So I offered to find an article from the victory of Robert Millar in the 1990 Dauphine Libere stage race - I knew I saw it somewhere as my father bought me this edition of Winning back then so I have flicked through it a few times. I have also decided to pick out a couple of the other articles from this Winning edition from September 1990, one of the late Michel Zanoli in his first professional season with the US Coors Light team, and another of the Japanese track racing sport of keirin, which is now in the Olympic Games.
Millar Comes
Through
For the
French team Z, victory in the Dauphine Libere was something extra special.
By Kenny
Pryde
“Personally, I think that my win
in the Tour of Catalonia was perhaps my best, but this is my most important.
I'm in a French team and this is an important French race, so the win is good
for everyone in Z."
Thus spoke Robert Millar after
emerging from a scrum of radio, press and TV journalists. He was a happy man.
"Yeah, I'm tres, tres content as they always seem to say after they've
won," he joked. Runner-up to Charly Mottet last year, this time it was
Millar, in his 11th year of professionalism, who accepted the winner's bouquet
in the 42nd Dauphine Libere.
The "importance" he
talked about no doubt had something to do with the fact that, since Z's
inception, the team had won nothing of any real importance plenty of
recognition but no big wins. The sensational signing of Greg LeMond had thus
far yielded zip, Ronan Pensec was out of sorts and Eric Boyer's 1989 season had
been anonymous to say the least.
Only Millar, a rider who has
never coped well with pressure, had produced any results of merit — prime among
them his superb Pyrenean stage win in the 1989 Tour and subsequent victory in
the Tour of Britain.
In the first half of 1990, the
Scot once again came to the rescue of Zannier's Z men. It was no coincidence
that Roger Zannier himself was on hand to congratulate the Glaswegian and to
bask, not unreasonably, in the glory that a sponsor merits.
This year the route of the
eight-stage Dauphine was generally thought to be harder than in previous years,
and although Laurent Fignon, Mottet and LeMond weren't there, the field lacked
little in the way of attractive names.
Stephen Roche was present,
looking to test himself in the high mountains of the Alps for the first time
since 1987. Sean Kelly was on the start sheet, too, keen to get in some hard
racing after recovering from a broken collarbone suffered at the Tour of
Flanders. Andy Hampsten, seeking a less strenuous build-up to this year's Tour
de France than the Giro d'Italia offered, brought along a strong 7-Eleven team,
which suggested that he was after something more than hard training. And given
the mountains which dominated the last two road stages, no one was counting out
Luis Herrera or Fabio Parra.
On the home front, Frenchman
Thierry Claveyrolat was unabashedly there to win, while Jean-Francois Bernard's
ambitions were much less grand. Castorama's Luc Leblanc had come from a fine
solo victory in the Grand Prix of Wallonie and was anxious to make up for last
year's disastrous season. And, of course, Millar was also on the start line on
the first stage at Aix-les-Bains.
The scene was set for a combative
and, in view of the upcoming Tour de France, an enlightening race. Stage one
revealed little importance save that it would be some time yet before
"Jeff" Bernard would once again scale the dizzy heights of true
stardom. The stage was a mainly flat one but had a third-category col in the
last 20 km.
Claveyrolat was the rider first
over the summit, and a small group escaped only to have their progress halted
by a railroad crossing. A 20-second lead was wiped out and Rolf Golz (Buckler)
won the sprint contested by 39 riders. All the favorites were in that group
except Bernard, who finished with Eric Vanderaerden, 1:41 behind. So the
pattern of the race was set.
Stages six and seven were casting
a long shadow over the first five stages of the race, with Millar, Claveyrolat,
Roche, Leblanc, Parra and Herrera content to let the mountains weed out the weaker
riders one by one. Riders "found out" by the mountains in these
opening stages were Steve Bauer, Brian Walton, Kelly, Bernard and Pensec,
although there were no real surprises there.
