In the world of bicycle racing, there are dreaded sounds. The sound of metal or carbon sliding along the pavement, announcing a crash is one. Air escaping from a tire giving a rider a sinking feeling is another. That “pfssssssss” noise in an especially big championship race can be deadly. Seconds or minutes lost can mean the difference between a great result or an off-the-back performance. When standing on the side of a road, flat tire in hand, waiting for a race support vehicle with your spare wheel, there is a lonely quiet.
Good fortune and unpleasant surprises fill our lives. At times on the very same day. One never knows what lies around the bend, how the wheels of fate will roll.
The 1985 Northern California/Nevada Road Race Championships were held west of Petaluma, California, starting in front of an old country school on Chileno Valley Road. About 120 riders lined-up for the start of the elite category race. With dew on blades of grass in roadside fields, and the sun shining on golden Sonoma County hills, the racers lined up at 8 am. This sweet-smelling, beautiful dawn was sure to bring screaming legs, sweating brows, and a deeply satisfying fatigue by noon.
Apples, oranges, bananas, Snicker bars, and fig bars filled jersey pockets. Water, coke, or apple juice-filled race bottles were popped into cages on each bike. This was the energy food before the days of high octane bars and sport energy drinks. In fact, Gary Erickson, founder of Clif Bars seven years later in 1992, was in the race. He raced on ABC – Avocet that year, we were teammates.
Riders sized up the competition for the day, glancing nervously around. The rolling course of 18 miles featured flat stretches of road, mixed with rolling hills, where crisp and orderly pace-lines were essential. The climbs were a mile at the longest, so true climbers were not at an advantage here. Riders who could power up short steep climbs, and then roll along efficiently in a break-away were favored. A good “finishing kick” was also required, as this race often ended up with a few riders sprinting for the victory in a small group.
Lycra clothes with team names adorned the riders, Berkeley Bicycle Club, SF Flying Wheels, Palo Alto Bike Club, and the Reno Wheelmen to name a few. European steel frame bikes like Masi, Guerciotti, Colnago, Tommasini, were the choice of many riders. Others rode locally built Litton, Della Santa, Mikkelsen, or Eisentraut bikes. Gears were often 42/53 chainrings up front and 7-speed 12-20 tooth freewheels in back.
The riders took off from the start/finish line to complete six laps of the course for 108 miles of racing. The winner would cross the finish line after noon, riding about 25 miles per hour for four‑plus hours. The Avocet team of Matt, Pete, Gary, and I raced down the road.
A few miles into the race, a breakaway went ahead early. Norm Alvis and I rolled off the front of the peloton (the main group) to test our legs. I liked my breakaway companion. Norm was a few inches taller than me, so his 6-foot size provided a comfortable draft. Plus, he was strong and steady with his pulls. We switched pace evenly, taking solid and fast turns on the front, then drafting one another. We were both feeling good and quickly put a minute gap between us and the peloton. About 10 years later, Norm would win the U.S. Professional “Core States” Championships, and at Petaluma that day he rolled solidly along.
We flew along a flat stretch, passing a Marine Training Center, “pfssssssss” came the dreaded sound from Norm’s wheel. His tire had flatted and he pulled to the side of the road to wait for a race follow car with extra wheels. I rode on and rounded a right corner onto Spring Hill Road. As I passed the small Two Rock School, “pfssssssss!” The disappointing sound of a flat tire came from my front wheel, just a mile after Norm had flatted. I pulled off to the shoulder of the road to wait for my spare wheels in a follow car. A minute later, more than 100 riders of the peloton flew by, and then a sad stillness settled in around me.
It would be a long wait. The support crews in 5-10 follow cars behind the peloton were busy. A box of tacks had fallen off a contractor truck, or someone had intentionally dumped tacks on the road. So, several riders had flat tires. Support crews from following cars were all stopped at the roadside, offering replacement wheels to riders who needed them. Each assist from the support crew took a few minutes per rider.
