The Price of Gold

by Marty Nothstein

  It’s just the three of us, me and my team. Gil barks encouragement at me. He won’t let me forget that I’m a champion, that I’ve tortured myself for 4 years for this moment. He knows intimately how my loss in Atlanta haunted me. Three more laps to redemption.

  I look over at Rousseau’s cabin. He’s seated, a wet, white towel draped over his bowed head. “The white flag’s out. He’s surrendering,” Gil shouts at me. “He’s done. Go out there and finish him.”

  We line up. Rousseau performs his prerace histrionics. I calmly reach down and tighten the straps, imprisoning my feet in the pedals. One strap runs across my toes, one strap runs across my arch. I pull on the straps until I feel the bones in my feet compressing. I sit up on the saddle. Hands on my hips. My chest rises up and down as I stare off into space. I clear my mind of everything but me and this track and this man to my left whom I’m about to execute, swiftly and decisively.

  The whistle blows. I’m in the lead. I ride up to the top of the banking, along the rail, my head craned over my left shoulder, tempting Rousseau to come through underneath me. At the start of the second lap, he does. He races down to the bottom of the track, and I’m on him, chasing him.

  Rousseau looks back, I’m three bike lengths behind. He thinks he has me. He crosses the finish line. One lap to go. The crowd is on their feet. Screaming. My mom is screaming. Christi is jumping up and down, holding Devon tight to her hip with one arm and pumping her delicate fist in the air with the other. Rousseau is sprinting. If I want to win a gold medal, I must catch Rousseau and pass him within the next 250 meters.

  My eyes lock on Rousseau’s rear wheel; my legs fire. This is my ninth all-out sprint in the past day and a half. A rapture of pain overwhelms my entire body. But it’s quickly replaced by an adrenaline torrent. I’m sprinting on determination, on heart, on my deep will to win, and on my hatred of losing. Rousseau is sprinting more than 42 miles per hour, and I must ride 45 miles per hour to catch him. So I do. I’m at his rear wheel in the second turn. I’m beside him on the back straight.

  He doesn’t swerve. He doesn’t hook me. He dares me to ride his pace for as long as he can. But I ride faster. We enter the third turn and Rousseau gives up. We exit the fourth turn, and the second-best sprinter in the world simply stops sprinting. Rousseau bows his head in defeat.

  I celebrate on my way to the finish line.

  I’m an Olympic champion.

  A feeling of elation overcomes me. I raise my arms and flex every muscle in my upper body. I just won the biggest gamble of my life. Four years of sacrifice, with no guarantee of success. I soak in the sound of the applause-filled velodrome, and the feeling of me, alone, circling the track as a gold medalist. I want to make sure I can remember this moment for as long as I live.

  Then, just as quickly as the elation came, a feeling of relief takes its place. I never knew how much pressure I was under, until the pressure is lifted. Every muscle in my body relaxes simultaneously, as if a giant wave just washed over me, leaving the demons of my loss in Atlanta in its wake. My shoulders slump. My lower back loosens. I pull open the straps holding my shoes in the pedals. I arch my feet. I wiggle my toes.

  I look to my left and see Gil running along the apron, leaping up and down. I ride over to Christi and the kids and my mom. We huddle together and I squeeze them tight. I kiss all of them. Tyler squirms. Then, I let them go and pick up my bike. I lift it over my head and let out a primal scream, as if I’m expelling the final vestiges of Atlanta from inside me.

  Back in the national team cabin, preparing for the podium presentation, my emotions nearly overcome me. I grab a white towel and drape it over the back of my head. I feel my eyes welling with water. I did it. I did it, I think. But I won’t let myself cry, not even now. Tears are weak, I’m told.

  The medal ceremony starts. I take my place on the highest step. Rousseau stands to my right, Fiedler to my left. A thick medal disc, made with Australian gold, is slipped over my neck. The greatest song in the world, the US national anthem, comes to life over the loudspeakers. I bow my head and think about the path that led me here, and all the people who guided me along the way.

