The Price of Gold

by Marty Nothstein

  It’s mid-July in the Midwest. The recent rain makes the air inside the velodrome thick and muggy. Moths flutter around the floodlights towering over the track. Swift relies on tactics and guile to win sprints. I rely on the massive base I built during the winter in Alpine and my intense training under Andrzej in the spring. Instead of fading over the course of the sprint tournament, I’m getting stronger. I’ve regained my form. On the last lap, I take off, leaving Swift in my wake.

  I ultimately lose in the finals, but I consider my race against Swift my championship. When the local paper asks me if Swift and I exchanged words, I say, “I told him things come back to haunt you. He left the track crying. I left laughing.”

  I make the Pan-Am Games team. My path to Atlanta is cleared.

  I return to T-Town as a swampy heat wave hits the Lehigh Valley. Temperatures soar over 100°F inside the breezeless velodrome, and Andrzej schedules my hardest workouts for the middle of the afternoon, during the hottest part of the day.

  His plan is to prepare me for the sweltering heat I’ll encounter at worlds in sunbaked Palermo, Sicily. Palermo is one of Europe’s hottest cities. In August, the town turns into a veritable furnace.

  Riding hard in the heat now will harden me for worlds, Andrzej assures me. But many of the world-class racers based in T-Town think Andrzej’s trying to kill me. They won’t come train with me, calling the workouts a “death match.” So I train alone, my gaze set firmly on Palermo.

  Most top-level athletes will rarely acknowledge they ever need a break, but I admit my broken heel forced me to rest and helped me recover from a demanding early season. With my large aerobic base, I bounce right back. I’m in the shape I was before my crash, ready to prove I’m number one.

  I show up in Italy still hobbling on my cracked heel. My Achilles aches as well. As Dr. Dickson predicted, the tendon is overcompensating for my continually taped ankle. But despite the constant concern of my injury, I’m inspired by Palermo.

  It’s an incredible city nestled on the coast and surrounded by mountains. The narrow streets are packed with little Fiats and Vespas. Greasy Italian gangsters with chest hair and big gold chains are everywhere. The Feds caution us to behave respectfully. More bluntly, they say don’t do anything stupid. As if we needed any more of a reminder, the velodrome in Palermo is named after a local judge who prosecuted the Cosa Nostra (the Sicilian mafia) and ended up the victim of a car bomb.

  I relish the air of danger. Palermo’s gangster reputation heightens my senses. I’m on edge, ready to fight. I also like the city’s dingy feel. I come back from road rides with a thin layer of dirt caked on my lower legs. It seems like a place where only the hard survive. I truly feel like my life is on the line in Sicily.

  The velodrome in Palermo is huge. It doubles as an outdoor sports complex with a full-size soccer field in the center and expansive bleachers that seat up to 15,000 people. The track is 400 meters around. It perfectly suits the drawn-out sprinting style I’ve developed. As Andrzej anticipated, the temperature inside the stadium is blistering.

  The Feds give me a new uniform to wear during my qualifying time trial for the match-sprint tournament. It’s the latest in aerodynamic technology, a long-sleeved skinsuit coated in rubber. The material may slice through the air, but as I struggle to stretch the suit over my clammy skin, I realize it doesn’t breathe.

  The sun bakes the track as I ride my flying 200 meters. I finish my time trial in 10.47 seconds, a personal best for qualifying, then I ride straight to the infield. I’m burning up inside the rubber suit. “Get this thing off me!” I yell as the USA Cycling staff struggles to strip the sticky rubber sleeves off my arms. The suit proves more detrimental than useful. I rode faster flying 200s during practice.

  I end up seeded seventh entering the sprint tournament. That means I’ll face tougher opponents in the early rounds. I beat an Italian favorite, Federico Paris, then meet another Italian, Roberto Chiappa, in the quarterfinals. Chiappa is a former junior world champion and was fourth at the ’92 Olympics. The Italian fans, known as the tifosi, go crazy for Chiappa. They chant and bang drums as we line up for our first ride.

  “RO-BERT-O, CHI-APPA!” Boom, boom,…boom, boom, boom!

  “RO-BERT-O, CHI-APPA!” Boom, boom,…boom, boom, boom!

