Where Is His Bike?

Last week, I wrote of a cyclist's nightmare:  a bike falling off a car carrier.  Worse yet, when Dara Gannon turned around to pick up her bike, it was gone.

Another incidence of compound misery befell Nicolas Roche*, the retired Team Sky and BMC rider.  He was on his way home to Monaco from London when his Easy Jet flight was cancelled.  His checked bags--which included his custom-made bicycle--went through, however.

Needing to get home for a work appointment, he took another flight to Nice.  When he arrived, he saw his front door--but not his bags.

Nicolas Roche's custom bike. Photo courtesy of Fifty-One.

The bike, like other custom bikes, is built to his physique and riding style.  But its design also includes graphics including his Irish road race championships, Olympic participation and Vuelta a Espana stage victories, which means it can't be mistaken for any other. 

Still, eleven days later, no airline or airport employee seems to have any idea of where his bike might be.  Worse, EasyJet told him that because he flew to Nice, it is now the responsibility of that city's airport to locate the bike, despite all evidence indicating that his machine is--assuming it hasn't been "found"--still in Gatwick Airport. 

Roche explained that because he was trying to travel lighter than he normally does, he used different bags for his bike, kit and other items from what he'd used previously. So, in his haste, he didn't put any tracking tags on those bags, as he has done with his other bags. 

Unfortunately, Roche's ordeal is hardly unique.  With the return of mass air travel, understaffed airlines and airports are cancelling and re-routing flights.  That has resulted in record amounts of lost luggage--including the bikes of a Canadian pro rider on his way to the Tour de France.  

*--Nicolas Roche is indeed the son of Stephen Roche, the 1980s Tour de France and Giro d'Itaila winner.

The Hope of the Tour

It seems that, barring a mishap, Chris Froome is going to win the Tour de France.  Just as Brits cheered his rival and fellow Engishman Bradley Wiggins last year, they—and cycling fans around the world—want to see Froome take the title this year.

Even more important, I believe, is another hope expressed by his admirers—and one in particular:  a guy named Stephen Roche.
 

He’s the Irish cyclist who won the “Triple Crown”—le Tour, Il Giro d’Italia and La Vuelta d’Espana—in 1987.  I am not the only fan who believes he could have had a career to rival the greats like Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault and Miguel Indurain were it not for a chronic knee problem.  Like them, he was a great overall rider who excelled in the mountains and on time trials.  Also, he was as conscientious about his training as any cyclist who ever lived.

The thing that true cycling fans loved about him, though, was his form.  In spite of his chronic injuries, very few cyclists have ever been as graceful and as powerful in the saddle as he was.  Whether he was on a hors categorie climb or riding against the clock, he always exhibited the same fluid, symmetrical pedaling motion.  And the rest of his body seemed to support it, in unison.

Stephen Roche in 1987

Near the end of his career, he faced accusations of doping that were never conclusively proved.  That was quickly forgotten and never seemed to cast a shadow over his reputation.  Plus, if you ever saw him ride, you'd know that he didn't need drugs to win.


 I think cycling fans always respected Roche because he won, or at least placed highly” In the “classics”—races like the Paris-Nice and Tour de Romandy.  In other words, he did not focus his attention entirely on le Tour, il GIro or la Vuelta and disregard the rest of the cycling season.  So, when Roche says that Froome is the "next great hope", or something to that effect, people listen.

He has expressed hope that Froome actually is, and will remain, the “clean” rider he so far seems to be.  Plus, from what I’ve read and heard, just about everybody who’s met Froome respects and likes him.  If he can win clean, he—as Roche points out—will be a great ambassador for the sport.

Shay Elliott and The Roches On St. Patrick's Day

Today is St. Patrick's Day.  Here is a message for the President whose name I dare not say:

Actually, it might be even more appropriate for the guy he appointed to direct the Environmental Protection Agency!

Yes, "Go Green" on St. Patrick's Day!  And every other day of the year.  That might just be a good all-around political philosophy.  Forget the Democrats and Republicans. Go Green!

Today is as good a day as any to think about the great Irish cyclists.  I am one of the many people who regard Stephen Roche as the greatest of all.  He remains, to date, the only Irishman to win the Tour de France and one of the few from any nation to achieve a "Triple Crown" with victories in the Tour de France, Giro d'Italia and Vuelta a Espana in 1987.  In addition, he won or placed highly in a number of "classics" and proved himself in a wide variety of courses, from mountains to time trials.  

The reason why he will never have the status of Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault and Miguel Indurain--whom I, like many other fans, see as the "Big Four"--is that his career was cut short by a chronic knee problem.  But the reason why he's beloved is that probably no other racer's form was as graceful as his.  He really was, to use a cliche, poetry in motion.

Roche, Sean Kelly and every other Irish rider owes a debt to Shay Elliott.  In 1963, he became the first Irishman to win the maillot jaune, which he wore for three days during that year's Tour.  

 

Unfortunately for him, his career spiraled downward because of financial and marital problems.  Worse, he became a pariah in the peloton when he sold a story to a newspaper about drug-taking in the sport.  Two weeks after his father died, he was found dead in the living quarters above the family business premises.  The cause of his death, at age 36, was a gunshot wound.

