The six-days take place from October through February, and the circuit visits all of Europe’s most cycling-crazy cities, including Amsterdam, Berlin, Munich, and Copenhagen. The European enthusiasm for six-day races is equivalent to college basketball’s March Madness in the United States. The races take place inside the largest arena in each city with a velodrome often specially constructed in advance of the event. Tens of thousands of fans pack the stadium, clapping along to Europe’s latest techno hits. Laser-light shows flash across the track between races.
We race from roughly 7 p.m. to 1 a.m. for 6 consecutive days. Each evening is broken up into various track events, with the Madison races serving as the most important events every night. The two-man Madison teams accumulate points by either lapping the field, or winning the sprints held every few laps. The team with the biggest overall lead after the 6 nights of racing wins the entire six-day. In addition to the Madisons, the racers also compete in flying-lap and elimination races (where the last rider on each lap is pulled from the pack).
The six-day schedule is grueling. I accumulate as many as 100 miles each night, from competing in at least a dozen all-out races. Each evening, after the racing ends, I sit at a communal dinner table with my fellow racers, including Tour de France stars like Erik Zabel, Stuart O’Grady, and Bradley Wiggans. We shovel food into our mouths at 2 a.m. and talk about the inhumanity of the six-day format.
I look into the sunken eyes of these hardened Euro pros and listen to them compare the six-day experience to a 3-week stage race like the Tour de France. At the Tour, they tell me, you can at least sit comfortably in the peloton for 5 hours before having to sprint. They explain there are days in the Tour when you ride steadily in the grupetto, far behind the action at the front of the race, and get a chance to rest. But at the six-days, the racing intensity is nearly full throttle for the whole evening.
In a large pack on the open road, you can get lost among the sea of riders. Inside the velodrome, there is no place to hide. The racing takes place under a microscope. If you’re suffering, everyone will know.
Unlike the Tour, which allows for a day of rest at the end of each week, the six-day races are frequently scheduled back-to-back. Often, we travel the morning after a six-day race finishes, and start another the very next day. After weeks on end of the nonstop track racing, the competitors start to wear down.
The rest of the world views the six-day racers as the iron men of cycling. Despite terrible crashes and ghastly injuries, the races always continue. I witness an up-and-coming road sprinter named Mark Cavendish lying in a pool of blood in Dortmund, Germany, then watch as he goes on to race in Munich the very next day. Many of the tracks we race on are temporary, with bumpy seams that cause horrific saddle sores. The soigneurs brew their own chamois creams, which they refer to as “fat,” to try to ease the pain emanating from each racer’s crotch. One day, I watch a soigneur apply the salve to a racer’s perineum that is so shredded it looks like a vagina.
The late nights make me into a vampire. I rely heavily on sleeping pills to keep the sunlight flooding in through the hotel-room windows from waking me. But I still roll in bed during the early-morning hours, trying to come down from the high of racing in front of thousands of roaring fans. During the six-days, I experience some of the loneliest moments of my life, isolated by language barriers and living in a fog of near-constant fatigue.
Not everything about the six-day is as it might appear to the thousands of inebriated spectators who fill the velodrome’s stands, either. On the final night of each six-day, the race organizer meets with the racers for a discussion. The organizer and racers collectively determine the finishing positions of each team based on their current standing in the overall points, their status with the fans, and the amount of cash their sponsor is funneling into the event. If the group can’t form a consensus, the race organizer simply tells the racers how the evening will play out.
Nearly every six-day race comes down to the final point sprint on the final night of racing. The teams agree to abide by this fixed system because they sign their contract for each six-day well before the racing begins. Whether they finish first or last, the payment doesn’t change. The final placing is simply for pride and prestige—which is more important than anything.
Even though the racers know the six-day will come to a predetermined end, the speeds on the track are no less intense. In essence, we’re just big kids zipping around on our bikes, and our childish play-fights often unravel into full-on brawls. The moment one rider launches a scintillating attack, the field flies into a tornado of action for laps on end, each team trying to prove themselves the alpha racers.
At the start of each six-day, a veteran racer is nominated as “the Chief” (though the Euros terribly mispronounce this as “the Chef”). The Chief maintains control of the various Madison races and makes sure everyone ultimately abides by the race organizer’s wishes. Disobeying the Chief’s orders during a Madison can prove costly in terms of future six-day invites and contract negotiations.
In 2001 I sign contracts to compete in a half dozen six-day races. My partner for the first six-day is arranged by the race’s promoter, Patrick Sercu. Sercu teams me with a talented American endurance rider, with whom I have an antagonistic history. His personality is the antithesis of mine. When I complain to Sercu, he tells me, “You don’t have to marry him, you just have to ride with him.” I have to agree with Sercu that on paper, my partner should perform well in the six-day race format.
But once the racing starts, we flounder. My teammate is tentative when aggressive racing is required. And though I’m given deference as an Olympic champion, the other six-day racers don’t respect my American teammate. Each night, they purposely make it difficult for us to stay at the front of the race.
The only way I can get a new partner is if my current partner can’t race due to injury. So, when my teammate comes down the banking to take a hand sling from me during one of the Madison races, I grab his hand and fling him down onto the track. To the crowd, the crash appears to be an accident, just one of the many mishaps in a Madison.