  After the medal ceremony, someone hands me an American flag. I ride another victory lap. I wave the flag above my head. Six thousand people stand and clap and cheer for me. But they’re cheering for me alone, and I didn’t win a gold medal by myself. I stop in front of my family again. I lift Tyler up like a lion carrying a cub. He’s a scrawny 5-year-old—a beautiful, blond little boy. He wraps his arms around my neck and clings tight as I roll back down the banking.

  “Look at all the people,” I tell Tyler.

  He turns his head toward the stands, and his blue eyes are wide.

  “Wave,” I say.

  He lifts his tiny arm, decorated with a temporary American flag tattoo, and throws it in the air. He’s a showman, just like me, just like his great-great-grandfather. Tyler waves his hand vigorously, a cheek-wide smile on his face. The crowd cheers even more loudly.

  A day later I line up for the keirin final. I’m the favorite, the rider everyone will work together to beat. Rousseau and Fiedler roll up to the start with their teammates, Magné and Jan Van Eijden, riding in support of them—and against me.

  The past 24 hours have flown by in a media blitz. I literally run between interviews with USA Today, the New York Times, NBC’s Katie Couric, and dozens of others. I remain enveloped in a mix of elation and relief.

  I lack my killer instinct. I’ve expended all of my determination in the match sprint. I no longer smell blood. I still smell the fresh roses I held atop the awards podium days earlier as the national anthem played. To me, the match sprint is the most historic and prestigious track race. I got what I came for. The keirin is an afterthought.

  The gun sounds and I don’t fight for the front as we sprint off the start line. The home favorite, Gary Neiwand takes first wheel. I ride off the back of the group, staying behind the white water. I leave space to make a run over the top of the pack. I eye the group ahead through the clear lenses of my gold-plated Oakleys.

  The pace bike pulls off, the riders surge into action, and I’m late to respond. I wind up and jump with one lap to go, but Magné and Van Eijden sit at the back and block my route over the top. They protect their teammates by throwing me sweeping hooks through the final turns. Rousseau wins. Neiwand and Fiedler finish second and third. I’m a disappointing fifth.

  But it doesn’t bother me, not as it should. Not as it used to.

  Christi is more upset than I am. “What were you doing out there?” she scolds.

  We fly back to the United States, to my home in the Lehigh Valley, and I’m more content than at any other time in my racing career. I feel free. Free to sleep deeply at night, without asking myself whether I’m doing enough. Free to waste my previously precious energy tossing Tyler high up over my head and tucking Devon into bed on a nightly basis. Free to act like a human, instead of like a robot.

  I’m free to live the rest of my life as the Olympic champion.

  14

  THE IRON MEN OF CYCLING

  AFTER SYDNEY, I wonder, what else? My life as a competitive track cyclist feels complete. I briefly contemplate defending my gold medal in 4 years, in Greece. Then I quickly dismiss the idea. I’ll be 33 then. Not past my competitive prime as a bike racer, but more than a decade removed from my first world championship.

  Maintaining my position among the top sprinters in the world has worn on my psyche and my body. I’m ready to move on from the sadistic focus required for the one-on-one combat of match sprinting and the grueling regimen of high-intensity training. The sport’s horrific high-speed crashes have left my body cobwebbed with deep scars. My torso remains embedded with splinter shards from involuntary slides across wooden track boards.

  Moreover, I’ve collected all of the most prized trophies in track sprinting. I’m no longer driven in the same manner—a determination fueled by my previous failure to secure gold. I don�
��t doubt that I could win gold again, in 2004, but I can’t subject Christi, Tyler, and Devon to the same single-minded lifestyle of the previous 4 years.

  They made sacrifices for me, now it’s time I sacrifice for them. When I’m invited to the White House to have dinner with the president amongst America’s other gold medal winners, I have to decline. I had promised Tyler I would attend his school’s show and tell that day.

  Ever since my second place in the keirin at worlds in 1993, I’ve received offers to race on the lucrative Japanese keirin circuit. Each year the Japanese invite a handful of foreigners to compete in the races, which serves as a popular betting sport. But year after year I’ve turned down the money to focus solely on the Olympics. After 2000, I strongly consider racing in Japan. I stand to make tens of thousands of dollars in prize money and appearance fees. But when I find out I won’t be allowed to have my family come visit, or fulfill certain sponsor obligations, I can the idea.

