The Olympic velodrome is brand-new, built to the recent international standard of 250 meters in length with 42-degree banking. The boards are cut from Baltic pine, a soft wood that makes for a slightly slower surface—and favors more powerful riders, like me. Long, arching beams support the metallic gray roof above the completely enclosed track. The bleachers ringing the boards seat nearly 6,000 people. It’s named after Dunc Gray, an Australian racer who won gold in the kilometer at the 1932 Games in Los Angeles.
During the course of my career I’ve rarely qualified first in the flying-200-meter time trial. I tend to get stronger and faster as the match-sprint tournament moves forward. As my opponents fade from the repeated sprint efforts, I gain power. I ride my most blistering 200 meters in the quarterfinal and semifinal rounds.
But in Sydney, I want to come out swinging, throwing body blows, hurting my competition from the first turn of the pedals. The time trial is only 10 seconds long, but aerodynamics will make the difference between qualifying first or second.
I wear Lycra covers over my shoes to limit the resistance caused by the bulky straps. I don an aero helmet with a long fairing that extends down past my shoulders. I run disc wheels on both the front and rear of my bike. I’m an arrow in a bow pulled taut—I’m going to rip the boards right off this track.
Before I ride up onto the banking, I find Christi and the kids in the crowd. They’re sitting next to my mom. The moments before my races are the only time I’ll see them while I’m in Sydney. I wave. They wave back, excitedly.
It’s time to race.
I circle the very top of the track, inches from the hip-high wall that’s paneled in blue signs bearing the Olympic logo. I cross the start line, situated directly between turns one and two, for the final time before the clock starts. As I exit turn two, I pull up hard on the pedals, coaxing the bikes big gear into action. I gain momentum down the back straight, turning my massive legs faster, faster. I steady myself with my thick arms.
I stand out of the saddle between turns three and four. I flip the switch on. Suddenly, I’m a laser beam, pointed toward the finish line. I’m accelerating faster than most race cars as I enter the home stretch. The handlebars pull against my shoulders and chest, as if they’re trying to squirm loose from the punishment I’m doling out with my body.
I point the front wheel down the banking as I enter the first turn. I cut directly from the top of the track to the timing tape between turns one and two as if I’m riding down a slide. It feels as if someone just put his hand on my back and gave me a big push. I’m flying now, pinned against the black line at the bottom of the track, inches above the apron. I arch my back and bow my arms, making room for my legs to fire up into my chest, then down against the crankarms. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. Faster. Faster. Faster.
In the final turn, I focus on staying smooth, under control. I’m firing my legs, bracing my arms, keeping my head low and aerodynamic. I’m putting out more than 2,300 watts, but my upper back remains nearly motionless, stabilized by my tightened core muscles. I feel the G forces trying to pull my bike up the banking, but I keep the tires pinned against the edge of the track’s apron.
I sail through turn four onto the finishing straight, six more pedal strokes from each leg and I’m across the line. Every pedal stroke is the most important of my life, the pedal stroke I’ve waited 4 years to take. I’m going more than 45 miles per hour when I blow across the line.
I take a huge gulp of air. I wait for the blood to rush back to my head, and my fuzzy vision to clear, then I look at the scoreboard above the screaming rows of spectators.
10.166 seconds.
The time puts me a full 0.1 second in front of the next best qualifiers—Laurent Gané and Florian Rousseau of France—and just 0.03 seconds off of Australian Gary Neiwand’s Olympic record from Atlanta.
They don’t hand out medals for qualifying, but I allow myself a moment of celebration. I hoist my right arm up above my head, fist clenched. I leave the arm elevated for a brief moment, an exclamation point on an emphatic ride.
I enter the match-sprint tournament seeded first. Jens Fiedler is fourth.
If we both win our first three rounds, we’ll meet in the semifinals.
I draw my teammate, Marcelo Arrue, in the first round. Marcelo’s a good friend and a great athlete, but I will end his Olympic dream. Racing against Marcelo is like eating one of my own. I don’t need to play games with him; I know I’m faster in a flat-out sprint. I flick down the banking with a lap and a half to go, overtake Marcelo, and start a deliberate charge to the finish.
