Two Wheeled Life Part 5

 Two Wheeled Life Part 5

1989 was an eventful year to say the least. After my performance the previous year the boss thought his Tour de France chasing vacation packages would be more popular than ever. He'd done well with the first one in 1987, probably double or tripled his sales in 1988 and with American Greg LeMond's likely return, he doubled down again. LeMond had won LeTour in 1986, which inspired his cycling vacation scheme, though a British operation was already running a low-end program using a huge bus and cheap lodging. His were far from luxury but aimed at Americans with decent disposable incomes rather than Brits on the dole.

For 1989 he'd expand to two separate groups as running more than a 5 van convoy (40 clients) wasn't logistically possible. Instead, yours truly would lead a separate group, often using the same hotels and meeting up in the same places for race-viewing, private interviews, etc. 

He'd also hire an interpreter since my French was at the cartoon Pepe Le Pew level at best. The new guy was a triathlete from the French part of Switzerland. Later I'd find out from this fellow just how little French the other so-called interpreters the boss used actually spoke!

First order of business was an R & D or "scouting" trip as the boss liked to call them. He went earlier to scout some routes for a smaller group following only a few early stages of the big race. I flew over alone, found my way to the train station and met him in the southeastern part of France. He had his mother with him for company but she departed soon after I arrived. I felt sorry for the woman bouncing around in the back seat of the rental car as the boss roared around the mountain roads.

The idea was for me to be familiar enough with the roads and area to lead a smaller tour group for the final week of the big race. With the interpreter he'd promised I figured we'd make it work since a European could bail me out if needed. But first there were other bike races, including the first Tour de Trump, the less said about, the better. But Greg LeMond was there and the boss keen to set up private interviews, but nothing came of it.

Next up, the Giro d'Italia, something I was really looking forward to. As a lover of Italian motorcycles, bicycles, food, etc. I thought this would be even more fantastic than the Tour de France, though the race was rather low-key in comparison unless you're Italian. American Andy Hampsten had become the first winner from the USA the previous year, sparking enough interest for the boss to put together a vacation package. He knew the first time would be a small group so I didn't need to go with him on the R & D junket. I'm not sure if his poor mother was drafted in, but I was excited!

Until the sales of this tour didn't reach his expectations. Greg LeMond's comeback wasn't going as expected while low-key Andy Hampsten's win didn't generate the interest the boss forecast. But the tour was still on and I was still excited. 

Until he announced the tour was so small, I wouldn't be needed! He'd hired an interpreter and he figured this newly-retired from racing American woman could do the driving, guiding and even help with the bicycles, so why spend money to bring me along too?

As you might guess, this news hit me hard. One of the big reasons I'd committed to working for this guy was the idea that I'd do ALL of his vacations, big or small. But he claimed the Giro tour was at best going to break-even and this woman's husband might come along as a paying client, so my scheme to find an interpreter already in Italy was for nothing. After some back and forth my desire to go overcame my annoyance and financial requirements so I was going!

Despite the claims of just breaking-even, the boss brought along his new galpal, this one not even pretending to speak any helpful language. I met her and the interpreter (sans hubby who backed-out or maybe never was going to come?) at the Los Angeles airport for a flight to Milan. I thought the interpreter was attractive in a kind of international way - turns out she'd studied in the UK, had family and friends in Italy and had even raced her bike internationally. I had a credit card sponsored by the cycling federation's bank sponsor with a bike racing photo on it...she pointed out that she was cut out of the photo, all you could see was her shoe! She later showed me the same exact shoe - she was for real!

I liked her right away, trying to help her understand the boss a little bit but she caught on quickly, many times smoothing over issues with hotels and restaurants with her charm and language skills. She quickly figured out what the boss wanted (or should have wanted) before he did and was soon indispensable to our small group. The boss drove one van, yours truly the other with this interpreter often with me since the boss had his galpal for company, so we enjoyed plenty of conversations about cycling, Italy and our hopes and dreams for the future.

I fell in love with Italy pretty quickly, starting with exiting the (then small) Milan airport. We were backed up a bit in traffic getting onto the highway to the hotel. When we finally got around the back-up I saw what was causing it - a guy on his bicycle motorpacing a car! High-speed training, on a controlled-access highway? Only in Italy! Did anyone scream and shout at this fellow to "get back on the sidewalk where you belong!"? No, they just drove around as if this was just another day. What a country - and I hadn't even had lunch yet!