Stages two and four did, however,
provide one or two surprises. The most significant of these is that France
seems to have discovered a new sprinter in Castorama's Frederic Moncassin, who
won both stages that ended in bunch sprints. At one point Moncassin held both
the points jersey and the hot spots jersey, although every time the road tilted
skyward he started to come off the back. Few people imagined he would finish
the race, so no one was surprised when he packed it in after 30 km of stage
six. Nevertheless, Moncassin is a name to remember, an up-and-corner with the potential
to deliver more than Bruno Wojtinek did when he, too, was being touted as the
"sprinter France has been waiting for since Darrigade."
The other thing of note on the
flat stage between Vals-les-bains and Avignon was the split in the field
provoked by Francis Moreau and Laurent Biondi of Histor. Kelly explained what
happened: "Just before the feed there had been a few attacks, and because
there was a bit of a cross-wind everyone was a bit nervous. When the attack
started, I was near the front, so I didn't have too much trouble getting into
the front group."
To tell the truth, Kelly and
Martin Earley also went to the front to ensure that those caught in the back
group — including leader Golz — would never get back up again. To some it
seemed like a bizarre tactic. Golz was never going to be a threat to the race
favorites and, more importantly, all the Colombians were safely installed in
the first peloton.
"I think they carried on
riding hard because they were embarrassed," mused an American rider.
"Attacking through the feed zone is a kind of taboo thing to do and once
they had done that they were committed to it. I don't know what it did, though,
except give the Histor riders sore legs."
The only significant g.c. rider
affected by the move was Claude Criquielion, whose entire team barring one
rider was in the back group. Others trapped were Laurent Madouas and Atle
Kvalsvoll (Z), both of whom had been riding strongly in the hills and who had
both figured in the break that got held up at the railroad crossing on the
first stage.
Stage five, a 196-km trek from
Avignon to Gap, displayed a new French star onthe same terrain which, four
years before, had launched Bernard to stardom. This time it was Leblanc who
soloed to victory and thereby donned the leader's jersey.
Leblanc became the third bearer
of the gold and blue jersey, and the question on everyone's lips was whether
the 23-year-old could seriously be expected to keep it to the finish. The
Frenchman was cautious about his chances but clearly delighted, thanking
everyone on the team who had given him the support and encouragement he needed
to succeed in this bold, though unplanned enterprise.
Stage six, the 209-km leg from
Gap to Allevard-les-Bains, included three first-category cols, two
third-category cols and innumerable other climbs. This was surely the day that
the final selection would be made and the day that everyone, including Leblanc,
was fearing. If he could emerge from stage six still wearing the leader's
jersey, he would almost certainly carry it to the finish.
As soon as the riders turned off
the main street of Gap they were confronted with a sign announcing "summit
10 km." There was no time to promenade today. The sky was overcast and
grey and, even before the riders reached the top, heavy splashes of rain were
falling. The tops of the mountains were shrouded in mist and the roads were
treacherous.
First to launch a serious attack
was Tour de Trump runner-up Kvalsvoll, who quickly put time between himself and
the thinning peloton. The young-looking Norwegian attacked the climbs with
great verve, so much so that a group of four chasers was totally incapable of
bridging the gap built by the Z rider.
Back in the peloton the Z team
was looking strong, with Jerome Simon, the promising Madouas and Bruno
Cornillet all well to the fore and providing Millar with plenty of support.
On a thickly wooded and tricky
descent through Sechilienne what was effectively the race winning move went
clear. The too-nervous Leblanc, who had no teammates near him, fell victim to
the unfamiliar descent and the aggressive riding of Roche, Hampsten and
Claveyrolat.
On the steep Col du Luitel, which
wound its tortuous way up through mist-laced and dripping wet pine trees, the
favorites moved to the front. Millar, Claveyrolat, Roche, Parra, Martin Farfan,
Alvaro Mejia and Hampsten all saw that Leblanc was missing and rode strongly to
ensure that the young race leader would remain behind.
After the finish Millar revealed
what had happened. "He [Leblanc] was nervous today; and when the guys
started to jump, he had lost all his self-confidence. He probably could have
come with us on the Luitel, but he's still young. It was his first leader's
jersey, and he didn't know what to do."
