The Time I Rode On The Brazilian Olympic Team.
In 1992 I found myself in Belgium again riding on a Belgian cycling team sponsored by a Russian car manufacturer. It was an olympic year and I fantasized that I would fly back to the US mid-season with my gloriously Belgian-hardened legs to do the olympic trials.
Little did I know that I would find myself on an Olympic team sooner than I hoped. And not for the country of my residence.
It had been a typically rough and wet spring. I had been training on those climbs, the Paterberg, the Muur, and the Bosberg fairly regularly and as I watched the big guys big-ring these climbs I marveled at their preternatural strength.
For my part racing had gotten off to a rough start. My first month I had not finished a race and I was beginning to worry about what the rest of my season would look like. But, as usual, my eternal optimism kept me on the road.
On April morning, my team director called the house and ordered me and the other American on the team to pack our bags as we were headed to Luxembourg for a week long stage race.
On the Brazilian Olympic Team.
They were in Europe tuning up for that fall's Olympics. Seems that 2 of their riders had fallen ill at the last moment and they needed some warm bodies to be on the line at the start to be able to be in the race.
I'm still not sure, 25 years later, how the hell they new our director but, they did and off we went.
______________________
"Tout plat, pas de cote..."
That was what the race director told us as we sat at the dinner table the night before the race started. "All flat. No climbs."
Then he asked "Qui sont les Americains?"
Now, you have to picture this. I'm a taller than average cyclist of northern European descent. The other American was of northern European extraction as well. The rest of the team was made up of short, olive skinned, dark haired, Brazilian mountain goats.
My french was good enough to understand this question and I raised my hand, elbowed the other American, and he raised his hand too.
At the end of the meal the wait staff cleared out plates and brought us bowls of a creamy white substance. The team director and the Brazilians smiled and rubbed their hands together, and reached for the sugar.
I turned to the team director, who spoke 5 languages (typical European), and asked him in French and then English: "What's that?"
"Frommage. Cheese!" he retorted.
The other American and I tucked into it. It was like thick, creamy yogurt. It was fantastic.
__________________
The Brazilians were in a fine mood. It had been Carnivale shortly before they had jumped across the pond to join the European cycling circus.
I didn't understand a word of their Portuguese and they didn't speak much English. Fortunately, most of them had had some French in school so I was able to communicate pretty handily with them.
Everywhere we went they were smiling and joking and shouting (usually to women) "BRASILERO!"
_____________________
The race was hard. Really hard!
Remember what I told you the race director said? "Tout plat. Pas de cote..."
I'm not sure what race he was talking about.
We blasted through the first 50 kilometers of racing in about an hour. As we bombed down a wide highway with excellent pavement in the middle of a valley, I began to think we'd just cruise right into the finishing town, do a few finishing circuits, and be done with it.
The other American and I did out jobs carrying long sleeve jerseys back to the team car, bringing water bottles back up to our team mates.
Then the race took an abrupt right hand turn and we started working our way up the valley wall.
The transition was SO steep, and so abrupt that I practically had to pull up on the front wheel so as not to run into the hill.
Within minutes the race was in tatters and as I looked up the switch backs I could see the leaders dancing away above me.
The descents were madness. I was wearing a leather hairnet (this was before there was a hardshell helmet mandate. After scaring the pants of myself I switched to my normal helmet from there on.
I fought hard that day but ended up coming in in the groupetto. And happy for it.
__________________
That night, we had dinner, I got my massage, and headed back to the room. The other American was there waiting for me. As I laid down on my bed, he was softly laughing.
I could hear this because my head was about 11inches from his, so close were our beds.
I should mention that I knew this gentlemen well from where we were from in the US. We had raced against, and with, each other for years.
I started laughing too. And before long our soft chuckling turned to mad cackling as we considered how 2 guys from rural America had ended up on a Belgian cycling team, sponsored by a Russian car manufacturer, racing on the Brazilian Olympic team, at a race in Luxembourg.
______________________
The next day dawned sullen and rainy.
The American and I looked at each other with dread.
We went down to breakfast and then went about our pre race prep in silence.
The race started innocently enough. We headed out of town on the highway in a light rain.
I don't remember much about it except that I got dropped again. Chased back on with a small group of riders. As we were chasing we crested a climb and started to drop down into the valley and as I looked off to my right I saw this:
We caught back on just as the group started the finishing circuits. There was an enormous hill every lap and I got dropped again. As I took my place in the groupetto I enjoyed climbing the cobbled hill by the medieval castle every lap.
___________________
The next day the other American and I were wiped out.
Rider sign in that day was on a flatbed truck with local dignitaries on hand and even a bit of a crowd watching the riders come and go.
We rode up the ramp on the flatbed, got off our bikes, turned to the crowd, and posted up both arms like rock stars. The crowd, well... crickets. But we were laughing too hard to notice.
I missed the time cut that day and had to ride behind the race, team directors punishment, for the next few days.
______________________
The race was won by the guy who went on the win the Olympics that year.
Somewhere out there, there's a picture of me, another American, and 6 small Brazilians that we took after the race.
