilo will start all over. The officials won’t count my time against those who didn’t get to race. Everyone must compete under the same conditions, the officials contend. If I want to ma
ke the Olympic team, I have to race the kilo again.
I need to make a decision. Do I race the kilo and risk tiring myself out for the sprint tournament? Or do I scratch the kilo and focus on making the Olympic team in the match sprint? I ask Gil. “Scratch the kilo,” he says. I go allin for the match-sprint tournament.
The next day I win my quarterfinal race in the match sprints and meet Swift in the semifinal. Swift was seeded fourth in qualifying for the sprint tournament, and if he won his way through the bracket, he’d have faced Carpenter in the quarterfinals, not the finals. So Swift concocted a plan. He intentionally lost and fell to the repechage round. Then he won his way back out, and got me in the semifinals. The winner of our match will race Carpenter in the final.
Swift relies on guile to make up for what he lacks in natural speed. I don’t judge him for his racing style. The first wheel across the finish line wins a sprint, not necessarily the fastest rider over the final 200 meters. But I’m unsure what strategy Swift will employ to beat me. He could try anything.
Swift leads the first sprint. After the first of three laps, I come barreling over the top of him, picking up the pace and forcing him to chase me. I want him tired coming into the final 200 meters. Swift catches me shortly after the start of the third lap, and makes a run for my inside coming into the third turn. I move down the banking slightly and we bump shoulders. It’s a minor bump, but Swift acts as if I mugged him.
My love tap sends him off the track, past the apron, and onto the infield, where he skids to a stop in front of an official. As I cross the finish line alone, I see Swift gesticulating, waving his hands, and pointing in my direction. He’s feigning a foul, like a soccer player who clutches his leg and crumples to the turf but miraculously bounces back up for the penalty kick.
The officials buy his act. I’m disqualified. Swift gets the win. Now I’m pissed and Swift uses my anger to his advantage. I’m faster than Swift, but I’m still young and inexperienced. I can’t control my aggression. I win easily, but am relegated, again. Swift makes the finals. My shot at the Olympics is over.
In the gold-medal match Swift and Carpenter tangle on the run to the line on the last of three sprints. Carpenter crashes but is declared the winner when Swift is disqualified. Carpenter makes the Olympic team, but the medal ceremony is delayed. Carpenter is at the hospital getting a 7-inch splinter, a piece of shrapnel from the track’s wooden surface, removed from his back. The doctors can only get half the splinter out. Infection will push out the rest, they tell him.
After the Trials, Carpenter asks me to stay in Minnesota and train with him before he leaves for Barcelona. He’ll even pay me $500 per week and cover my expenses. I’m honored by Ken’s request. Sprinters typically avoid each other. If you want to pummel one another on the track, you don’t want to get too close in real life. But Carpenter sees me as the heir to his throne. So far I’ve proven myself the crown prince of American sprinting. Carpenter will groom me as the next king.
Erv ends up winning the kilo. But my time stands as the fastest of the Trials.
At the Barcelona Olympics, Carpenter places fifth in the match sprint. Erv surprises even himself and wins a bronze medal in the kilo. I stay home and keep training my ass off, while working part-time at the sporting goods store. A month after the Olympics end, Erv and I head to Valencia, Spain, for another shot at the tandem world championships.
The fearlessness Erv and I displayed early in our tandem partnership has faded, and we both know it. We won nationals, again, but witnessed a horrific accident. In the finals of the tandem sprint tournament, Bell and Brinker tried to pass us with only 30 meters to the finish line. Bell steered the tandem to our inside and its front wheel tangled in our rear axle. Their front wheel collapsed, catapulting Bell over the handlebars and into the ground headfirst. He was knocked out, taken to the hospital in an ambulance, and placed in critical condition, remaining unconscious for days before finally recovering. For Erv and I, the accident emphasizes tandem racing’s inherent risks. We agree not to make any mistakes at worlds.
Then, during practice one afternoon at the velodrome in Valencia, we’re in the middle of a full-throttle 50-plus mile per hour effort when our tandem’s rear tire blows out. The track is packed with other riders. I fishtail the tandem up and down the banking, trying to avoid slamming into anyone else, as we struggle to bring the tandem to a stop. The bike handles like a runaway semitrailer on a mountain pass. Finally, after three full laps, we get the bike under control.
Our impetus to race the tandem aggressively is gone. Erv’s an Olympic medalist and sees no benefit in risking his life for a less meaningful tandem world title. I’m on the cusp of becoming the nation’s top sprinter. I’m certain my own Olympic medal awaits. We’ve seen firsthand the damage a tandem crash can cause.
