Tour of El Salvador - some riders' careers going up. Some going down.
Stage races in Central and South America used to be rarely frequented by north Americans. There are great national tours in Peru, Chile, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Colombia, Trinidad and Tobago, and other Latin countries. In the old days American teams were put together last minute to go to these races and, sometimes had huge success, and other times not so much.
It used to be a joke with regard to the US National Team that they took you to races in Central and South America to see if you'd get sick or not. And to see how you'd perform if you did. The racing was, and still is, the wild west of bike racing. Stories abound of staying hotels where the power is shut off between 8pm and 6am, packs of wild dogs roaming about, sketchy tactics and collusions between local teams, and of dodgy road closures for the race.
What you don't hear about is the quality of riders in these little known races. Colombian and Argentinian riders have become well known in recent years. Some have gone on to the top teams in the world. Nairo Quintana, a contender at this year's Tour de France, is a great example.
Races like this, which are sanctioned by the UCI (Union Cycliste International), are used by teams in multiple ways. In recent years small division 2 and 3 teams on their way up have used these smaller international tours as ways to gain UCI points so they (and individual riders on them) can step up to the next level. The other way is for riders who are on their way down from the top level to use them in a bid to earn UCI points and to stay relevant on the international scene.
The year I did the Tour of El Salvador, I was in the latter category. Years past my best, I was looking for some relevance and adventure in racing.
There was a team presentation the night before the race started. It was a fancy affair at a big bank. The president of El Salvador was going to be there so security was tight. Stone faced, armed soldiers with automatic weapons screened us as we went into the bank and huge German Shepherds sniffed us and our bags. When the president's helicopter arrived the troops made an impressive display of securing the building.
In big UCI races the race organization is obligated to feed and house the riders. All the riders at this race were put up in the El Salvadoran version of the olympic training center. Nightly we were served the same pollo con arroz (chicken and rice). And I mean the same as it looked like they just cooked up the leftovers and new ingredients every night. We avoided in and bought food at the local grocery when we could.
On stage 2, I had had a rough night with some stomach issues. I chalked it up to nerves until the race got started. But my legs were empty. The team car pulled up along side me asking what was wrong. Our team doctor was in the car. I told him I felt bad. He said hang in there. Then he says "Even the dust in San Salvador [the capital city where we were racing] will make you sick!"
I made the time cut and rode in with the groupetto. There was a huge roundabout in the course on each lap and, on one lap, as the pack split around it, a rider couldn't decide which way to go. He ended up falling and sliding chest first into the curb. He nearly died that night. But, the race went on.
That night the team doctor arrived in our room. He carried with him IV bags of saline (it was so hot that we couldn't actually drink enough water) and vials of iron and vitamin B12. I had to admit it, I had gotten Montezuma's revenge at some point in the days before the race despite drinking only the bottled water. We had even been making our own breakfasts and dinner in an effort to avoid the terrible race food. A few days later, as the rest of the team had gotten sick, one of the riders spotted the staff filling the water bottles from a hose behind the building. So much for clean water. And we were still avoiding the pollo con arroz.
Another night, as the team doctor was hooking me up to an IV, he started lecturing us on how to please a woman. You can imagine the hilarity his poor English cause. Had I been a younger, more naive man, I'd have been scarred for life.
Near the end of the race, as I was doing anything and everything I could to keep my body, and therefor my race, going for a few more days, I botched giving myself and iron injection (totally legal under UCI and WADA rules). I didn't get the needle down into the muscle in my butt cheek and a huge rust colored stain blossomed under the skin. It took the better part of a year for my body to absorb it. When I got home, sick and exhausted, as I undressed that night my wife pointed in horror at my butt: "What the hell is THAT?!"
Racing in other countries can have some really cool moments. One of the stage starts was on an air-force base. We were serenaded by a military band and rode out of the base between rows of armed soldiers. Another night we were to finish in a rural town on the side of a mountain. It was a shorter stage and I had good legs. I got over the climbs in the front group and felt good. As we entered the village at the foot of the mountain, the road narrowed. We were turning quickly left and right. It was a battle to maintain position, reminding me of my years on the cobbles in small towns in Belgium. At the finish at the top, children surrounded us as we rode back to the team cars and buses to change. An old woman rolled a cart up near us and peeled, sliced, and fried potatoes in oil right there in front of us. The smell was maddeningly delicious. I was avoiding street food to not make my sickness even worse!
The next day, on the way to the stage start, we had an armed guard at the front of the bus and our little race convoy was under military escort. On the highway came to a fast stop and our guard, and every other soldier, quickly exited their vehicles and ran ahead up the road. I looked out the windshield to see the road blocked by burning brush. I thought to myself "this is how bad stuff happens in the movies!" Turned out it was just some farmers protesting.
My body finally gave out with 2 stages to go, on the longest stage. I got dropped from the pack after just 20k and there were 100k's to go. I climbed into the team car, grateful for the air conditioning and to be off my damn bike. Over the remainder of the week the rest of the team would drop out of the race too with illness until our last rider managed to finish the last stage.