My partner isn’t seriously injured, but I make sure he knows the crash was no mistake. When I see him in our cabin between races, I tell him, “Don’t go back out there.”
The following evening, I’m teamed with a Frenchman named Robert Sassone. He’s a veteran, and former world Madison champion, who knows how to properly sling me into the race. We gain the respect of the other six-day teams. I’m suddenly competitive against the top teams and in the thick of the action each night. I complete my initial six-day race and a slew of following six-day races with relative success.
I also win individual championships in elimination races and flying-lap competitions nearly every evening. I set track records at various velodromes across Europe. Sometimes, I even compete in the sprint tournaments against my old adversaries, like Fiedler, and regularly dust them.
“You’re turning into quite the endurance rider,” Fiedler coyly tells me during one sprint competition. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.
“Because I enjoy the challenge, and I’m making multiple times what you get paid to sprint,” I tell him. “You wouldn’t last two laps out here,” I say.
In 2002 I partner with one of my best friends, Ryan Oelkers, for the last six-day of the season, in Moscow. I still teasingly remind Ryan that he crashed me during a practice Madison exchange before the ’94 world championships. But he’s recently redeemed himself.
A year earlier, Ryan carried me to a win in the prestigious Madison Cup at the T-Town velodrome. Competing against a field of top international racers, I was having a bad race and was blown coming into the final lap. I gave Ryan a last-second hand sling into the action. He came through big, finishing in the top three in the final point sprint of the night, and securing our overall victory.
In Moscow, I’m coming into my own as an endurance racer and am in some of my best form since Sydney. Ryan’s trained h
is ass off to get ready for Moscow, too. During the fall, we would ride the Derby in T-Town, then I would ride with him back toward his home in Philly, before turning around and coming back to the Lehigh Valley. In Moscow, Ryan just needs to keep us in the mix during the Madison races and give me some brief moments of relief between the point sprints.
He struggles at times, but relies on his considerable toughness to get him through the races. When the race organizer sits down with the various teams on the final night, I lobby vocally for Ryan and me to win. The two top teams on the six-day circuit skipped Moscow, and the Russians, the home favorites, aren’t anywhere near the top of the rankings. I’ve proven myself a consistent racer, the strongest individual rider at the six-day, and a worthy winner. We’re currently sitting in second overall, just a lap down on the leaders. “Give us the victory,” I implore.
But Ryan’s an unknown. Some of the veteran racers question his ability to come through on the final night. If he lags, we won’t put on a show worthy of a first-place six-day team for the audience. Ryan won’t falter, I promise. The group agrees—we’ll finish first overall. We’ll still have to dig deep to regain the lap and take the lead. The other teams won’t take it easy on us. But if we can maintain the pace at the front, and don’t crash out, we’ll become the first Americans to win a European six-day in half a century. Make one mistake, and the other teams will surely flick us, stealing the win for themselves.
The final evening of the Moscow six-day starts with a parade. Ryan and I ride side by side in the row of 16 teams, which makes for a total of 32 riders on the tight track. We smile and salute the crowd, excited for our big night. We look dapper in our six-day jerseys, Stars-and-Stripes silk tunics bearing our numbers on the sleeves and our team’s sponsor on the chest. I’ve lost 25 pounds since I switched to endurance racing and stopped my heavy-weight-lifting regimen. The lean muscles of my new physique ripple under the spotlights shining from above the track.
As we casually circle the steep track, the rider in front of Ryan decides to take off his warm-up jacket. The rider wants to show off his jersey as he approaches the front of the parade. Ryan watches the rider remove both his hands from the bars and try to throw the jacket down to his soigneur standing at the apron. He sees the rider’s front wheel begin to wobble, and then he looks on in disbelief as the rider sprawls across the boards in front of him.
Ryan has nowhere to go. He flips over the fallen rider in front of him and slides down to the apron at the bottom of the track. A massive hematoma forms under his shorts, making it look as if he has sprouted a third ass cheek.
But we can’t let anyone know that he’s hurt. If the other teams see a chink in our armor, they’ll surely argue we don’t deserve the win.
“You okay?” I ask Ryan.
“Yeah,” he says. Only a broken bone could stop him from racing tonight.
The racing starts and Ryan shuts out the pain in his hip. He keeps us in the thick of the action when I need relief. Then, we fumble an exchange during one of the Madison races. I hit the track hard myself. As I slide across the boards, skin burns off the side of my body. Blood stains my fine silk jersey. But I get up and keep racing. We don’t lose any ground on the front pack.
As the night winds to a close, we gain back a lap on the leaders. Then, as planned, I take the final sprint of the evening, and secure our victory. The vodka-infused fans go nuts. We’re showered with flowers and trophies at the awards celebration.
I go on to compete with various other partners in 28 six-day races over the next 4 years, more than any other American in the modern era. I finish third at six-day races in Ghent, Belgium, and Stuttgart, Germany. But Moscow remains my only win.
15
HOME—T-TOWN
IN THE FALL of 2005 I’m presented with an opportunity to give back to the sport that gave me everything. The T-Town velodrome offers me a part-time position as an assistant director at the track.