  Chant, yes, chant, I think. I’m about to shut you up.

  The race starts. Chiappa and I swoop up and down the banking, jockeying for position before the bell lap. He leads as we cross the finish line with one lap to go. I push Chiappa from behind, ramping up my speed, and forcing him to increase his own pace to protect the front. The faster Chiappa goes, the louder the crowd roars. Fifteen thousand fans scream as we round the backstretch. I stalk Chiappa as if I’m hunting in the woods. He’s in my crosshairs. I wait for the right moment to strike.

  We roll toward the third turn on the wide-open back straight. I stand and make a run at Chiappa’s rear wheel. Two hundred meters to go. I’m at full steam. Chiappa kicks. The Italian fans yell, straining their lungs. But it’s futile. I pull the trigger. Chiappa is dead. I blow by him as we exit turn four. A hush sweeps over the stadium. It’s as if someone pulled the plug on a stereo. I cross the finish line alone, in silence. Only the call of the Italian announcer, pronouncing me the winner, fills the void.

  Next.

  In the semifinals, I meet Hübner. He knocked me out of the match sprint a year before. He wins the first ride. On the second ride, I dive underneath Hübner just after the start of the bell lap. Three hundred meters remain between the finish line and my front wheel. I don’t care. I start sprinting, daring Hübner to come around me.

  I lean out of the saddle and wind up my sprint. My legs fire up and down like a pair of jackhammers. Hübner waits. He thinks I’m sprinting too early. But by the time he makes a run at me, it’s too late. I beat him by a wheel at the line.

  “Uno a uno!” the Italian announcer shouts over the stadium’s sound system. We line up for the tiebreaker. The winner goes to the gold-medal round. I’m emboldened by my long sprint, a product of my superior fitness. In the third ride I employ an identical tactic. I cut underneath Hübner with one to go. I wind up my sprint 300 meters out. Again, I hold him off by half a wheel at the line.

  As we cool down, Hübner extends his arm and congratulates me. “Great ride,” he says in a strong German accent. “Good luck in the finals.” But moments later, I look up at the stadium’s scoreboard in disbelief. I’m relegated. Andrzej asks the officials to review the tape. Eight officials watched the race. Just one accused me of erratic sprinting. If they look at the replay and determine I rode clean, I’ll race for a gold medal at worlds. If they agree with the sole, objecting official, I lose.

  The replay shows I hooked Hübner and flirted with the line demarcating the sprinter’s lane as he attempted to pass in the third turn. But the officials rule my aggression doesn’t warrant disqualification. I move on to the gold-medal round.

  In the finals, I face Darryn Hill for the first time in my young career. Hill is an Aussie sprinter who beat Jens Fiedler in the semifinal round. He has an angular face and a mop of frosted blond hair. He’s cocky and brash, a lot like me, and when he straps on his helmet, he’s known to turn into a total prick. I can’t wait to race him.

  But I’m also anxious. I’ve never succumbed to nerves before a race. I’ve never let a negative thought get to me or doubted that I would win. When I line up, I shut out everything but me and the track and my opponent. I feel as if I’m incapable of losing. And most of the time, I am.

  This race is different, though. I’ve trained for this race my entire life. This is my opportunity to prove I’m number one. I told Christi I was going to be the best in the world, and she believed me. “I’ll be here,” she said. And she has been.

  Now, she’s pregnant.

  Win this race, and I secure our future. The sponsors and the salary I need to support a family racing my bike will come through. Lose, and I may not even garner a headline in the L
ehigh Valley newspaper. For the first time, ever, I feel pressure. And I like it. I want to be the guy holding the ball in the final seconds of the game. I like knowing that people are counting on me.

  Andrzej holds me at the start line, next to Hill. I sit upright on my saddle, taking measured breaths, each one a little deeper than the next. With each breath I suck up the butterflies in my stomach, and blow them out into the warm night air. I close my eyes. I see Christi. I see my mom and I see my dad. I see Gil. I see Heinz and Mike. I see everyone who’s contributed to my success. These people are my team, I think. They’ve made sacrifices to help me become number one. Don’t let them down.

  I take one big, final breath. I hold the air inside. I puff out my cheeks and exhale with all my might. I expel everything but Hill and me and this track.

