One from the vaults

November 13, 2015 § 24 Comments

I received this most excellent email from Ira Schaffer on Wednesday, and had to share–with his permission of course!

Thank you for your great writing and thanks for helping me to stay connected to cycling in the South Bay!

I grew up in Palos Verdes and lived there from 1958 to 1976. One day in 1972 I walked from my house to the Peninsula Center, I was fourteen at the time, and noticed a bunch of commotion that was ununusal for an early Sunday morning around Hawthorne and Indian Peak.

I walked up to the corner and at that moment a huge pack of racing cyclists came screaming down Hawthorne and made the turn onto Indian Peak at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour! It turned out to be an Olympic qualifying road race, won by John Howard.

I watched in amazement and knew that I wanted to do the same thing. I began to ride my bike everywhere and joined a local club, the Lomita Bicycle Peddalers, run by Bob Roach in Lomita. His son Tim Roach, one of the top track coaches in American today, was my best friend at Rolling Hills High School. I trained in the hills of PV in the 70’s along with the few other cyclists like Paul Deem, and raced whenever I could.

Back then, as it is now, SoCal was known mostly for crits. I traveled to Encino twice a week to hone my bike handling skills, with Bob Roach usually driving us until Tim and I got our driving licenses, and we raced on Saturday nights at the velodrome and on Sunday. I raced crits mostly, and “competed” as a Junior against guys like the Whitehead brothers, Dave and Mark and of course Gibby Hatton, who had just won the Junior World Championships. The fields on crit raceday for juniors, which was a category aged 14-18, typically had 75-100 racers, and events like the Manhattan Beach Grand Prix drew up to 125 entrants for the Junior field alone.

I raced through the early 80’s and won the Junior State Road Championship in 1976. I attended UCLA and lived with a guy that worked at a shop and with whom I raced. The shop was on Wilshire and called, appropriately enough, Wilshire West Bicycle Shop.

Since the shop was in West LA, the clientele included a bunch of “movie folks.” One day a producer or director or other important person walked into the shop and asked my roommate if he knew anyone who could help a couple of actors learn the ins and outs of how to ride a bike. My roommate agreed. For the next month, Dennis Christopher and Hart Bochner of Breaking Away met us at our apartment in Santa Monica and we helped teach them some of the “ins and outs” of riding. They invited us to continue the training in Indiana, but I would have had to drop out of school, something I didn’t even consider.

I have great memories of riding and racing my bike in Palos Verdes and your writing helps me to connect. My folks still live in PV (89 years old) and I still ride a bit. I raced masters a few years ago in SoCal. I recently moved to the Bay Area and enjoy the riding up here as well. Thanks for your writing and thanks for helping me stay connected.

Ira Schaffer

[Note from Wanky: Actually, Ira, it is we who should thank you for sharing this great piece of SoCal cycling history and, most especially, for your $2.99 monthly subscription! A round of craft water for everyone!]



For $2.99 per month you can subscribe to this blog, like Ira did! Click here and select the “subscribe” link in the upper right-hand corner. Thank you!

Who’s Johnny Weltz?

August 16, 2012 § 8 Comments

In March 1985, Johnny Weltz and some of his Danish national teammates came to Austin to do the Tour of Texas. Most of the foreign teams stayed at the Villa Capri, nestled cozily in the shadow of the elevated lanes of I-35, and in the morning they would do various training rides, getting ready for the Tour which started the next week.

The Villa Capri, like so many other awful things about old Austin, got torn down so that we could think fondly about it now that it’s no longer there. I wish someone would do that to the Erwin Center.

It was incredible to see the cream of the amateur peloton right there in Austin, before it was ATX, before it was SXSW, before it was anything other than a college town with lots of hippies and the state legislature–“Thirty square miles surrounded by reality,” as we called it. I’d been desperate to go on a training ride with one of the Euro groups, and Filds, sick of the whining, said “Just go fucking do it. Show up. Roll out when they roll out. What are they going to do, fire you? It’s not Breaking Away, you knucklehead.”

Does anyone here speak English?

I picked a group that turned out to be the Norwegian national team. They were riding with some of the Danes, and Johnny was one of them. The group was ten riders strong, and they all spoke perfect English. “Where are you guys going?” I asked.

“We want to do some miles so we are going out to the town called Burnet on the road called 183 and coming back on the road called 1431.”

“Do you mind if I come along?”

The Norseman shrugged. “If you want to.” He looked at my legs. “It will be a long ride.”