The whole experience was like a dream and I was falling in love both with Italy and this interpreter. But there was a race to follow and the boss was still in pursuit of Greg LeMond for private interviews. Since Andy Hampsten was the defending champion he was out of reach for what the boss wanted to pay for interviews, which was around $500. Easy money for a journeyman pro not on a huge salary but getting the defending champ for $500 wasn't going to happen.

So the pursuit of LeMond continued even though as a second-thought. His helper, a Mexican guy named Otto was asked if "The Champ" as he called LeMond would be interested in speaking with us? Otto said he'd ask and after a few days a date was made. Amazingly, some of the tour clients weren't interested. They wanted Hampsten or nothing! LeMond was washed-up they claimed and his performance at the Giro so far had done nothing to change their minds. Off we went to Lemond's team hotel as planned, though we needed only one van as others didn't bother to show up for the ride there.

LeMond showed-up in the hotel lobby as agreed and seemed very happy to hear from US cycling fans rather than endure (mostly Italian) claims that he was washed-up after his near-death hunting accident. He charmed everyone - there's no filter between his brain (or heart) and his mouth. Finally the team director came down and almost dragged him away, but not before the boss asked if he'd be willing to do interviews at LeTour? "Sure, if I'm in it." was his response.

Seeing how much everyone enjoyed the meeting the boss was keen to arrange two more at the Tour de France, especially as LeMond had said his recovery was hindered by anemia and they'd now started therapy to fix it, so maybe he wasn't as washed-up as many thought? The boss proposed to pay $500 to the Tour de France 1986 winner for each interview. LeMond was having none of it. He smiled and countered with $1500. The boss countered with $1000. LeMond laughed, saying 1500 again, but 1500 lire - "You can buy me a coffee. I'll do 'em for free."

This seemed a really great deal, especially when LeMond came second in the Giro's final time trial. Was he back? And would he actually do the interviews? I was falling in love more and more with Italy and the Giro, probably helped by falling in love with the interpreter as well? Too soon the whole thing was over and a lovesick yours truly went back to his lonely apartment and bike shop job, full of stories about one of his new loves - ITALIA.

The other? She was someone's wife so what was I supposed to do? When she'd explained she was going to graduate school in the fall on the other side of the country from her home in Santa Barbara and it didn't look like her husband was going to join her I blurted out "I'll go with you!" like a lovesick fool. But I never in a million years thought it would happen. Until she called me at the bike shop one day, a few weeks before I was ready to fly to France for LeTour.

We talked a few times later, mostly about her going to school. I explained if she wasn't married I'd be doing whatever I could for someone following their passion (Philosophy) without regard for how much money could be made from it. Sound familiar? We left it there, or so I thought. Until one morning at the bike shop, just a day before my flight to France she drove down from Santa Barbara that samemorning. The bike shop boss took one look at us and said "Take the day off! You'll be useless here!"

We went back to my place and I called the tour company boss, begging him to bring her along as a French interpreter. A year later the Swiss guy who worked with us remarked that her French was better than ANY of the other so-called interpreters the boss had hired. But this boss said something similar to the bike shop boss, as in "You'll get no work done. You'll be useless. Come alone, I'm not going to let her join you!" He was probably right but it didn't make things easier the morning she drove me to the airport to meet them for the flight to France.

I'd given her a credit card, the keys to my apartment and the OK to stay there while I was gone, saying I hoped she'd move-in while I was in France and come back to pick me up at the airport in two weeks. As excited as I was to run my own section of the bike tour and see if Greg LeMond really was back, I was heart-broken to have to leave now of all times!

Keeping busy was easy, though I'd collect handfuls of coins for pay phones and call her every chance I got. Clients would laugh at me when they offered me a tip for doing something to their bike and all I wanted was the coins. The LeMond/Fignon battle at this race was thrilling, LeMond was well and truly back and all the Americans in the group couldn't believe how lucky they were to be there seeing it live.

After the early week with the smaller group it was time to split up, just me and the Swiss interpreter with a two van group of clients. It didn't take long for me to realize I wasn't really ready to lead even a group this small, as the slap-dash map and my scribbled route notes didn't do me much good and even if there's only one van behind you, missing a turn doesn't look good to the clients. Something needed to be done for the good of the tour program. I decided to put the Swiss guy in front and let him do the navigating after going over my maps and notes. He proved better at it than I was and eventually sort of took over the program, letting me go back to the vice-president role I was better at.

The boss wasn't happy but soon realized I'd done him a favor, putting my ego aside for the good of his program. The clients were happier too, though to one older client none of it mattered. I remember him being almost impossible to pull away from a hotel swimming pool one hot July afternoon. Sure it was hot, but what kept him immobile were the topless young women around the pool, since that's the custom in France. Bike race? What bike race?