This leading group forged further
and further ahead of the fragmented bunch, catching and jettisoning the early
attackers (including Kvalsvoll and his four chasers). Then, on the final climb
of the day, the Col du Coq, Claveyrolat, Parra, Farfan and Millar broke clear.
The rain made the descent more dangerous than usual, and Kelme's Farfan
couldn't handle the corners and was dropped. Meanwhile, Parra's front wheel
slipped away from him on a particularly tight left-hander and he hit the
tarmac. He quickly remounted but, in his haste to catch the Franco-Scottish ex-
press, he fell again. Millar and Claveyrolat were now alone in the lead only 39
km from the finish, most of it downhill.
Both riders put their backs into
it, and as they passed under the red kite at one km to go, each knew that
whoever won the sprint would be wearing the leader's jersey that night. Mejia
was 3:46 down, Parra at 3:54 and Roche was at 6:35. Leblanc, alas, was to
finish that terrible stage in 21st place, 11:29 in arrears.
Claveyrolat was an easy winner,
leading out from 200 meters, with Millar unable to get past him. From day one
Claveyrolat had been in the mountain's jersey points. Now he had the most
important one of all.
Claveyrolat may have been happy,
but he was not at ease. He had stated on the eve of the race that he needed a
lead of at least 1:30 over the other favorites in view of the time trial on the
last day, and now his lead over Millar amounted to five seconds. On stage
seven, which featured another three first-category climbs, he would have to
increase his slender advantage to have any hope of winning the overall.
Over the Cols des Saises and the
Aravis the field thinned out until, at the foot of the final col of this
Dauphine, there were only 36 riders left in the front group. For Claveyrolat it
was now or never. "I rode up and flat out, as though the finish line was
at the summit, and at one point I thought I had dropped Millar. But then I saw
he was still with us, and my heart sank. What could I do...?" Claveyrolat
recalled. He knew that his tenure in the jersey was almost over, although his
third place on the stage, behind Luc Roosen and a momentarily rejuvenated
Bernard, gave him another four seconds over the Scot.
Nevertheless, nine seconds was
nowhere near the 90 he himself had decreed necessary for the final flat time
trial around the picturesque shores of Lake Annecy. Claveyrolat had been frank,
and Millar was equally as forthright.
"If I ride good, I'll put
two minutes into him," the Scot declared. "If I'm not riding so good,
then a minute." There was no ambiguity in Millar's voice, although with
the arrival of Z patron Zannier there was a hint, just a hint, of tension.
Millar was, after all, only 10 seconds from one of the best wins of his career.
For all the talk from both camps,
any doubts were quickly dispelled as the final time trial unfolded. After 10 km
Claveyrolat was already lost and Toni Rominger, third at 3:05 on general
classification, was only a handful of seconds ahead of the Scot, who rode the
wet course prudently.
When it was all over, Claveyrolat
had dropped 1:44 to Millar and with it the race. It was a hard blow, but
"Clavette" took it well. "I started the stage with the intention
of giving my all," he explained.
"I tried as hard as I could
throughout the stage — what more could I do? But Millar rode well and he is a
good winner, a better all-rounder." The crowd roared its approval of this
gracious admission of defeat — getting beaten on the last day will always be
hard to deal with.
Just such a situation had
befallen Millar before, on the final stages of the Vuelta in 1985. "I know
how he feels — it's happened to me before and you have a lot of regrets, but
there's other races and a long life ahead of you," the happy winner said.
There were no such regrets this
time for Millar, boss Zannier or the rest of the hard-working team. Putting the
win in context, Millar observed: "This is probably my most important win
because it's a big race in France and it's very important for all the guys in
Z. But I knew I would win after yesterday when the team and the RMO guys
controlled the race a little bit. It was important that we distanced Rominger
yesterday. Today I was never really worried after I got a check that Claveyrolat
was 1:40 down at halfway. I just had to make sure that I didn't fall apart and
lose three minutes to Rominger."