  I still yearn to test myself against other athletes, but I need a new challenge. An athletic ambition that will also let me be a champion father to my children—not an absentee dad. I decide to become an endurance cyclist. I will race on the road and in mass-start track events. I understand the odds are against me. The transformation to road racing and endurance track cycling is akin to a 100-meter runner taking on marathoners. In the modern era, no Olympic champion track sprinter has successfully transitioned to endurance events.

  But my decision isn’t without personal precedent. I grew up entering any race I could find. As a kid, I competed in long points races on the track with regularity. I surprised the local cycling community when I won the junior state road race on a bumpy circuit around the Rodale Institute’s organic farm. But I’ve never doubted my own ability to perform in road races and endurance track events. Even during my run toward the Atlanta and Sydney Olympics, I occasionally competed in long, mass-start track races and frequently outperformed the endurance specialists.

  My big aerobic engine defined my style as a match sprinter. I could sprint harder for longer than anyone else in the world. Then do it again, and again. I didn’t tire during the course of a match-sprint tournament—rather, I got stronger.

  Criterium racing dominates the US cycling scene, and with my gold medal-winning sprint, I aim to get a slice of the action. The criteriums in the US are held on closed circuits in the heart of major cities across the country. The race courses range from a half-mile to 2 miles around with tight, technical turns. They last for as long as 60 miles, sometimes as many as 100 laps, and frequently draw thousands of screaming spectators. The showman in me longs to win a big race on the domestic crit racing circuit. I view a career as a domestic road racer as my reward for all those lonely hours on the velodrome.

  I’m also intrigued by the European six-day races. I’ve attended many six-days as a complement to the main event. Now, I want to compete as the primary attraction.

  I figure that with a good winter of base training to prepare for a season on the road, I’ll start winning handfuls of big events in my new racing discipline.

  I’m an Olympic champion. How hard could crit racing be?

  In 2001, I sign a pro road-racing contract with Mercury-Viatel. The team contains a number of top US and European pros and is hoping to earn a spot in the Tour de France, an event that ranks just below the Olympics and soccer’s World Cup in terms of international exposure. My primary job within the team is to get results on the domestic criterium scene and provide the sponsor’s exposure within the United States.

  Bringing exposure to the team isn’t a problem. The local media covers me in every city I race. I’m a reigning gold medalist, a story-worthy competitor. I sign scores of autographs and make excited commentary for race announcers at big events. I’m worth every cent Mercury-Viatel pays me because of my Olympic panache.

  But I struggle to get results. I don’t even crack the top 30 in my first few national-level races. My handling skills and ability to jostle for position isn’t an issue. But I lack the strength required to keep myself at the front of the pack toward the end of the race. Sprinting at the end of a 60-mile race proves entirely different than after a few laps around the velodrome. I’m also unaccustomed to relying on teammates, and I don’t trust them to guide me into position at the end of a race.

  I quickly learn the head of the race in the last few laps of a criterium is a tiny club of elite sprinters, and they don’t give a warm welcome to newcomers. My gold medal doesn’t automatically earn me a clear shot to unleash my powerful sprint in sight of the line. All of the attention I garner as an Olympic champion makes me seem entitled, and gives my competitors extra motivation to keep me from winning.

  I want my foray into professional road racing to serve as more than an extended victory lap from Sydney. I want to win in front of thousands of cheering fans. And to do so, just as with everything I’ve done on the bike, I’ll have to earn it.

  The intensity of my training for road racing pales in comparison to my track work, but that doesn’t mean it’s not daunting. Although I put in as much as 50 hours a week at the gym and on the track during my training for the Olympics, I now sometimes spend up to 30 hours a week on my bike. I start each New Year’s Day by riding 100 miles. I gather the local road racers for a big, cold group ride. If it’s snowing, I set up rows of stationary trainers at the local gym, and we do the 100-mile ride indoors.