Marcelo struggles to reach my rear wheel as I sprint down the back straight on the final lap. The race is over before I exit the final turn. I roll across the line and raise my arm in the air. I reach back and grab Marcelo’s hand. Good ride, I tell him.
Next.
The crowd is whipped into an Aussie fervor as I roll to the start line to meet my second-round opponent, Sean Eadie. He’s a hometown favorite who lives just 10 miles from the Dunc Gray Velodrome. Eadie trains here and knows these boards better than the hardwood floors in his own home. He’s Australia’s reigning national sprint champion and the country’s best shot at a medal. I imagine how I would feel if the Olympics came to T-Town, and I understand the importance of this race to Eadie.
Everywhere I look, I see gold and blue. The sound of the Aussie crowd screaming rattles the bleachers and reverberates off the velodrome’s metal roof.
“AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE!”
“OI, OI, OI!”
“AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE!”
“OI, OI, OI!”
Chant. I think. Keep chanting.
Gil holds me at the line. After 15 years together, there’s still no one else I would want in my corner. There’s no one else I would allow in my corner.
We roll off the line. Eadie’s tense. I can see it in the way he grips the bar, how he rocks back and forth on the pedals. He’s scared of me. I’m a killer on the prowl, a shadow stalking him down a dark alley.
We start at a twitchy walk. I quicken my pace, and Eadie increases his accordingly. He lengthens his stride. He looks back anxiously. I’m still there, coming faster now. Eadie stands and presses the pedals. We’re at a brisk trot now. If he can make it to the finish line before I catch him, he’s safe. He’ll live to ride another day. If he can’t outrun me, he’s done. He’s dead.
One and a half laps to go. Eadie’s running now. Running for his life. I’m riding for mine, too. Kill or be killed.
The crowd screams like an audience at a horror movie watching an inevitable massacre: Run, Eadie, run! Run! The Blade is coming! And Eadie runs. He runs, until he runs out of gas. We hit the back straight and I move to his right. Then, I swallow him whole. We’re in the final turn. I’m beside him. He moves up the banking and bumps me. But I’m unfazed. He bounces off me and back down onto the apron. I move in front of him.
He’s dead.
My win sucks the enthusiasm out of the crowd and leaves the large domed ceiling full of sweet silence. Chant now, I think.
I raise my arm.
Next.
In the quarterfinals, I meet Craig MacLean, who earlier won a surprise medal in the team sprint. He’s a Scotsman and took silver as part of the rising British track squad. MacLean is full of bravado and determined to race me aggressively.
Gil presses tight against my body on the start line. He grasps my bike at the seatpost and handlebars and bears my 210-pound frame against his chest on the steeply banked track. I feel his head pressed tightly against my big left biceps.
“Kick his ass,” Gil says, and we roll off the line.
MacLean creeps to the front. He eyes me cautiously as I weave up and down the track behind him. He knows I want the front in this match, but he doesn’t know if I’m coming underneath him or over the top. I ride up to the railing, and MacLean comes with me. He wants to pin me at the top of the track, to slow down the race, and keep me from pushing him into a long spr
int as I did to Eadie.
I swerve at him, feigning a move down the banking. MacLean jumps. We lock eyes. He tries to prove he’s not afraid of me, moving even higher up the track, squeezing me against the boards. He tries to prove he’s not intimidated, that he can react to any move I throw at him. But he’s ridden far too high up the banking.
We enter the fourth turn with just over a lap to go. I flick my bike to the left of MacLean. My front tire misses hitting his rear wheel by just a few millimeters as I shoot down the banking. MacLean scrambles to correct his mistake. He dives down the track and tries to bump me onto the apron. It’s a clear foul, but it doesn’t matter.
I’m gone. I sprint all out down the finishing straight as the bell clangs, signaling one lap to go. MacLean can’t hold my pace. He backs off and prepares for another run at me. But I’m too damn fit and I’m too damn fast for MacLean. He can’t catch me. He’s a full two bike lengths back as we cross the line.
MacLean’s a victim of his own aggression, as I once was.
On the second ride MacLean barely puts up a fight. I drive the pace from behind, and wind up my sprint as the bell clangs one lap to go. I’m beside MacLean on the back straight and past him by the time we enter the third turn. The race is over before we even hit the final run to the line.