One bike ride was notable. The race finish was in Briancon so we parked the vans just below the mountain-top city, turning the clients loose to ride on the route. The boss' plan was for us to ride around the route including the imposing Col d'Izoard and descend back to the vans before the clients returned. Great idea, until it wasn't. Part of the problem was caused by me, two flat tires along the early part of the ride. I was still using old-time "tubular" tires glued onto the wheel rims.

Changing one of these wasn't hard, you just ripped it off the rim but sticking a replacement on was not so easy. It all depended on how sticky the glue remaining on the wheel rim was along with the glue (if you were smart) you'd put on the spare tire. I'd always used red glue as it remained a bit soft and sticky, making roadside changes easier (and safer) than the clear glue, which kept the tire on but tended to crack once dried so your replacement might not stick on so well. We'd also had a minor delay when the Swiss triathlete managed to hook my leg with his triathlete handlebars, resulting in a minor crash.

All this meant we were now in danger of being caught up in the Tour's publicity caravan as we slogged up the Col d'Izoard. Our plan was to get back to the vans before the race, but now we were in danger of being caught up in the race! The entire publicity caravan passed us and we were soon kicked off the course at the top of the climb as the race itself closed-in. The boss began to fret, thinking about irate clients coming back to locked-up, unattended vans after their rides.

The answer was to get back on the route and race down the hill to the parked vans. But how? The police were not letting anyone on the road as the race approached. We were excited to see who would reach the top of this fabled mountain first, but really needed to get down, sooner rather than later, but the police had things locked-down tight, so all we could do was wait. The leaders passed over followed minutes later by their exhausted helpers. Then there was a gap between the race contenders, their helpers and the rest of the race - the sprinters and guys who'd done their work earlier and now just wanted to beat the time limit to the finish.

The boss decided this was our chance so we jumped over the fence with our bikes, hopped on and began a race to the vans! We had proper bike clothing of course so this was the time to look like you belonged out there, getting past the police before each one realized we did NOT belong out there. It was easy enough at first, once my worries about my tires coming-off since the glue holding 'em on softened and spread out due to heat from the brakes.

At one point we were gaining on someone who WAS supposed to be out there, a real competitor just trying to get to the finish. We didn't want to expose the fact we weren't supposed to be out there or impact the race in any way, so we slowed and let the guy get a few switchbacks further down the mountain before resuming our own little race.

Our triathlete friend with his triathlon handlebars got yanked off since he obviously didn't look like he belonged out there while the rest of us tried to look the part on the flat sections where it was obvious we too didn't belong out there. We killed ourselves on those, knowing there was another downhill part before we'd reach the vans, we just had to get there without being stopped by the police. We eventually made it, our triathlete friend showing up later, claiming he'd gotten back on the course but some of the real racers had closed in on him on that flats section that killed us. One of them, an American on the 7/11 team, pulled up into his draft, saying "OK tri-boy, start pulling!"

Though this was maybe the most exciting grand tour cycling race in decades, all I wanted to do was be back to Southern California. Greg LeMond did show up for an interview, one we'd set up at the team "hotel" which really was a dormitory of sorts with most, if not all the racers eating and sleeping there with no A/C. It was amazing that sportsmen at this level were treated like this, but the organizers fined you heavily if you left the designated lodgings. 

Greg LeMond eventually started carting around a portable A/C unit which scandalized the French organizers, but there wasn't nothing in the rules prohibiting it. Coca-Cola would soon become a sponsor of this race (replacing the French Perrier water) using a slogan "Drink it ice cold!" which also caused a scandal when the race doctor blamed too cold drinks on some illness and retirement of a few competitors. That was quickly walked-back when Coke complained but in the French tradition a  Coke you bought from a roadside vendor along the race route was "tres froid" despite being pulled out of a cooler filled only with water - no ice.

LeMond arrived, delayed by post race TV interviews, but seeing our waiting group got out of the car and walked over to a patch of grass and sat down, our group following him. A few others joined us but once they realized the interview was in English they soon wandered off. Just like the last time, LeMond's sporting director had to eventually drag him away, this time for shower, massage and dinner. No clients skipped this interview!

The race seemed to get more exciting each day as the leader's yellow jersey changed from LeMond to rival Fignon (who'd won that Giro d'Italia earlier) and back again. Again all I wanted to do was go home but I was thankful the race was exciting, it really would have been tough to sit through a boring procession to Paris. Our second interview with LeMond was set up but due to some late-arriving clients we were late getting to his hotel.