I grew up at the velodrome and am thrilled to now return as an employee. I gladly accept. The velodrome is my second home: The track served as my childhood playground; the lush, green infield grass, an immaculate front lawn; the concession stand, an always-stocked pantry; and the bleachers, an expansive living room seating my extended family—the fans.
Within the confines of the T-Town velodrome, I learned lessons about both bike racing and life. I celebrated many of my most memorable victories at T-Town. I exchanged heated words and shared hugs. I morphed from a boy into a man, and then into an adult, and I’m eager to lead other racers along the path I followed. My cycling career has come full circle. I’ve gone from being a T-Town developmental program rider, to an Olympic champion, to a track director.
Over the next year, I wean myself away from life as a professional cyclist while working on various projects for the track. I help coordinate the developmental programs for T-Town and proudly become the namesake for the Marty Nothstein Bicycle Racing League, a program that provides the same support, instruction, and inspiration that I received growing up.
I’m also reunited with Erv, who retired in 2001 after his own foray into road racing, when he is hired as executive director of the velodrome.
Then, on August 26, 2006, I decide to bring the final chapter of my life as a professional bike racer to a close. I retire. I end my career as the most decorated American track cyclist of all time, after more than 15 years at the highest level of the sport. I’m widely regarded as one of the best sprinters, ever, to ride the boards.
I leave cycling with 35 national championships, four Pan-Am Games gold medals, three world championship titles, and hundreds of other victories in top international and domestic races. During my career, I set multiple national, world, and Olympic records. And while I look back on my extensive racing résumé with reverence, I would easily trade in every accolade I ever earned, including my Olympic silver medal, for the gold I won in Sydney.
The journey from Atlanta to Sydney—the disappointment of the silver medal and the resulting Olympic victory—remains the defining moment of my life as an athlete.
Fittingly, my retirement ceremony takes place at T-Town on a Friday night. I look up at the bleachers surrounding the velodrome and a warm sense of nostalgia courses through me. The seats are filled to capacity with spectators, people who’ve come to send me off. During a break in the racing, Erv steps up to a microphone and reads a speech to the crowd.
He says:
Tonight we send off into the armchair of retirement one of America’s all-time greatest cyclists. Though I am now privileged and honored to be working alongside one of America’s greatest athletes at the Lehigh Valley Velodrome, I will miss his intensity and passion on the bike.
There was nothing like a match-sprint round with Nothstein in the mix.
It was always exciting to watch Marty race—whether at a world championships with the season on the line or at a local event with little more than pride riding on the outcome. Marty always gave his best and never failed to impress, especially here on his hometown track, the Lehigh Valley Velodrome.
He is a man truly worthy of being an Olympic champion. I remember clearly the moment he shifted gears and made the commitment to win the 2000 Olympic Games in Sydney. A dramatic change came over Marty that summer day in Atlanta; a fire lit in his eye, and—I can still hear it today—he said in an unwavering voice that he would not lose again in 4 years.
Marty held true to that commitment, winning the most coveted trophy in sports: an Olympic gold medal. He did it with panache, passion, and an unmatched will to succeed, not losing a single ride in one of the most dominant performances in Olympic cycling history.
However, as awesome as his gold medal performance was, to this day, the one thing that impresses me more about Marty Nothstein is his unwavering commitment to T-Town and the Lehigh Valley Velodrome. He rarely left the Valley, even during a cold Pennsylvania winter. He was right here, plugging away, “Rocky Balboa”-style, waiting for his turn to win it all. He loved
being here, training using his local resources, and proving that anything one needed to succeed was right here in the Valley.
Marty truly epitomizes the best “end result” of the Lehigh Valley Velodrome and its developmental programs. We can’t thank him enough for the memories and accomplishments throughout the years and for the support that he’s shown his home track.
Marty, on behalf of the Lehigh Valley Velodrome, we honor you by permanently stamping your name on the premises, as dedicated in a street named in your honor. I present to you “Marty Nothstein Way,” a street that will encompass the semicircular road that comes off Mosser Road and passes right in front of the entranceway to the track you helped make famous. Congratulations Marty.
Now, nearly every day, I get up before dawn and drive my beat-up Ford F-250 pickup truck down the hill from my home, 10 minutes to the Valley Preferred Cycling Center (the title sponsor of the T-Town track). I pull into Marty Nothstein Way, park in the asphalt lot between the old red barn and the entrance to the track, and walk into the small administrative building that houses my office.
In 2008, Erv resigned as executive director of the velodrome, and I was selected to fill his position. Since then, I’ve made running the velodrome my new Olympic challenge. As the executive director at T-Town, my own success is now dependent upon the success of the track. My passion for cycling drives me. I approach each day at the office with the same tenacity and attention to detail that I used to give my marathon weight-lifting sessions.
One day, I’m securing a big corporate sponsorship for the velodrome. Another day, I’m doing the dirty work no one else wants to do, such as plunging a clogged toilet. There’s always some task that needs my attention, or a person that needs my time. I never stop moving. I don’t like to sit still.
The Price of Gold Page 19