  I reach down and grab my handlebars. Hill grabs his handlebars. I catch a glance of Hill in my peripheral vision. I’m going to fucking kill you, I think.

  We roll off the line. I lead. I creep along the bottom of the track, riding on the blue apron. As we approach the final lap, I move up to the top of the boards, baiting Hill to come underneath me. He takes the bait, but he goes too soon, not even waiting for the steep banking in the corner to increase his momentum. I jump straight onto his rear wheel. He’s ramping up the speed and I’m tucked directly in his draft.

  With 200 meters to go, I pull to the right of Hill. At 100 meters I’m beside him, and at the line I’m in the lead. I beat him by half a wheel.

  After a 15-minute break between matches, we go to the start line again. The official blows the whistle. Hill leads. I creep up on him with a lap to go, riding high at the top of the track. Hill increases his pace, trying to fend me off. He rides in the center of the wide track, looking over his right shoulder. I ramp up my speed behind him, riding faster, faster, faster. He’s looking over his right shoulder. I’m not there. I dive into the sliver of space Hill left open at the bottom of the track. We’re elbow to elbow, exiting the second turn.

  Three hundred meters to the finish, and I’m at full gas. Once the sprint starts, everything happens in a flash, like a film on fast-forward. We bump and jostle each other as we race down the back straight, but the physical exchanges are so rapid, I barely notice we’ve touched. I sprint with all my might, trying to break him. Finally, I fend Hill off. The race is mine to win, and mine to lose.

  I bear down on the pedals. I sprint harder than anytime in my life. I’m sprinting for my life. I’m fighting off an attacking bear. Images of Christi and my unborn child flash through my head. I’m sprinting to become number one.

  Hill makes his way back to my rear wheel as we enter the third turn. He swings wide up the banking and dives back down, gaining speed and pulling right beside me as we exit the final turn. I see the line. I throw my bike.

  I’m world champion.

  A wave of jubilation washes over me. “Campione del mondo!” The announcer shouts. I pump my fist in the air. I finish my cooldown lap, jump off my bike, and bear-hug Andrzej. I get down on my hands and knees and kiss the finish line. Camera flashes pop. I’m 23, and I’m the fastest cyclist in the world.

  At the awards ceremony, Hill, Hübner, and I walk to the podium. I take the top step. I’m presented the rainbow jersey, bearing the colored stripes that signify a world champion. The national anthem crackles on over the loudspeakers. I stand solemnly, proud to represent the United States, to be an American. I try to hold in the wide grin that wants to spread across my face.

  This is the happiest day of my life.

  When I get back to the hotel room I’m sharing with Erv, some good-natured teasing ensues. He regained his place among the world’s best kilo riders, nabbing a silver medal behind the Frenchman Florian Rousseau and ahead of the Australian he trained alongside in December, Shane Kelly. After his own awards ceremony, Erv came back to the room and slammed his medal down on the table.

  “Beat that!” he told me.

  Now it’s my turn to taunt him. I gingerly lay my jersey over a chair. “Don’t sit here, Erv,” I chide. “This seat belongs to the world championship jersey.”

  Erv laughs. He couldn’t be happier for me, and I for him. We did it. We met as kids, dreaming of being the best one day. Now we’re men who’ve encouraged and pushed each other year after year. Now we’re among the best ever in our disciplines.

  But I’m not done yet. After a rest day, the qualifying rounds for the keirin start.

  I call Gil before the race. I tell him I’m going to lead out the sprint, again. He says it’s risky. Hübner will patiently wait behind me, timing his sprint perfectly to beat me at the line. But I’m the strongest sprinter at these world championships. Gil agrees I should seize my own fate rather than fight in the keirin scrum.

  We line up for the keirin finals and Andrzej holds me on the line. Andrzej and Gil are the only people I trust to hold me. They’re my corner men. They understand the technical aspects of the job, like how to set my foot in the proper start position, as well as the mental. Andrzej knows when to remind me of what I need to do during the race, and when to shut up and let me focus.

  The starter’s gun fires and I shoot off the line, grabbing first position behind the motorized pace bike. Hübner glues himself to my rear wheel. With a lap and a half to go on the long Palermo track, the pace bike pulls off. Six hundred meters remain. I put my head down and gradually wind up my sprint.