So, instead of beating up opponents at worlds, Erv and I wallop each other. We buy a bunch of beach balls and clear the furniture out of our hotel room. We play all-out games of dodgeball, slamming the beach balls off the walls and each other, leaving us exhausted with large welts all over our bodies—but also laughing uncontrollably. It’s a hell of a lot more fun than worrying about dying on a tandem.
We repeat our fifth-place performance from the previous year in the tandem sprint tournament, and we’re happy to leave Valencia with our skin and skulls intact.
We never race together as a tandem team again.
The ’92 season ends with one of the world’s biggest track races in Paris. The event is called the Open des Nations and takes place over 3 days with nearly a quarter million bucks in prize money up for grabs. I head to Paris as an all-around racer. The Feds figure I can race the kilo or do the flying-lap time trial or help out in the team sprint, a three-person time trial in which the lead rider pulls off after one lap. Carpenter will race the match sprints against some of the world’s best, including the reigning Olympic champion, Jens Fiedler.
The Open des Nations takes place at the Palais Omnisports, an incredible structure in central Paris. The stadium’s hexagonal shape features sloping walls covered in real grass. It looks like a large upright lawn, a big green pyramid. One of the pursuit riders on the national team challenges the other team members to see how high we can run up the sloping walls. Erv and I charge up the grassy walls outside the stadium, and slide down, getting grass stains on our USA Cycling tracksuits.
On the first evening of racing, Carpenter doesn’t seem like himself. His back hurts. He can’t sustain his sprint. Before the sprint tournament starts the following evening, he pulls me aside. Carpenter tells me he herniated a disc before the trip to Paris. He can’t produce any power.
“I can’t do it,” Carpenter says. “You have to go.”
Fueled by the sudden pressure, I dominate my early-round opponents and make it to the final, where I face Fiedler. The last time we faced each other was at the ’88 junior world championships, which he went on to win. Now he’s got an Olympic gold medal, and I’m trying to prove I belong among the best.
Carpenter offers me some advice before I head to the start line. He tells me the steep wooden track here will ride differently than the big, shallow concrete track in T-Town. When you transition from the straightaway to the turn on a wooden track, the banking increases dramatically, he says. At low speeds, you’re basically riding uphill. Don’t get hung up in the corners. Fiedler will attack you, and you won’t see him again. Take the front. Pick up your speed entering the turns. Keep Fiedler off balance—speed up, slow down—and most importantly, don’t let him pass you.
The race starts. I roll off the start line, out in front of Fiedler. I’m 21 years old, and I’m racing the Olympic champion. I need to keep calm. If I tense up, if I let Fiedler intimidate me, I’ll lose. This is the moment I’ve waited for, my chance to prove I’m number one. I’m determined to seize it.
I crane my neck, keeping an eye on Fiedler behind me. He increases his speed, inching toward my rear wheel. I match his pace so he can’t get a running s
tart on me. He keeps coming, faster, faster. He wants to take the front and control the race.
The stadium is packed, but the crowd is quiet, bewildered. Who is this American kid? Fiedler charges my right hip. I heed Carpenter’s advice. I won’t let him pass. I take a swing at him, throwing him a hook that takes us both up the banking, all the way to the wall at the top of the track. I brush the spokes of Fiedler’s front wheel with the back of my bike. The sound echoes through the stadium like a hand sweeping across the cords of a guitar. Zzzzing. The crowd lets out a collective gasp. Who the hell is this kid?
Fiedler backs off. We enter the last lap and I keep him high on the track. I won’t let him gain momentum for the sprint by dropping off the top of the track. I wind up the sprint and hit my max velocity down the back straight. Fiedler’s hung up on my hip as we enter the third turn. He’s trying to pass me on the outside, but he doesn’t have the speed. I give him a flick. I ensure I keep the lead through the fourth turn, and then, all the way across the finish line.
Yes! I just beat the best sprinter in the world. Everyone is shocked except for me. Fiedler’s livid. Who am I to throw him a hook? I’m an upstart, arrogant American kid. He’s the Olympic champ. He screams at Carpenter. Carpenter knows Fiedler would’ve done the same thing if he had the front. But Carpenter also knows Fiedler’s the Olympic champ. He suggests I go apologize to Fiedler. I walk over and shake Fiedler’s hand. “Sorry,” I say, even though both Fiedler and I know I’m not. Then, the officials relegate me. But everyone knows their call is bullshit.
The Price of Gold Page 7