Criterium du Dauphine Libere,
France
May 28 - June 4, 1990
Stages won by: Rolf Golz (WG),
Buckler (stage 1); Frederic Moncassin (Fr), Castorama (stages 2 and 4); Toni
Rominger (Switz), Château d'Ax (stage 3); Luc Leblanc (Fr), Castorama (stage 5);
Thierry Claveyrolat (Fr), RMO (stage 6);
Luc Roosen (Belg), Histor (stage 7); Alvaro Mejia (Col), Postobon (stage 8).
Final General Classification
1. Robert Millar (GB), Z in
33:42:04
2. Thierry Claveyrolat (Fr), RMO
at 1:35
3. Alvaro Mejia (Col), Postobon
at 1:56
4. Toni Rominger (Switz), Château
d'Ax at 2:35
5. Fabio Parra (Col), Kelme at
5:06
6. Bruno Cornillet (Fr), Z at
6:05
7. Stephen Roche (Ire), Histor at
6:48
8. Andy Hampsten (USA), 7-Eleven
at 6:53
9. Denis Roux (Fr), Toshiba at
9:39
10. Oliveiro Rincon (Col),
amateur at 10:42
Making a Big
Impression
Coors
Light’s Michel Zanoli is one of the world’s fastest sprinters, but that’s not
all he can do.
By Matthew
E. Mantell
Item: Michel ("Please, don't
call me Michael") Zanoli of Team Coors Light, stands 6-feet-6-inches and
weighs 200 pounds, which makes him the largest racer on the U.S. professional
cycling circuit.
Item: Michel Zanoli's 62-cm bike
(a Clark-Kent built of True Temper RC steel tubing by Frank "Pat"
Clark and Dean Kent of Denver Spoke in Colorado) tips the scales at around 22
pounds.
Does the sum of these humongous
dimensions mean that the big Dutch native must be typecast in the role of a
bicycle racing "heavy" — a top-tube hugging, elbow-throwing,
leg-churning sprinter? Not necessarily.
To wit, after the first stage of
this year's Tour of Texas, Zanoli shocked the sport's cognoscenti by riding off
with the King of the Mountain's jersey. But the next day Zanoli read an article
in a local newspaper which said, in essence, that the climbing must not have
been too severe since he had earned the KOM's vestment.
"Hey, these weren't
mountains like those in the Tour de France," retorts Zanoli with some
annoyance in his voice, "but a lot of guys were getting dropped. I could
have won the climber's jersey, but Len [Pettyjohn, the director of Coors Light]
wanted me to protect my teammate, Chris Huber, who won the race."
Pettyjohn concurs: "Michael
[he means Michel] could have won the KOM which were really hills — if he wanted
to. However, my goal was to win at Texas, and I had him chase down groups in
order to defend Huber." Zanoli followed his director's instructions and
still finished third in the climbing contest, as well as second on g.c.
Yet, by his own admission, Zanoli
was primarily a sprinter as an amateur. In 1986, he utilized his thunder thighs
to cop the Junior World Road Race Championship held in Morocco. Two years
later, at the Olympic Games hosted by Koreans in Seoul, he placed 15th in the
road event and was also a member of Holland's 100-km time trial team that
finished 11th."While some people might be
satisfied with these [Olympic] results," he says, "I felt very
disappointed because I could have performed better."
After the Games were over, the
Amsterdam-born Zanoli felt the time was right to turn professional. OK. But why
come to America, when cycling's fabled jousts are conducted in the Old World?
"When you compete in Europe, there's more pressure from the outset — the
money, bigger races," he reports. "I didn't feel I wanted that at the
beginning of my career. Also, as a rookie pro you have to work for a team
leader, and I wasn't willing to do that."
Zanoli, whose volition is as
strong as his legs, however, was quite willing to work for Pettyjohn. "I
had spoken to Len at the 1988 Coors Classic before the Olympics, and I liked
him very much since he was very straightforward," he recalls. "When
he formed Coors Light [in 1989], I decided to join."
Adds Pettyjohn: "Zanoli is
an individualist who resists authority figures. He decided to ride in the
United States because he felt the European team system was too rigidly
structured. With Coors, he has been able to develop at his own pace."