The Route de Chill Mhantain, a race held every May, was named for Elliott after his death.  It's considered the most prestigious race in Ireland besides the national championships.

About the Irish Road Race and Time Trial Championships:  Last year, they were won by a fellow named Nicolas Roche.  Yes, he's Stephen's son.

Farce And Tragedy On Bastille Day

Yesterday, I complained about the lack of drama in this year's Tour de France.

Well, I guess I should have known better than to write such a post on the day before Bastille Day.  It's the French national holiday and, let me tell you, it's not boring. At least, the Bastille Days I've spent in France weren't.

Today, though, provided the sort of drama that I think almost nobody wanted.  For one thing, defending TdF champion Chris Froome--along with Richie Porte and and Bauke Mollema--crashed into a motorbike on Mont Ventoux, just a kilometer from the Stage 12 finish.

Chris Froome runs up Mont Ventoux

His own bike was wrecked, and his team's support car was five minutes behind.  So he ran until he could grab a neutral service bike; about 200 meters later, he switched to a bike from the Team Sky car, on which he finished the stage.

I have great respect for Froome's determination and conditioning.  But let's just say that when he's riding, he's no Stephen Roche.  Few elite cyclists ever looked more fluid and graceful while pedaling than the Irishman who won the Tour, Giro d'Italia and World road championship in 1987.  On the other hand, Froome's limbs seem to move at every angle except the one in which he's pedaling.  While running, he looked even more ungainly, if that were possible.

But the crash and Froome's run seemed rational and orderly compared to some of the roadside spectators.  Now, I have to make a confession:  On Chamrousse in 2001, I leaned within a tire's breadth of Lance Armstrong to take a photo of him riding to victory in the time trial.  Still, I am going to chide all of those spectators who simply had to get their .15 seconds of fame; one or more of them may have caused that motorbike to lose control.

Now, I've been in France enough to know that French people like spectacle as much as anyone, and they are not averse  to farce.  But I suspect today's events at the Tour de France might have been a bit much even for them--especially since it's their national holiday and they were hoping for a victory from one of their countrymen on a stage that ended with one of the Tour's most iconic climbs.

Then again, the French I know have perspective. (Wars, occupations and such will give you that!)  Anything that happened, or could have happened on today's Tour stage pales in significance with the tragic event in Nice.  Whoever drove that truck into the crowd, and whatever his or her motives, it was an act of terror:  It seemed to come out of nowhere and struck a place and people who were celebrating a holiday in one of the loveliest seaside cities I've ever seen.

I Couldn't Put The Cat In My Bag

Yesterday, I managed to get out for a late-day ride:  a couple of hours spinning and making random turns on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.

Although I had clip-on lights in my rear bag, I didn't want to ride after dark. So, when the sun--which, early in the afternoon had emerged from a days-long absence--tinged the sky orange, I took a shortcut back to my place through the deserted (as they are on weekends) industrial areas of Maspeth and Long Island City.

As I pedaled up a street nestled between rows of warehouses, I saw what looked like a furry shadow slinking by a construction site.  It leaped onto the crumbling brick stoop of a house that seemed to be constructed of peeling shingles.  And I heard...

Meow.  Yes, that furry shadow was feline--but not, I would soon find out, feral.  I stopped and, after I looked into its eyes for a split-second, he (by that time, I had decided  he was male) made a tiptoed sprint toward me.

I rubbed my fingers on his head.  He rubbed against my ankle.  I stroked his back.  He closed his eyes and rolled, a little, on his side.

I really knew he wasn't feral when I picked up my leg and dismounted my bike.  That motion frightens off most cats (and many other animals).  But my new friendly feline acquaintance took a step closer to me.  Finally, I squatted and picked him up.  He didn't resist.  In fact, he curled himself on my shoulder and chest.


He stayed there as I lifted my right leg over Tosca and re-mounted.  I pedaled down the deserted street, crossed another and increased my cadence just a little when he started to squirm.  


Hmm...I know that even when I was at my best, my pedal stroke was never as smooth Jacques Anquetil's or Stephen Roche's.  Still, I tried to make my motions more fluid, if slower.  The cat squirmed more, and jumped off.

But he didn't run away from me.  In fact, he almost seemed to be waiting for me to dismount and pick him up again.  Which I did.  And I remounted the bike.  And pedaled--slowly--again.  He squirmed, but never clawed me.  Not only was he not feral; he had obviously never been on a bike before!

So I picked him up again and walked, with him on my left shoulder and my right hand clutching Tosca's stem, back to the construction site. He looked, rather forlornly, as I said goodbye. (If only I could have photographed him!)

As I left, I noticed a bowl and plate by the construction site: Somebody has been feeding him.  Still, I am somewhat tempted to go back--even if my landlady really means what she said about a two-cat limit (which I had to beg for when I moved in; she only wanted to allow one).  Plus, I have to wonder how my cats would take a new addition to the "family".  Max is friendly and curious; he seemed to be thinking "Great!  A new playmate!" the day I brought Marlee home. But Marlee is still fearful and skittish; she seems to come out of hiding only for me. 