US 183 had a nice wide shoulder and hardly any traffic back then, especially once you left town. The team car followed us. I was the only wanker who had crashed the ride, and there was an uneven number of riders, so I was always paired with someone different. In the rotation, everyone took paired five-minute pulls and then swung off. After a couple of hours I was starting to get hungry, and this was long before Clif or GU or Stinger, or even anything remotely like it. This was the era of banana, and PB sandwich if you had the sense to pack it, or, most commonly, the era of “Pray for a convenience store.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that these guys would ride for three and a half hours without stopping. The VC gang I normally rode with would usually have pulled over for the fifth time by a low water crossing on a dirt road and smoking their tenth joint of the ride by the 3-hour mark. These dudes didn’t look like they were stopping, or smoking, or doing anything except pedaling. Pedaling fast.

I started praying. As usual, my pleas went unheeded and my bonk began for real. I started to drift off the back, resigned to quitting before we’d even hit the halfway mark. Fuck and triple fuck.

A little encouragement goes a long way

The team car drove up. “Hey,” the driver said. “You been riding strong. You are hunger knocking, eh?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I have a lot of food in the car.”

My face said everything in reply.

“But I can’t give you any. It is for the team.” He kept staring at me as my spirit went from breaking to broken. “But still you should not give up. We are two miles from the Burnet. There is a store there with water and the food. You can make it.”

I forced myself back up to the peloton. Somehow I made it to Burnet, where we pulled into the convenience store.

The driver got out. “You did okay. That was hard for you.”

Nobody rides for free

Once inside the store I realized I had no money. Of course I didn’t. No one goes on a 125-mile beatdown with the Norwegian national team carrying money. Pride wouldn’t let me ask for any, and neither would pragmatism: If they wouldn’t share their food, they sure as hell weren’t going to share their money. They were all talking in Norse anyway, and looking at me and kind of grinning. I knew what they were saying.

“He wanted to ride with the team. He don’t look like wants to ride much now.”

“Let’s see how long it takes him to beg. I bet you ten kroner he will beg in two minutes.”

“You think he’s broke? I think he’s broke. Look, he don’t have any money! Har!”

By now the bonk was profound. I went to the back of the store and looked around. There was the coffee pot, but I didn’t drink coffee and didn’t have any money for it anyway. Next to the coffee pot, though, was a giant glass sugar dispenser. It clearly was meant for the coffee, but it didn’t have a price tag on it.

I took the sugar dispenser and filled up my water bottle with most of the sugar. Then I went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water tap, and added the hot water to dissolve the massive amount of sugar. I took a sip. It was the taste of life. I drained half the bottle, went back out and filled the bottle up again with sugar. Suddenly, RR 1431 with its endless hills and winding tarmac wasn’t looking so daunting.

Crime doesn’t pay

As I headed for the door, the large gentleman covered in tattoos behind the counter yelled at me. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

The Norsemen and Danes stopped and looked. The color drained from my face as my mind raced, trying to think of what to say. I’d been caught in the act. “Yeah, I’m talking to you. Think you can come into my fucking store and steal all my sugar and just walk the fuck off? This ain’t fucking Austria or Russia or wherever the fuck you’re from.”

It was the “Austria or Russia” part that saved me.

“Excuse to me?” I said in my strongest fake Euro accent.

“I said you can’t fucking take my sugar. Pony up, pal!” His red face had darkened redder.

“So sorry me, not good English. How problem?”

The Norwegians were doing all they could to keep from cracking up. Johnny Weltz came over and said in his perfect foreigner English. “We’re very sorry to you, sir. He’s from the Belgium, he’s not so good on the English. The Belges are a little slow in the head.”

“Well if he tries ripping off any more of my shit he’ll have a hole in his skull to speed up his stupid fucking thinking. Get the hell out.”

We got the hell out. The second the door closed everyone burst out laughing except me, who was madly sucking down the warm sugar water.

Johnny came up to me. “Hey, you sound like pretty good stupid Belge!”

“Stupid comes natural. I’m from Texas.”

We’re almost home

If you’ve never done RR 1431 from Burnet to Austin on a hot March day with the Nordanian national team, it’s no use me telling you how manly and epic and heroic it was. But I will tell you this: The sugar rush was so intense that on the first several small walls I rolled to the fore and pushed the pace so hard that Johnny rolled up beside me and said, “Easy, Texas. There’s no more sugar water between here and the hotel.”

They dropped me hard on the giant wall where 1431 widens into four lanes, but I managed to catch back on, and of course they went in through Volente.

My apartment wasn’t far from the Villa Capri. I peeled off on my turn, beaten to a pulp. After I recovered, I told the whole story to Filds.

Later that year Filds called me up. “Looks like your training ride got those sorry Danes into shape,” he said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. John Weltz just got silver at the amateur world road championships. Isn’t that the guy you rode with back in the spring on that death march?”

“Yeah! It was!” I hung up the phone and thought about it. “Was it?” I said to myself. “Oh, well. It is now.”

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