  I start at 95 percent of my max speed. Every 100 meters I increase the pace. At 500 meters I’m at 97 percent. At 300 meters I’m at 98 percent. At 200 meters I’m going full speed. I’m in pain. My arms and legs start to seize with lactic acid as I push and pull on the handlebars and pedals with all the strength left in my body. The line can’t come quickly enough. I feel Hübner behind me, leading the pack of racers.

  One hundred meters. The swarm comes. I hear Hübner’s strained breathing. From the corner of my eye, I see his contorted face beside me, inching closer and closer. I see the line…it’s…right…there…I throw my bike, arms forward, head down.

  “Scheisse!” Hübner yells as we cross the line.

  Back in the United States, Heinz has one of those feelings, as if something special happened. He is at the Boston Marathon working as a volunteer motorcycle official. But he slips into a phone booth and calls home to Trexlertown.

  Mike rolls his wheelchair to the phone and picks up.

  “Well, how did he do?” Heinz asks in his guttural German accent.

  “He won, Dad,” Mike says. “He won. The Blade is a double world champion.”

  After a few more minutes of conversation, Heinz hangs up the phone. It’s brisk in Boston, and there’s a cold wind whisking across Heinz’s face, making his eyes water. That’s the reason, he tells the other volunteers, that the tears are running down his cheeks.

  To put my world championships into historical context, you have to look way back to 1912, when the then-reigning king of American sprinting, Frank Kramer, won the match-sprint world championships. In front of tens of thousands of fans, on a now defunct wooden velodrome in Newark, New Jersey, Kramer beat the national champions of New Zealand and France to become the world’s fastest bike racer.

  Prior to his victory at worlds, Kramer had won the national championship every year since 1901. He was the highest-paid athlete in the United States, making double the salary of baseball’s superstar, Ty Cobb. News of Kramer’s world championship was a national sensation, covered in glowing detail by the New York Times.

  Growing up in T-Town, I frequently listened to tales about Kramer. I scrutinized old black-and-white photos of Kramer, a thick man with a square, protruding jaw. He wore a red-and-white flag wrapped around his waist, signifying that he was America’s best cyclist. I heard about how Kramer lost his first national championship to Major Taylor, but went on to dominate sprinting well into his forties. And how in his final race, before retiring, Kramer set a world record for a flying lap.

  I dreamed of one day winning the world
match-sprint title, just like Kramer. Now, my dream has come true. In the 82 years that passed between Kramer’s world title and my own, no other American has won the match sprint at the world championships. And though I’m still no Frank Kramer, I do own a title he never held. I’m the first American to win a world title in the keirin since the event was introduced at the world championships in 1980.

  I return to the Lehigh Valley anointed as a hometown hero. Hundreds of people gather at the Lehigh Valley International Airport to greet me. They erupt into cheers as I exit the plane. My mom and my dad are there. Gil jokingly grabs my rainbow-striped jersey and pulls it over his own head. Christi wraps her arms around me. I lift her off the ground and give her a big kiss. I rub her baby bump. Newspaper reporters clamor for quotes. Photographers snap photos of me standing beside my proud parents. I’m 23 years old. I soak in the attention.

  A few days later, I’m invited to a ceremony at the county courthouse. The board of commissioners proclaims August 26 to be Marty Nothstein Day in Lehigh County. (Lest I lose my humility, I later find a $5 parking ticket on my car.)

  Out of nowhere, I get a letter in the mail bearing the presidential seal. I open it and read the words of President Bill Clinton: “I commend you for the sportsmanship, discipline, and perseverance that earned you this great honor.” At the bottom, the president’s name is signed in black ink. I’m no Democrat, but my jaw still drops.

  At the final Friday night race of the year, the T-Town velodrome hosts an evening in celebration of my world championship wins. I decide to go for the flying-one-lap record. I obliterate the previous mark by over half a second. Then I end my season.

  The sponsorship deals and salary contracts I dreamed of come to fruition. Christi and I talk about moving out of our cramped apartment and buying a home together. I enjoy my new status as number one, and I remain determined to keep it. I remain focused on winning Olympic gold.