  Over time, I physically adapt to the demands of road racing and garner respect from my competitors. I become strong enough to ride at the front of the race, and other racers quickly learn if they don’t let me go where I want, I’ll make the space myself—often with disastrous results for them.

  In August of 2003, I line up beside the best criterium racers in the world for the New York City Cycling Championship. I’m now riding for Navigators Insurance, one of the top US-based pro teams. My former team, Mercury-Viatel, imploded in 2001 after it wasn’t selected to compete in the Tour de France.

  The New York City race takes place in the heart of the financial district, right down Wall Street. The 1.2-mile loop contains eight turns and a 50-foot section of rough cobblestones. We’ll do 50 laps of the course, for 60 miles total. The race’s prize purse tops $40,000. I circled the race date on my calendar at the start of the year and trained for it like an Olympic event. It’s a race worthy of special devotion, with throngs of fans, live TV coverage, and celebrities like Jerry Seinfeld hovering around the start line.

  I aim to win.

  Threatening dark clouds hover above the Manhattan skyscrapers. As the barometric pressure drops, the old creases in my previously fractured kneecap, heel, and ribs begin to ache. A storm is coming, and when it does, chaos will rain down on the twitchy pack of a hundred-plus pro riders. “Stay near the front,” Ed Beamon, my current team director, implores before the start.

  I get my obligatory call to the line. “Olympic gold medalist, The Blade, Marty Nothstein…,” the announcer drawls. Racers mired at the back of the big bunch roll their eyes. That muscle-bound track sprinter can’t win a big crit, they snipe.

  With everyone uncertain about the weather, the race starts hard from the gun. Thirty minutes in, I make a large split of 20 riders. I have two teammates in the front group with me. We like our odds of winning, and help drive the break. We tow the group into the winds whipping through the concrete canyons made by the giant buildings, and soon build a 40-second gap over the chasing field of racers behind us.

  Tens of thousands of fans line the barricades ringing the course. It feels as if I’m riding through a tunnel of sound as we fly down the long finishing straightaway at speeds of more than 35 miles per hour. The race seems effortless. A sense of invincibility envelops me. When a rider from the US Postal Service team, Antonio Cruz, attacks near the end of the race, I go with him.

  We’re joined by a Spanish pro, José Azevedo, who just finished the Tour de France. The three of us ride together smoothly for four laps, building a 15-second advantage o
ver the chase group. Beamon anxiously reminds me not to spend all my bullets before the finish. “Relax, relax, relax,” he yells into the race radio.

  With 10 laps to go, we’re reabsorbed by the main breakaway, now whittled down to 16 riders. Rain drops start to dot my arms. A deluge is coming. At two laps to go, a thin film of water covers the streets, making the corners perilously slick. But I make it to the final lap without any incidents, perfectly positioned to win.

  In the final 500 meters, my teammate, an Italian named Siro Camponogara, attacks, forcing the Saturn team to chase. I jump on the wheel of Saturn’s sprinter, Victor Rapinski, who is a former junior world champion on the track. Rapinski takes me to the final 100 meters, where I let loose.

  It’s not even close.

  I cross the line alone, my right arm raised, my fist tightened.

  Moments after the rest of the field finishes, the sky opens up. The rain comes down in droves. I feel renewed. I’m a champion again.

  I’m home in the Lehigh Valley that same night, after my win in New York City. It’s dark out, and Tyler and Devon are already in bed. I slip into their rooms while they sleep. They’re perfect, angelic little kids. I kiss Tyler goodnight.

  Then, as I kiss Devon goodnight, she wakes up.

  “I love you, Dad,” she says. She’s three and a half. My heart melts.

  “I love you too, Devon,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  My longest separations from Tyler and Devon come during the winter, when I head to Europe to compete on the six-day circuit. Though it pains me to leave the kids behind, I’m instinctively drawn to the six-day scene. The racing style is its own discipline within the bike racing world—one part track race and one part stage race, with a dash of WWF-style showmanship and circus-like atmosphere.