MacLean finishes with his hands clasped to the tops of his handlebars, his head tucked down in vanquished shame.
Fiedler’s next.
This time his helmet is yellow. The helmet is small, and smooth, and the same shade as the yellow in the red, black, and yellow stripes ringing the shoulders of his skinsuit. He wears matching yellow Adidas sunglasses. The dark lenses shield his eyes. A thin, carefully sculpted goatee rings his mouth.
He tightens his lips and forces the breath out of his narrow nose. He beats his chest. His left fist slams against his right pec, wham, then his right fist against the left pec, wham. He’s perhaps the best to ever race this event, a two-time reigning gold medalist with a brilliant tactical awareness and a sprint like a lightning strike. Beating Fiedler at the Olympics presents the biggest challenge of my entire life.
I’m ready.
Savage Garden’s “Break Me, Shake Me” blares over the velodrome’s speakers, filling the stadium with a thumping drum line. But I don’t hear a thing. I shut out everything but me and Fiedler and this track.
Gil grips my bike on the line. I exhale. Grab my handlebars. Nod.
The official blows the whistle. Fiedler takes the lead.
He rides low, just off the apron. I ride close to him, less than a bike length off his rear wheel. My tactic is unusual. Typically the rider in the rear will ride high on the banking, and drop off the top of the track to make a run on their opponent.
Not me. Not today. Four years ago I let Fiedler dictate the pace. I rode up the banking and he blocked me. He kept me from making a run at him. In Sydney, I will control this race from the back. Fiedler’s unwillingness to give me the front plays right into my hands.
A half lap in, I start to raise my pace. To maintain his position in the front, Fiedler must raise his own pace. I turn the pedals quicker, quicker still. Fiedler looks back. He sees me coming, just off his rear wheel. He rises from the saddle and throws his bike back and forth. I force him into a near sprint just one lap in.
We hit the back straight with one and a half laps to go, and I come out of the saddle again. I pound the pedals and close within a wheel of Fiedler. He sees me coming and he jumps again, trying to hold me off. We round the fourth turn, coming into the bell lap. We cross the line, already sprinting at over 40 miles per hour. The crowd howls. I’m on Fiedler’s heels, and I catch him in the second turn.
I draw beside him on the back straight. He bobs, leveraging every muscle in his body against the pedals. In the fourth turn I reach the back of his right shoulder. Just as in ’96, he rides on the red line just outside the sprinter’s lane. I know Fiedler will try to hook me, and he does. Fiedler swerves up the track, into me. He tries to knock me back.
Track racing’s rules stipulate that I can use my body to protect my space on the track if another rider moves into me. I can use my elbows or my shoulder to keep an opponent clear of my handlebars. In this instance, racing through the turn at damn near 50 miles per hour, I use my head. I lean my shoulder into his torso. I crane my neck, and headbutt him with the top of my helmet, whack!
The hit forces Fiedler back down into the sprinter’s lane, and clears my path past him. But he still holds a half-wheel advantage on me as we whip through the last turn and onto the finishing straight. I surge with 50 meters to go. Suddenly, I sprint beside him—elbow to elbow.
The lack of oxygen reaching my brain makes everything in my vision a flickering blur. But I can see the line 30 meters away. Twenty meters. Ten. Fiedler and I extend our arms. We tuck our heads—mirror images of each other. We sail across the line.
I win.
I beat Fiedler by a half wheel at the line. This time, there is no photo finish. No official review. No second-guessing. I try to mute my excitement. But this is big. I own the momentum. I jab a fist in the air. I shout into the stadium void. “Yeah!”
Now, I think, do it again.
But first, I must maintain my focus. The amount of time between the sprint matches is nothing like the hurried breaks between rounds of boxing. Minutes pass. There’s time to warm down, then warm up before the next match. There’s time to think, to analyze strategy, to come out for the next match with a new game plan. I’m sure Fiedler is thinking. He lost. He knows he must try something different. My mind flashes back to ’96. I lost gold. I didn’t come here for a silver medal.
We line up for the second sprint. I’m on the inside. Gil holds me. “Kill him,” he says. We roll off the line. I’m in front. I ride up to the top of the track, leaving no choice for Fiedler but to drop underneath me. You want the front, I think. Here, take it.