A few riders rode past me, waiting near Two Rock School. With my front wheel off my bike, I hoped to see a follow car soon with a replacement wheel. But, as 100 plus riders disappeared down the road and out of sight, I thought my race was over. Then a solo guy OTB (off the back) of the group appeared.
“Pfssssssss,” went a tire as he rode by me, another victim of a tack on the road. He pulled over and looked straight at me.
“Dang it,” he yelled, “you got one too?!”
“Yep,” I replied, “this is the pits, where are those follow cars with our spare wheels?”
His name was Dave, and he recognized me as a “top racer.”
“Hey,” Dave suddenly realized, “You have a front flat and I have a rear flat.” Quickly, Dave bent over to pull the quick release on his still inflated front wheel. He popped it out of his bike’s front forks.
“Here! You take my wheel, you’ll do better with it than I will!” Dave excitedly exclaimed.
“Oh man, are you sure?” I asked, a bit taken by the act of generosity.
“Positive,” Dave said with a big grin. “You’ll do better with it than I will,” he repeated with sincere enthusiasm.
We traded front wheels, and I bent over to place his front wheel in my bike’s forks. Dave was left standing on the side of the road with his bike and two wheels with flat tires.
In a flash, I jumped on my bike and rode down the road. I yelled to Dave, “Hey thanks, man, see you at the finish!”
It took a few miles of intense chasing, but I regained contact with the main group. As I rode through the large bunch of racers, and I got to the front, a small group was breaking away. I bridged the gap to the breakaway group. The remainder of the race, I joined various breakaway groups, and my legs felt better and better. Each time I looked down at my front wheel, I saw Dave’s wheel rolling along.
By the middle of the race, I knew it was a rare and treasured day in “the zone.” On those days any speed becomes fun, and legs feel like they were born to ride. Pain vanishes, pedaling is effortless and there is a harmony in your body and the universe.
“May the wind always be at your back,” the expression goes. After more than 107 miles of racing, it felt as if my personal tailwind was steady at my back. The final breakaway of two riders rounded the last corner, with less than a mile to go. Nearing the finish line, I jumped hard to out-sprint my final challenger.
As I crossed the finish line, two arms in the air for a big championship win, I saw a lone figure running down the road toward me.
“My wheel!” he yelled. Astonished spectators along the side of the road looked on, “My wheel, that’s my wheel, my wheel won!” Dave was yelling at the top of his lungs!
“I’m stoked, I’m so stoked!” Dave shouted to everyone around.
Dave was jumping up and down, nearly as out of breath as I was just beyond the finish line. Dave’s front wheel had just crossed the finish line of the 1985 Northern California/Nevada District Road Championship first.
I sprayed some cold water on my face, as Dave continued to jump up and down, telling the story to spectators of how he had flatted and given his front wheel to me on the first lap of the race. Dave had taken a ride back to the finish line with his bike, and two flat tires, in a follow car. Other “tack victim” riders on the first lap had used all the spare wheels in the follow vehicles. So Dave sat at the finish line for hours, waiting to see how his wheel would do on my bike.
“I told you! I said you would do better with it than I would,” Dave said to me as I returned his front wheel and got my flat front wheel back from him.
For months after that race, Dave would see me at other races and we would exchange a few words.
“Hey, man, do you have the wheel today,” I would ask as we warmed up for another race in another place on another day.
“Oh ya! I got it, dude. I never train on it, it’s my race wheel only!” Dave would tell me.
“It still has the same tire on it,” he told me at a race the next year. Dave might not ever have won a race himself on that wheel, but he treasured it for crossing the finish line first in that championship race!
On Spring Hill Road in Sonoma County, just off Petaluma Road, is Two Rock School. On that now bumpy road Dave offered his wheel back in ‘85. There are more pot-holes than pavement on that road now, but take a ride there anyway!
Chileno Valley Road is still a beautiful road to ride, smoother than Spring Hill Road. If you ever ride along that road, past Wilson Hill Road is a small school where you might stop for a minute. That is the place where I returned the loaned wheel to a stoked Dave. His generosity is as treasured as my third Northern California championship race win!
Dave, where ever you may be, a belated thanks for such a wheel deal!