That pace has included
significant results in both editions of the Tour de Trump. In 1989, Zanoli took
second twice in closely contested sprint finishes. This year, he upped his game
a notch and sprinted to a pair of stage victories.
Zanoli sealed victory number one
by powering past 7-Eleven's Ron Kiefel during the last meters of stage 10 — a
124-mile road race that began in Stroudsburg, Pa., and concluded at the State
University of New York, in New Paltz. It should be noted that the decisive move
which set up his win occurred when he surged over the palpably real Mohonk
Mountain. After a wicked descent in the rain and fog, the blond Dutchman
provided a textbook lesson in two-up sprint tactics.
"My strategy began with
three km left in the race," he explains. "I knew Kiefel had to go for
it more than I did because he was riding for g.c. With one km to go, I just sat
on his wheel and wouldn't ride around him. After he towed me close to the
finish line, I passed him. Kiefel isn't a real strong sprinter, so that made it
easy."
But, victory number two, which
came on the Trump Tour's final day — a 114- mile road race from Northampton,
Mass., to Boston — was, according to Zanoli, a little more challenging.
"This was a field sprint," he says, "and I had to keep my eye on
Olaf Ludwig, who is very dangerous." (Ludwig, an Easy German neo-pro
riding for Panasonic, scored three stage-winning sprints during the 11-day-
event.)
Zanoli's analysis of this
two-wheel melee illustrates classical field-sprint strategy and also offers
insight into the sprinter's psyche. "As the bunch approached the last
mile, I had [New Zealand teammate, Stephen] Swart sheltering me from the
wind," he explains. "When Swart faded in the last kilometer, I closed
my eyes and sat on Ludwig's wheel. It was very hard to stay in this position
because some Panasonics were slamming into me.
"I was very nervous since
Ludwig was sitting 15 men back," continues Zanoli, his voice a faint
whisper, his eyes vacant the tell-tale signs of a man reliving an all-consuming
experience. "I said to myself, 'Come on man! Get more to the front! This
is too far away.' I knew the game Ludwig was playing: he wanted me to pass him
and then he could take my wheel hoping that I would bring him to the front of
the field.
"But at 400 meters, he
started sprinting. There was a head-wind and I was still sitting on his wheel
saying to myself ‘Perrfecct! I'll wait. I'll wait. Let him die I'll wait...hmm.'
At about 100 meters, I started saying, 'I guess it's about time now — I better
get going.' And, then I passed him with no problem."
While Zanoli's Tour de Trump
triumphs may have been relatively easy, he has engaged in countless
bunch-sprinting duels beset with difficulties. Frequently, the jockeying for
key positions that allows him and the other sprinters to do their jobs is
initiated by teammates five or six miles before the finish line. At this juncture,
the rival domestiques provide two functions: they attempt to shelter their designated
prize winner from the wind as well as prevent a lone wolf from grabbing his
wheel. All of these intricate manoeuvres are executed while the pack is travelling
at speeds close to 60 kmh.
During the final few kilometers,
should luck be with him, Zanoli might get a leadout from one of his support
riders. More often than not, he is on his own and this is when the fun begins.
To the strains of whirring spokes and chains clicking over sprockets, the
sprinters commonly slam, hook and elbow one another.
Sometimes this mayhem escalates
into punches being thrown, or else produces devastating crashes that send
riders and bicycles thumping to the pavement.
When it comes to spills, Zanoli
has been pretty fortunate... so far. His only serious collision took place in
1987 while riding for the Dutch national team. After hooking handlebars with
another racer, he went down so hard it left him unconscious for 24 hours.
"Most of the guys sprint
fair and don't intentionally try to cause accidents," he relates.
"But there are plenty of riders who play the game mean and will do
anything to win. [Giovanni] Fidanza, who rides for Chateau d'Ax, is
particularly bad; and Lotto's Wim Arras will crash you even if it forces him to
go down." According to Zanoli, the Belgian, Arras, espouses the motto,
"I'd rather crash than finish second."
Given sprinting's danger as well
as its physical demands, what, then, is the quintessential element required to
practice this craft? "A strong head," responds Zanoli with a laugh.