Fiedler drops into the lead, and immediately I’m pushing him from behind, just as in the last match. He’s out of the saddle, flicking the pedals over, gaining speed, and I’m right behind him. I’m in his draft, tucked into his slipstream. The bell clangs. We exit the second turn, onto the back straight. I’m beside him. We enter the third turn, and then the fourth turn. Here comes the hook. Fiedler swerves into me. Whack! My head, his torso. My path to pass Fiedler clears, again.
We sprint onto the finishing straight and I’m around him. Fiedler’s done, and he knows it. He backs off the pedals. I grit my teeth as I cross the line. I cock my arm, and pump my elbow into my side. Yes, yes, yes, yes!
I’m guaranteed a silver medal but silver won’t do this time. The Frenchman Florian Rousseau awaits me in the final.
Rousseau is a prodigy who fulfilled his promise and then some. He owns 10 Olympic and world championship medals, including a gold medal from these Games in the team sprint. In a country that’s synonymous with cycling, Rousseau ranks as one of the most accomplished racers of all time.
And in the match sprint, Rousseau is a silent assassin. He isn’t known for his tactical prowess or deft bike handling. He doesn’t play games. He isn’t an aggressor. I’m told he hates racing me because he doesn’t like getting physical. Rousseau wins by riding faster over the last lap of a match sprint than anyone else in the world. To beat Rousseau, I must ride the fastest final 200 meters of my life—twice.
Many sprinters perform exaggerated mental preparations on the start line. With a series of heaving breaths and snorts, they transform themselves from mere competitors, into predators. Rousseau’s routine is recognized worldwide. His porcelain-smooth skin draws tight across his face as he flares his nostrils and widens his eyes. He clenches his teeth as if he’s ripping into a tough steak. Over a series of inhalations, Rousseau’s eyes grow wider and wider, until they’re nearly bulging from his skull.
Me, I look as if I could care less. During the ’99 season I completely changed my start line routine, a mental preparation similar to a pitcher’s wind up, or a ba
sketball player’s movements on the free throw line. I don’t strut and prance like a fighting cock thrown into a pit. I’m ready to throw down whenever, wherever. As Rousseau performs his interpretive dance on the start line, I sit stoically on my bike, a look of sincere boredom on my face. I take a handful of deep breaths, roll my shoulders, and stare off into space. I always make sure I’m the last rider to grab my handlebars.
I wait for Rousseau to reach down for his drops. Then I count backward for 10 seconds, 10, 9, 8,…before grabbing my own handlebars. I look over at Rousseau and stare him directly in the eye. Let’s fucking race, I think. Rousseau grabs his handlebars. The official blows the whistle. You first, I think.
Rousseau rolls into the lead.
He rides at a measured pace at the bottom of the track. No games. No tricks. We’ll just ride as fast as we can ride. I sit behind Rousseau, a bike length off his back wheel. One lap goes by, then two. The bell clangs. Rousseau rises from the saddle. I stand on my pedals. He’s going now, and I’m coming.
I’m at Rousseau’s wheel by the start of the second turn. I’m in his draft. One, two, three pedal strokes and I’m beside him. One, two, three pedal strokes and I’m a half-wheel in front of him. We enter the third turn, our thick arms braced against our bars, our legs firing with every muscle fiber we can muster.
We’re riding for Olympic gold. I’m riding for my life.
We exit the fourth turn and Rousseau can’t hold the pace. He sits up. I sail in front of him. I win the first sprint. My mom jumps out of her seat in the stands. I can hear her scream. She puts her hands against her cheeks, and tears stream over her fingers.
I’m no gold medalist yet, though. Rousseau regularly beats competitors in three sprints, wearing them down with his stamina. I can’t discount him.
Between rides I go back to the US national team cabin. It’s full of supposed cycling dignitaries, USA Cycling and friends of USA Cycling who want a behind-the-scenes look at the action. I want a sterile environment. Clear the cabin, I tell Gil and Eddie. They turn to the USA Cycling officials. I’m sorry, Gil says, but you need to leave, now.
The Price of Gold Page 17