I like to think it's hung on the wall of the patron that sponsored their team, a wealthy Brazilian named Caloi. (who went on to sponsor Lance Armstrong's Motorola team with bikes - I believe they were actually Merckx bikes with Caloi livery)
Little did I know that I would find myself on an Olympic team sooner than I hoped. And not for the country of my residence.
It had been a typically rough and wet spring. I had been training on those climbs, the Paterberg, the Muur, and the Bosberg fairly regularly and as I watched the big guys big-ring these climbs I marveled at their preternatural strength.
For my part racing had gotten off to a rough start. My first month I had not finished a race and I was beginning to worry about what the rest of my season would look like. But, as usual, my eternal optimism kept me on the road.
On April morning, my team director called the house and ordered me and the other American on the team to pack our bags as we were headed to Luxembourg for a week long stage race.
On the Brazilian Olympic Team.
They were in Europe tuning up for that fall's Olympics. Seems that 2 of their riders had fallen ill at the last moment and they needed some warm bodies to be on the line at the start to be able to be in the race.
I'm still not sure, 25 years later, how the hell they new our director but, they did and off we went.
______________________
"Tout plat, pas de cote..."
That was what the race director told us as we sat at the dinner table the night before the race started. "All flat. No climbs."
Then he asked "Qui sont les Americains?"
Now, you have to picture this. I'm a taller than average cyclist of northern European descent. The other American was of northern European extraction as well. The rest of the team was made up of short, olive skinned, dark haired, Brazilian mountain goats.
My french was good enough to understand this question and I raised my hand, elbowed the other American, and he raised his hand too.
At the end of the meal the wait staff cleared out plates and brought us bowls of a creamy white substance. The team director and the Brazilians smiled and rubbed their hands together, and reached for the sugar.
I turned to the team director, who spoke 5 languages (typical European), and asked him in French and then English: "What's that?"
"Frommage. Cheese!" he retorted.
The other American and I tucked into it. It was like thick, creamy yogurt. It was fantastic.
__________________
The Brazilians were in a fine mood. It had been Carnivale shortly before they had jumped across the pond to join the European cycling circus.
I didn't understand a word of their Portuguese and they didn't speak much English. Fortunately, most of them had had some French in school so I was able to communicate pretty handily with them.
Everywhere we went they were smiling and joking and shouting (usually to women) "BRASILERO!"
_____________________
The race was hard. Really hard!
Remember what I told you the race director said? "Tout plat. Pas de cote..."
I'm not sure what race he was talking about.
We blasted through the first 50 kilometers of racing in about an hour. As we bombed down a wide highway with excellent pavement in the middle of a valley, I began to think we'd just cruise right into the finishing town, do a few finishing circuits, and be done with it.
The other American and I did out jobs carrying long sleeve jerseys back to the team car, bringing water bottles back up to our team mates.
Then the race took an abrupt right hand turn and we started working our way up the valley wall.
The transition was SO steep, and so abrupt that I practically had to pull up on the front wheel so as not to run into the hill.
Within minutes the race was in tatters and as I looked up the switch backs I could see the leaders dancing away above me.
The descents were madness. I was wearing a leather hairnet (this was before there was a hardshell helmet mandate. After scaring the pants of myself I switched to my normal helmet from there on.
I fought hard that day but ended up coming in in the groupetto. And happy for it.
__________________
That night, we had dinner, I got my massage, and headed back to the room. The other American was there waiting for me. As I laid down on my bed, he was softly laughing.
I could hear this because my head was about 11inches from his, so close were our beds.
I should mention that I knew this gentlemen well from where we were from in the US. We had raced against, and with, each other for years.
I started laughing too. And before long our soft chuckling turned to mad cackling as we considered how 2 guys from rural America had ended up on a Belgian cycling team, sponsored by a Russian car manufacturer, racing on the Brazilian Olympic team, at a race in Luxembourg.
______________________
The next day dawned sullen and rainy.
The American and I looked at each other with dread.
We went down to breakfast and then went about our pre race prep in silence.
The race started innocently enough. We headed out of town on the highway in a light rain.
I don't remember much about it except that I got dropped again. Chased back on with a small group of riders. As we were chasing we crested a climb and started to drop down into the valley and as I looked off to my right I saw this:
We caught back on just as the group started the finishing circuits. There was an enormous hill every lap and I got dropped again. As I took my place in the groupetto I enjoyed climbing the cobbled hill by the medieval castle every lap.
___________________
The next day the other American and I were wiped out.
Rider sign in that day was on a flatbed truck with local dignitaries on hand and even a bit of a crowd watching the riders come and go.
We rode up the ramp on the flatbed, got off our bikes, turned to the crowd, and posted up both arms like rock stars. The crowd, well... crickets. But we were laughing too hard to notice.
I missed the time cut that day and had to ride behind the race, team directors punishment, for the next few days.
______________________
The race was won by the guy who went on the win the Olympics that year.
Somewhere out there, there's a picture of me, another American, and 6 small Brazilians that we took after the race.
I like to think it's hung on the wall of the patron that sponsored their team, a wealthy Brazilian named Caloi. (who went on to sponsor Lance Armstrong's Motorola team with bikes - I believe they were actually Merckx bikes with Caloi livery)
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