From Boyz on the Hoods

I could go back with the LeTour, which has baskets on it, and a blanket or pillow.  And maybe the landlady, if and when she comes in, won't see him:  He is a smoky gray color, which means he could hide fairly easily.  Plus, Max would like him:  He likes everybody, or so it seems.  As for Marlee...

Proof That It Ain't So

Every 15 years or so, this rumor circulates:  Cycling causes male infertility.

And, not long after the story circulates, a study disproves it. 

Sometimes I think that there's a conspiracy afoot:  The rumor starts, and scientists (young and trying to get tenure someplace, I imagine) get grants to do those studies that, in fact, cycling does nothing to affect men's ability to spawn progeny.

Let's see...Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault, Jacques Anquetil, Fausto Coppi and Laurent Fignon each had two kids. So did Stephen Roche, by his first wife--as Ferdi Kubler did by his second. I suspect that was a choice on their (or their spouse's) part , as it was for many Europeans of their generation.  Or, perhaps, they spent so much time training during their most fertile years that they didn't have the time--or energy--to devote to, uh, extracurricular activities.

Gino Bartali and Greg Lemond each had three.  So did Pedro Delgado. 

So, all right, if I haven't convinced you that cycling doesn't cause male infertility, maybe this will:

or, more precisely, that bike sculpture in Devon, along the route of the Tour of Britain, was re-formed:

Hmm...Maybe the bicycle really can be part of a man's manhood after all.

Me, I don't have to wonder whether or not cycling causes male infertility.  At least, I haven't had to worry about it since I underwent my transition! 

The Oldest Tour Winner Dies: Ferdinand "Ferdi" Kubler

Yesterday, I mentioned that Scots have made more than their share of contributions to the development of bicycles and cycling.  Today I am going to mention a country that has produced more than its share of world-class cyclists, and one of those cyclists in particular.

After Belgium, Switzerland has probably turned out more elite racers in proportion to its population than any other country.  One thing both countries have in common, besides great chocolate, is that they're both small and multi-lingual.  Now, whether that has anything to do with their status as velocipedic hotbeds, I don't know.  (Personally, I think the chocolates would be more of a factor!)  One might also argue that topography is a factor.  Belgium has a wide variety of terrain, from mountains in the south to table-flat land in the north, which also means varying weather conditions.  Switzerland also has widely varying weather, but as a result of one type of landscape that dominates the country:  mountains.

So, not surprisingly, some of the sport's best climbers came from the Alpine nation.  One of them can be seen in this photo, climbing Mont Ventoux during the 1955 Tour de France:

He is none other than Ferdinand Kubler, who became the first Helvetian winner of the Tour in 1950.  This victory was particuarly sweet for "Ferdi", who won stages of the 1947 and 1949 editions of the Tour but did not finish either.  The 1947 running of the race was the first since 1939, when World War II broke out--and when Kubler was beginning his professional career.

Ferdi Kubler encouraged by his wife, Rosa, at the peak of a grueling climb.

So, even though he had a more impressive palmares than 99 percent of those who've ever raced, it's still difficult not wonder "What if?"   When he won the Tour, he was already 31 years old:  an age at which even the best riders are starting the downward slope of their careers. (Eddy Mercx retired at 33.)  He would stand on the Tour podium one more time, four years later, when he finished second. In 1951--the year in which he also won the World Championship--and 1952, he finished third in the Giro d'Italia.  He never entered the Vuelta a Espana, but at that time, it didn't have the stature it now enjoys.

Hugo Koblet in 1950

Interestingly, in 1951--the year after Ferdi's win--Hugo Koblet would become the second Swiss Tour de France champion.  The two riders could hardly have presented a greater contrast, each defying Swiss stereotypes in entirely different ways. While Kubler was devoted to the family who accompanied him to his races, he was known as a high-spirited and even impulsive rider who sometimes made strategically unwise attacks.  Koblet, on the other hand, was a "rock star" of the racing world:   Female fans flocked to see the "Pedaleur de Charme" with matinee-idol looks, and he had a reputation for high living and hard partying.  He married a model who would divorce him a few years later.   However, on the bike he was a very disciplined and pedaled with an elegance and grace that would not be seen until Stephen Roche came along three decades later. 

Hugo Koblet as he is often remembered.

Another contrast can be seen in what happened to Kubler and Koblet after their respective Tour victories.  Although he never replicated the Tour victory, Kubler continued to race at a high level for another half-decade, continuing to win a number of "classics" before retiring from competitive racing in 1957, at age 38.  Koblet, however, "crashed" after the 1951 Tour: Jean Bobet (brother of three-time Tour winner Louison Bobet) said, "we saw him unable to ride over the smallest hill".  The writer Olivier Dazat described a "suddenly aged" man who "seemed preoccupied"--probably with his marital, debt and tax troubles.  

Koblet's death at age 39, in 1964, is widely believed to be a suicide.  Kubler, in yet another contrast, spent his 97th Christmas with his family before dying a few days later--yesterday--in a Zurich hospital.  He was the oldest living Tour de France winner.  And, in a nation that has produced many great bicycle racers, he was chosen as Sportsman of the Century.