"I'm not kidding. Without the capacity to really concentrate during a
flat-out sprint, you'll probably get blown away just by all the intimidation. I've
learned not to be afraid of anything or anyone."
Fear aside, the Coors rider still
recognizes that a premier sprinter must possess the gift of "natural
speed." And like the ones he rates the best — Fidanza, Ludwig and
Panasonic's Jean-Paul VanPoppel — the big Dutchman is blessed with those
special, fast-twitch muscles that enable him to accelerate twice upon
approaching the finish line banner.
"To develop this
ability," volunteers Zanoli, "I have discovered that spinning and
riding on the track is very helpful." As for improving sprinting in
general, he recommends two workouts per week of up-hill intervals. "Select
the biggest gear you can handle and then go as fast as you can for 400 or 500
meters."
The benefits of this type of
power training have begun to payoff for Zanoli in another cycling discipline —
the prologue time trial. In this solo drill at California's Redlands Classic,
he earned the leader's jersey with a rocket-like performance that was only four
seconds shy of the course record. (In this stage race, which had some bona fide
climbs, Zanoli finished in fifth place.)
With both the ability and
confidence that matches his size, what can the cycling world expect the
22-year-old rider to achieve?
Says 7-Eleven's Davis Phinney:
"Michel Zanoli is an example of the new breed of cyclist who, despite his
large build, can do everything quite well. As he matures, he will get even
better in all of these areas."
Says Coors Light teammate and
1984 Olympic road race gold medalist Alexi Grewal: "Zanoli has the most
potential of any bike racer I've ever seen. If he isn't the best sprinter in
the world today, he's only a hairbreadth away. Ultimately, I think he will be a
great one-day classics' rider and, without a doubt, a Tour de France stage
winner."
Zanoli agrees with the appraisals
offered by his peloton peers. "Pretty soon," he says, "I'll be
considered one of the sport's best sprinters. I want to win Milan-San Remo
because it's filled with tradition, and Paris-Roubaix because it's a high
prestige race. Also, next year, I hope to race in the Tour de France, either
with Coors Light or on a European team. It would be great to get some stage
victories and the green points jersey."
But, say, Michel, what about the
Tour's red and white polka dot King of the Mountains tunic? "I'll leave
that for [Pedro] Delgado, [Luis] Herrera or [Robert] Millar," he replies
with a smile.
High-Stakes
Surprise
In the
tough, no-nonsense world of Japanese keirin, a colourful band of international
riders upset tradition.
By Chris
Yeager
It was a Monday, but that didn't stop about 18,000 Maebashi,
Japan, keirin fans from calling in sick, spending unused vacation time or
otherwise contriving to witness a sneak preview of the 1990 World Pro Track
Championships, due to be held in their town at the end of August.
What they saw was an exhibition of smart, tactical riding,
tough and experienced blocking, and topflight sprinting. But not from the
expected quarter, namely, the Japanese. This year, the five "foreign"
riders taking part in the second annual International Keirin Grand Prix at the
Maebashi velodrome put Australian strongman Stephen Pate and veteran Belgian
sprinter Michael Vaarten across the line for a one-two sweep. Italian newcomer
Ceci Vincenzo led Pate out, while American old-hand Gilbert "Libby" Hatton
and France's Patrick De Rocha hung back to disrupt the Japanese riders' line.
These five were the top points winners in the 1990
International Sprinter's Tour of Japan, which
encompasses 16 professional keirin races over eight weeks starting in
mid-March. The other five "team" members — West Germans Hans
Hindelang and Dieter Giebken, Dutchman Theo Smit, Australian Gary Sutton and
American Nelson Vails — raced with four Japanese in a "B" race before
the main event, with Vails scoring his first win of his first year on the tour.
Japanese national hero Koichi Nakano, a 10-time world sprint
champion, and an all-star team of Tsutomu Sakamoto, Uichiro Kamiyama and
Nobuyuki Tawara were the unhappy victims of the stunning upset at the top of
the card. Yes, 5,000,000 yen, or $35,000 went to the winner, but there was also, and perhaps more importantly,
pride at stake. Last year at this event the Japanese dominated the first four
places by simply overpowering the foreigners in the last turn. This year, they
were beaten at their own game, on their own turf.