So late LeMond was already on the massage table when we arrived. He came down after to apologize (though WE were late, not him) and said he had to go to dinner, could we wait around until afterwards? We still had kilometers to drive to our next hotel so we couldn't. LeMond suggested another chance, the morning of the final time trial in Paris. Could we do that? The idea quickly died as getting our clients from the center of Paris out to the start of the time trial in Versailles would be a logistical nightmare, though a few of us thought of sneaking out there ourselves but the idea was nixed right away as unfair. He was right, though a few of us did ride the subway out there before the start, to say good luck to LeMond and congratulate the guy who'd likely won both Giro and Tour, Laurent Fignon.

We made our way back to Paris and found a place along the famous Champs de Elysees to watch, thinking there was zero chance for LeMond to make up enough time on Fignon to win the Tour, but happy that the American hero was certainly back to his best form. I was torn, on one hand it was amazingly exciting but just the same if I could have clicked Dorothy's ruby slippers together and been back in Southern California I'd have done just that.

Festivities over, I couldn't wait to get home, especially peeved when we arrived at the Paris airport on Monday to find our flight reservations cancelled! Someone forgot to confirm our return flights but I was able to get a seat on a flight to New York...in business class! But this was in the days when there was a smoking section! You guessed it, I sat next to a guy who lit one right after another but I didn't care, I just wanted to get home where Heather was waiting at LAX, no matter what shade of green I was along the way.

She was ready for grad school and had moved out of her husband's house, staying with her parents most of the time I was in France but she'd moved some stuff into my apartment, which now had to be emptied since she agreed to let me go with her. I put out some feelers in the bike biz and had a solid lead on a job in a bicycle shop in the area, so off we went in early fall.

A road and mountain bike for each of us on the roof and pretty much everything we owned inside my tiny Honda Civic station wagon made things simple. We'd arranged a roommate situation which quickly went sour so we rented our own little house near the university and the branch of the bike shop I was supposed to be managing. Cycling in Western Massachusetts was nice in the fall but the snow soon began to fall. We tried some XC skiing and sliding around on the snow on our mountain bikes to keep in shape. Living in genuine winter was a big change for this Southern California cyclist!

The bike shop job didn't go well. The owner was pretty clueless about the business and we clashed very soon after I was hired...and then quickly fired. But this time UPS needed holiday help so I spent 3 weeks running packages in the snow, but money was getting tight. I borrowed some money from my parents plus we had a stipend from Heather's parents to help with school cost, but things were going the wrong way financially.

The good news was by this time a divorce from Heather's hubby was finalized and on Valentine's Day 1990 I asked if I could fill that role? Amazingly, she said yes and one week later we were at the tiny courthouse in Hadley, MA getting married, with two old guys filling out tax forms as our witnesses. A splurge for a short honeymoon XC skiing in Vermont was followed by some soul-searching.

We were going broke, slowly but surely. The "Mass Miracle" had cratered and there were more job seekers than jobs. I called the old bike shop boss in CA...would he like some temporary help? Of course he would, the place made more profits when I was running it than when he was! I packed up my car and headed west, eventually staying at my parents house while I worked at the shop, rode my bike, mailed a letter to MA every day and sent every dollar I could along with it. The goal was to survive until the end of the school term and the start of the 1990 bike tour season. By this time the boss realized I wasn't going anywhere without Heather so now he had a mechanic/interpreter team for both France and Italy who shared a hotel room and worked pretty cheaply. A win-win for everyone, at least that's the way we saw it.

Heather was still finishing-up her first year in grad school when I flew back for the second edition of the Tour de Trump. Notable for me only because there was a stage start in nearby town to the university so I could spend a little time with my new wife. The boss said there wasn't enough interest in the 1990 Giro d'Italia so no tour was planned. It was wait for LeTour. But how to get out of the financial hole we were in? Heather had gone to college in Charlottesville, Virginia and knew a bike shop owner there. Perhaps I could manage one of his stores while she found some work during a one year leave of absence?

The plan was to build up a financial war chest and go back to MA the following year after the bike tour season. We packed our meager possessions in her tiny car and drove to Virginia. I got a job promise so we went back to California to meet up with the bike tour boss and fly to France. In the meantime we both found temporary jobs, me in the bike business again while she worked at a local college book shop. These jobs paid the rent in an apartment for a few months and kept us fed before Tour time came round again. The idea was to then return to Virginia to work building up finances for another try in Massachusetts the following year.