VELODROME

Racing. . . ‘round & ‘round in circles; when it’s over, everybody finishes back where they began. Not long ago, Son #3 took me to the races. Open wheeled monsters roared around the track, sliding sideways in the turns, spinning mud and dust into the air, into the stands, so loud I had to wear a headset to protect my ears. In the late 70’s and early 80’s we went to stock car races often and we loved it but the best we could do was watch. 

We rode bicycles, really. In the early 80’s, bicycles were for the most part, toys but I took mine seriously. My wife wasn’t happy when I left the house for long stretches, leaving her to take care of her business and herd four kids as well. So I bought more bicycles and took kids with me. Sit-up-straight bicycles with knobby tires were toys for the driveway and yard, but down-in-the-grips bikes with razor thin tires, they were the real deal. In 1980, two hundred dollars for a 10 speed bike was a thorny issue. Whatever else we did without must not have been too important. You can tuck forward, down into the wind and ride for hours, miles on miles and still have legs left for the ride home. St. Joseph County, Michigan had a grid network of blacktop roads with an intersection every mile. There must have been thousands of sprints, to the next sign post or hedge row for nothing more than bragging rights and an excuse to burn off energy. I brought up the rear with Daughter #4; she didn’t like sprints or hills, even the downhill. She knew that another climb would surely follow. For safety sake, we practiced riding the edge, on the white line. Not much traffic out in the county; when you hear cars coming up behind, you ride a true line on the edge, not looking back, letting drivers know that you know what you’re doing. 

Bicycle racing was popular in Canada but in Michigan, the best we could do were local time trials in Kalamazoo and Battle Creek, sharing the road with cars and trucks as we raced against the clock. Son #3 could really ride, like the wind. I bought him a Nishiki racer and he left us behind, riding with the big boys on their aluminum frame racers; cruising at 27-28 mph. Interesting, he is the one who lost his passion for the bicycle and turned to giant tires, high powered monster, mud trucks. It was Son #1 who took me to the velodrome last Friday night. It is a half kilometer, high banked bicycle track, small enough, steep sided enough it looks like a miniature football stadium where the action goes on, on the steep banked part. Spectators are above that, looking down into the bowl. The bikes are all carbon fiber now, even the rims; aerodynamic, strong and feather weight. For a group of racers to sprint to the finish at over 40 mph is normal, equal to the fastest of the fast, thoroughbred race horses. 

Allentown, Pennsylvania has it’s race cars but interest and support for bicycle racing is equally strong. The velodrome is state of the art, not a bad seat in the place. We sat just shy of the finish line. As the chain of riders rolls around on the bell lap, the crowd gets excited and begins to cheer. The riders can hear it all, foot stomping in the bleachers drowns out the cheers but the track itself is silent. One rider, back in 7th or 8th place explodes with a burst of speed, passing on the outside, high enough so he can slingshot out of the turn, into the lead at the finish line. As they go by the crowd goes silent, the only noise a soft rattle of chain link fence, disturbed gently by the wind they make. 

I thought about the winged outlaws, roaring into the 3rd turn at Lakeside speedway; speed junkies and their machines, similar in some ways to the bicycles. I know that auto racing has it’s unique skill set but I don’t identify with it. They need to be strong enough to control the wheel with hand-eye reaction time of an athlete. But otherwise, they can be soft. The vroom-vroom crowd is something else. I was there at Lakeside and the people were nice but I didn’t fit the profile. I’ve never raced a car but I connect with lactic acid burn in the thighs and cramping in the calves. I know the vulnerability of no seat belts or roll bars. If you go down, it’s flesh against the hard surface, at any speed. Son #2 still rides, has Son #3’s racer now, the kid size Nishiki. We all hope someday one of his daughters might want to give it a spin.