A quick scan of the racing form might have given the favored
Japanese riders an inkling of what was to come, as Pate had won all 15 of his
races during the team's eight-week campaign. The 26-year-old 1988 world sprint
champion looked almost apologetic at the post race press conference,
diplomatically observing that "the Japanese riders are very strong, but
they only have two arms and two legs."
Downstairs in the massive pit area overlooking the track, as
the losers stripped off their helmets and padding, the normally unflappable
Nakano could be seen reading the riot act to his fellow Japanese. After he
cooled off a bit, he agreed to be interviewed through a translator. "What
were you saying to your team down there?" he was asked. "It's not a
team!" he replied with some frustration. "Keirin is a race of
individuals. There isn't supposed to be any teamwork involved." But then
he added, "I told them 'we should have ridden more like they did."
Riding as individuals may be the ideal, but it is far from
the reality in Japanese keirin. With its long 400-meter tracks, extended and
multiple sprints, and two paceline formation, keirin lends itself to a certain
amount of sacrificial cooperation.
"You're just not going to win without help, and we
really rode as a team this year," reflected Hatton at a reception in the
track's dining area. "We're always talking, planning, on the bike and off.
We live together and race together for two months. We don't always agree, but
we know each other's strong points and weak points. It would be difficult not
to work together."
A more eclectic "foreign legion" could hardly be
imagined. The "old hands" of the 10-man group, in terms of age and Japanese
keirin experience, were Smit, the rail-thin ex-road sprinter with the sad and
worldly eyes, and Hindelang, every bit the clean-cut Munich businessman, who listens
to Beethoven on his Walkman. Both are 38, with six keirin seasons behind them.
Vaarten, slightly younger at 33, had the most accumulated experience, having
come over every year since the invitations began in 1982. Hatton, 33, was in
his seventh year, while Giebken, 30, had been campaigning for the past five years.
De Rocha, 29, a lean Parisian, was in his third year of competition, thanks to his
success in European sprinting. Then, there was the Australian duo of newly resuscitated
Sutton, back for his first tour since 1984, and Pate, who came on last year.
Rounding out the roster were first timers Vincenzo, the baby at 24, and the irrepressible
New Yorker Vails, 28. All showed themselves to be serious, level-headed and
articulate. And they all had something else in common. On a bicycle, each of
them could produce a white-hot explosion of speed.
Keirin racing is a popular form of legalized gambling in
Japan. Enormous amounts of money flow through the parimutuel windows.
Compensation to the competitors is proportionally generous. For example, with
the help of a calculator and the table of winnings from rider profiles handed
out to spectators at the gate, one can estimate that Vaarten has averaged, very
roughly, about $50,000 (U.S.) per two-month tour since 1982. In his best year,
1987, he brought home over $70,000, earned over 21 races. That's over $3,000 per
three-minute race.
"It's not as much as a tennis player or golfer,"
says De Rocha, "But still, for cycling..." A knowing shrug finishes
the thought. A few top road stars may sign contracts for hundreds of thousands
of dollars, but with their eight-month season full of classics and stage races,
the efforts they make to earn their pay are legendary. A keirin rider, on the
other hand, rides only one three-minute race a day, a few times a week. When
the amount of effort is compared to the financial return, Japanese keirin is
the most lucrative event in cycling.
To compete in Japan as a foreigner, however, you must be
invited. "This is the end of a three-year effort to get discovered by
them," relates first-timer Vails, the 1984 Olympic sprint silver medalist,
referring to the necessity of impressing the scouts who stalk the national and world
championship track events, looking for talent. Because it is an
"international" program, they pick one or two top sprinters from each
cycling country. "You have to go to all the events, you have to do well,
and you have to be seen," Vails continues. "If they like you, they'll
tap you."
