VANDEDROME
Musings
Joseph Papp
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"Don't turn right." So cautioned John Vande Velde, Olympic Cyclist and the mastermind behind the gut-wrenching experience that is track racing on the Vandedrome. Hoping for more substantial advice on how to finish the upcoming win-and-out in the top three, I shot a pleading glance at my coach, Mike Fraysse. Never one to mince words, his reply was, "Don't fall on your ass, kid."
I briefly pondered this sagacious counsel before rolling onto the wooden track with nine other riders, including British Olympian Shaun Wallace and Australians David Dew and Russell Tucker. Although rarely known to exhibit any signs weakness when money is on the line, even these old pros were a bit stressed after repeatedly hurtling through the 53-degree turns that lie ominously at both ends of the 170m 'drome. Only minutes before, in fact, "Dewy" had narrowly avoided a terrific crash in turn one while trying to break the flying-lap record. Brazenly challenging the laws of physics, his front wheel began to slide at 60kph, but a quick flick of the bars corrected his path. He beat the clock as the crowd roared its approval.
As we circle the track, faster and faster each lap, announcer Phil Stevens whips the crowd into a frenzy. Racing on the Vandedrome tonight as part of this tight-knit group of professionals and elite amateurs is an almost surreal experience. The golden hue of light reflected from the cypress surface creates an ethereal glow, not unlike some oblong halo, while the green apron rushing by on our inside is a danger zone to be avoided at all cost. Stephens' rising voice and the cheers of the crowd combine with a cacophony of creaks and clangs to create bizarre sound waves that pulse through the air. Although I enjoy the sensation of whirling around the track like an electron in an accelerator, I can't forget that we're racing.
After 15 blistering laps, an official rings the bell signaling that the winner will be decided the next time around. Amazingly, Shaun, who for the last eight laps has tortured us with his demonic pace, ups the tempo another notch and takes a relatively easy win. With two laps to go until second place is determined, Dew leads, followed by Tucker. I sit in third, but haven't the chance to turn around to see who's hunting my spot.
Without enough time to challenge Dewy, who is madly turning his tiny 84-inch gear, I focus on flicking Tucker by coming over the top in turn one. Unfortunately, the win-and-out is a difficult event to conduct on such a short track, since it is extremely challenging for exiting riders to move from race-pace on the banking to the pedestrian speeds required to safely navigate the apron. Dewy hesitates after crossing the line for second, and fails to immediately indicate if he will swing-up to scrub speed, or stay low and let us go above him. I've already committed to taking Tucker on the high side of the turn, and when I look to my left, he is no longer next to, but rather below me. At this instant, Dewy belatedly moves up the track, forcing Tucker high as well.
In a split-second it registers in my lactate-clouded brain that we are rocketing through the turn three abreast, about to come together in what will surely be a spectacular collision. Experiencing the proverbial slow-motion time warp, I watch my life flash before me and wonder how to explain the impending disaster to Mike and John. Simultaneously, I replay a scene from a previous year's world championship in which a sprint tandem's rear disk disintegrates at speed and its riders tumble pell-mell into the infield. In the midst of imagining my own obituary, possibly due to divine intervention inspired by the glow of the boards, I recall John's advice and promptly ignore it. Mustering every last ounce of my strength, I wrench the handlebars to the right and turn, in an effort to escape my orbit and come around Russell. Somehow, we avoid contact and coming through the transition, I gain a bike-length on both Aussies!
Fate's wheel turned kindly back in my direction, I dive hard to the left and reach turn three in the lead. Centrifugal force slams my head down as I hold tight to the black line, but I resist the g's and exit the turn intact. A quick glance behind reveals a gap, and I cruise unmolested across the line for third, much to the delight of our partisan crowd.
Back in the infield after the finish, Tucker commends me on my bike handling, while "PowerGel" Jack Diemar offers congratulations on beating the Aussie-combine. There's only a moment's respite, however, before Stevens' call bring us to the line for the next event.
Comments, anyone?
Joe
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Joseph Michael Papp, 4X member, United States Cycling Team
jmpst38+@pitt.edu
412/835-8992
5887 Keystone Drive
Bethel Park, PA 15102-3359
USA
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