Now, if I could just go home and not see any more pollo con arroz.
It used to be a joke with regard to the US National Team that they took you to races in Central and South America to see if you'd get sick or not. And to see how you'd perform if you did. The racing was, and still is, the wild west of bike racing. Stories abound of staying hotels where the power is shut off between 8pm and 6am, packs of wild dogs roaming about, sketchy tactics and collusions between local teams, and of dodgy road closures for the race.
What you don't hear about is the quality of riders in these little known races. Colombian and Argentinian riders have become well known in recent years. Some have gone on to the top teams in the world. Nairo Quintana, a contender at this year's Tour de France, is a great example.
Races like this, which are sanctioned by the UCI (Union Cycliste International), are used by teams in multiple ways. In recent years small division 2 and 3 teams on their way up have used these smaller international tours as ways to gain UCI points so they (and individual riders on them) can step up to the next level. The other way is for riders who are on their way down from the top level to use them in a bid to earn UCI points and to stay relevant on the international scene.
The year I did the Tour of El Salvador, I was in the latter category. Years past my best, I was looking for some relevance and adventure in racing.
There was a team presentation the night before the race started. It was a fancy affair at a big bank. The president of El Salvador was going to be there so security was tight. Stone faced, armed soldiers with automatic weapons screened us as we went into the bank and huge German Shepherds sniffed us and our bags. When the president's helicopter arrived the troops made an impressive display of securing the building.
In big UCI races the race organization is obligated to feed and house the riders. All the riders at this race were put up in the El Salvadoran version of the olympic training center. Nightly we were served the same pollo con arroz (chicken and rice). And I mean the same as it looked like they just cooked up the leftovers and new ingredients every night. We avoided in and bought food at the local grocery when we could.
On stage 2, I had had a rough night with some stomach issues. I chalked it up to nerves until the race got started. But my legs were empty. The team car pulled up along side me asking what was wrong. Our team doctor was in the car. I told him I felt bad. He said hang in there. Then he says "Even the dust in San Salvador [the capital city where we were racing] will make you sick!"
I made the time cut and rode in with the groupetto. There was a huge roundabout in the course on each lap and, on one lap, as the pack split around it, a rider couldn't decide which way to go. He ended up falling and sliding chest first into the curb. He nearly died that night. But, the race went on.
That night the team doctor arrived in our room. He carried with him IV bags of saline (it was so hot that we couldn't actually drink enough water) and vials of iron and vitamin B12. I had to admit it, I had gotten Montezuma's revenge at some point in the days before the race despite drinking only the bottled water. We had even been making our own breakfasts and dinner in an effort to avoid the terrible race food. A few days later, as the rest of the team had gotten sick, one of the riders spotted the staff filling the water bottles from a hose behind the building. So much for clean water. And we were still avoiding the pollo con arroz.
Another night, as the team doctor was hooking me up to an IV, he started lecturing us on how to please a woman. You can imagine the hilarity his poor English cause. Had I been a younger, more naive man, I'd have been scarred for life.
Near the end of the race, as I was doing anything and everything I could to keep my body, and therefor my race, going for a few more days, I botched giving myself and iron injection (totally legal under UCI and WADA rules). I didn't get the needle down into the muscle in my butt cheek and a huge rust colored stain blossomed under the skin. It took the better part of a year for my body to absorb it. When I got home, sick and exhausted, as I undressed that night my wife pointed in horror at my butt: "What the hell is THAT?!"
Racing in other countries can have some really cool moments. One of the stage starts was on an air-force base. We were serenaded by a military band and rode out of the base between rows of armed soldiers. Another night we were to finish in a rural town on the side of a mountain. It was a shorter stage and I had good legs. I got over the climbs in the front group and felt good. As we entered the village at the foot of the mountain, the road narrowed. We were turning quickly left and right. It was a battle to maintain position, reminding me of my years on the cobbles in small towns in Belgium. At the finish at the top, children surrounded us as we rode back to the team cars and buses to change. An old woman rolled a cart up near us and peeled, sliced, and fried potatoes in oil right there in front of us. The smell was maddeningly delicious. I was avoiding street food to not make my sickness even worse!
The next day, on the way to the stage start, we had an armed guard at the front of the bus and our little race convoy was under military escort. On the highway came to a fast stop and our guard, and every other soldier, quickly exited their vehicles and ran ahead up the road. I looked out the windshield to see the road blocked by burning brush. I thought to myself "this is how bad stuff happens in the movies!" Turned out it was just some farmers protesting.
My body finally gave out with 2 stages to go, on the longest stage. I got dropped from the pack after just 20k and there were 100k's to go. I climbed into the team car, grateful for the air conditioning and to be off my damn bike. Over the remainder of the week the rest of the team would drop out of the race too with illness until our last rider managed to finish the last stage.
Now, if I could just go home and not see any more pollo con arroz.
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