To follow the team into the Maebashi keirin-jo, or
racetrack, is to glimpse another culture and another world. Simply looking at
the track reveals a lot about the popularity of the sport in Japan. Along the
homestretch there are covered bleachers for 40,000-50,000 people. Along the
backstretch are two official buildings, both three stories high and both with
picture-window views of the action. The first contains the administrative
offices, press and guest areas. The second is exclusively for the riders.
The riders pass the guards and enter the first floor pit
area. It's an enormous, spotless room, lit by the windows. Floor, walls and
ceiling are poured concrete, the national building material of Japan. Riders
assemble their own bikes here, out of their own bags with their own tools. Then
the bikes are inspected by track officials.
"I check my bike like you wouldn't believe," says
Vails. "If something's loose or misaligned, they really let you know, and it's
really, really embarrassing." It doesn't matter who you are or how much
you've won, at the end of the day you're down on the floor with the other guys,
packing it away again.
Bikes assembled, the riders ascend one floor to the locker
area. In the stairwell is a large poster with one image: a hardshell helmet
that looks like a patch on the front of it has been touched with a belt sander.
You don't need to understand Japanese to get the message. Then it's up to the
dressing area to wait for the race. But there are no wooden benches or rows of
lockers — this is Japan. The room is the size of a hotel ballroom, and it's
floored with tatami, the woven straw mats that serve as living, dining and
sleeping areas in every Japanese house. On this huge floor, under criss-crossed
lines of washed and drying uniforms and underwear, riders sit, lie, loll,
snooze, joke and pass the time.
The foreigners camp out in a corner near the uniform pickup
counter. When there's a race, they gather at the window to watch. When there's
a crash, it stirs the undercurrent of tension permeating the room. The waiting
is as difficult as the racing. "There's a tremendous amount of psychological
pressure," says Sutton. "It's just one race a day, but everything
rides on it. You have to build to it."
Finally it's race time. The B team dons pads, helmets and
numbered jerseys and joins its Japanese counterparts one flight down in the
ready room. As the riders lumber down the stairs in their padded gear, they
make a lasting impression: this is a rough game, a big man's game.
The ready area feels like a war room. All the riders
assemble here for about 10 minutes. Like fighter pilots doing a slow motion
scramble, they put their helmets back on, adjust their suits, tie and re-tie their
shoes. No one is joking, no one says much. In a minute, they'll get their
bikes, scream a concrete-cracking YOSH! (let's go) in unison, and head down to
the track and the crowd. But now, before the call, the Japanese have
momentarily retreated within themselves. Hindelang and Giebken are staring at
the floor, and in the corner by the window, Vails has his hands folded in front
of his face.
The race results couldn't be better. After winning, Vails
comes up the ramp walking on air. Everyone wants to shake his hand. Still out
of breath, he grabs Hindelang. "This guy protected my wheel!" he
exclaims. "Did you see it? He came from a hundred meters back!" Vails
doesn't have the spotlight long, though, because out on the track, the
jet-black-clad Pate is turning everything upside down in the main event.
Later that evening the team has a half hour to kill while
waiting for the bullet train back to Tokyo. Vaarten and Giebken go over the
race in German, and then again in English. "Libby was magnifique," says
Vaarten. "He took us down the back-straight, then he stayed behind and did
the cleaning job."
Pate is reflective. "Last year I was really off. I was
just cruising on 1988, that's all. But this year, I'm trying to do it differently."
Hindelang, sporty in a blue blazer and pressed slacks,
regards De Rocha, slouched against his bike bag in old jeans, a sleeveless
T-shirt and two days growth of beard. "Hey, Patrick," he says,
"you look like a street-man." "Oh, yeah?" retorts the
Frenchman, patting the beltbag that contains his Grand Prix winnings. "How
many streetmen do you know that have this?"
A few feet away, Vails is trying to order 10 beers from a
bewildered refreshment counter girl. He holds up 10 fingers and shouts,
"Ten! Right! For them, there. Ten of them, see?"
"Maybe she doesn't understand," offers Smit.
"No, no," says Vails, with his trademark Cheshire
grin. "She understands. Hey, I'm Mr. Tokyo."
