Gianni Bugno: Never quite good enough

I think the last time I cheered for the guy who won the Tour de France must have been Greg LeMond in 1990. Although he would later become one of my favorite riders ever, I didn’t cheer for Jan Ullrich in 1997 because wasn’t cool enough yet.  I didn’t cheer for another eternal favorite, Marco Pantani, in 1998 because I was too distracted by whatever kids in college do when they turn 21 and become compelled to explore the effects of (legally) combining alcohol with every imaginable activity.

I rarely cheer for the guy who wins a bike race because I’m usually busy cheering for the guy who will probably loose it, just.  This underdog business started in 1991, when I hoped Gianni Bugno would win the Tour.  I could never get excited about Miguel Indurain (there really wasn’t anything exciting about him, was there?), but I had never been a fan of Bugno’s, either.  That changed the moment I saw him fighting up to Val-Louron, pedaling in his smooth style wearing his tricolore of Italian Road Champion in hopeless pursuit of the escaped Indurain and Claudio Chiappucci.  It was at that moment that I embarked on a journey of heartbreak punctuated by brief moments of elation when my favorite riders defy the odds to experience success in the biggest races.

There is nothing exciting about watching the best riders in the world win the biggest races in the world time and again. There is no excitement in watching the pre-race favorite pull on the Maillot Jaune, again.  There is no excitement in watching the best lead out train deliver the fastest sprinter to the line at the close of every flat race.  It’s always impressive – don’t get me wrong – but it isn’t “exciting”.  It is the opposite, actually – it’s “predictable”.

Exciting is watching a rider show courage in the face of loads of pain and almost certain defeat. Exciting is watching a rider take a chance on a day-long break. Exciting is watching a rider attack over and over again because maybe just one more attack is all it will take to win. The riders who dare hope and take chances are those who inspire me. This is a hard road; I spend most of the races disappointed that my favorite rider lost. But on the days when they win, the thrill tastes sweet upon my tongue.

I cheered for Bugno throughout the ’91 Tour and again in ’92. He was Gianni Bugno, the Big Engine that Just Might. By ’93, he was so deeply into his “Indurain Complex” that he was more “frustrating” than he was “exciting”; he had become Gianni Bugno, the Big Engine that Usually Didn’t. That was a different kind of predictable, but predictable all the same. I moved on, and over the years have found various other riders to support in equal measure who each show similar properties in terms of talent, skill, determination, and likelihood of winning.

Le Grand Frère Grimpeur is my current favorite Big Engine that Just Might, and I think he’ll stay in that position throughout his career, mostly because he’s not likely to ever be good enough to win the Tour.  But every year I’ll hope he does, because that would be exciting. Sadly, he crashed out this year, and as such Le Petite Frère Grimpeur took his place. The little zipper might have won, too, were it not for some bad luck and questionable tactics.  It wasn’t to be, and this year at least, he was the Big Engine that Couldn’t Quite.

And therein lies the secret: He was almost The Big Engine that Barely Did.  And next year he appears to be the Big Engine that Probably Could but Might Not. But as soon as he become the Big Engine That Usually Does, it stops being exciting, and I’ll have to move on.

As far as Tours de France go – certainly those in the last decade – the 2010 edition ranks among the best, even if we could have been treated to less tactical riding and more opportunistic attacks.  The defending champion showed signs of being the Big Engine that Might Not, and that gave for lots of excitement on both sides of the cheering fence. Here’s hoping next year’s edition proves to be at least as good as this one.

Certified hardman and aesthete, the Swiss rider Hugo Koblet.

There are those who are challenged to find the value of aesthetics in a sport which requires eating 11T cogs buttered with chain oil for breakfast and drinking kegs of Rule 5 at dinner. Ye of the Congoscenti, I present you with the following photos of some of the quintessential hardmen of our sport who rode during an era when merely climbing aboard a bicycle – let alone to race one – was an act of stony hardness which, by comparison, casts modern riders into the realm of the indolent.

Indeed, these were men who rode over the same mountain passes that we ride today, but did so on unpaved roads aboard bicycles weighing 20 kilos.  They turned massive gears out of necessity, and rode races that were many times longer than those we see today.  These were men who wore motorcycle goggles for a lack of any cycling-specific eye wear; who wore their spare tires in a figure-eight pattern looped over their shoulders. These were the hardest men imaginable.

Most of them also rode with a comb in their pocket to ensure they always looked their best the moment they stopped pedaling their machines.  These men were Giants who understood that the finer things in life and in this sport are what make it worthwhile to suffer so.

So next time you pack your energy gels and inner tube into your jersey pocket, make sure you leave room for a comb.

A bunch of men, those.

View Photo Album

Steven Rooks wearing the Dotted Jumper in 1988

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m too fat to climb and therefor admire those who aren’t, or if it has something to do with the masochistic nature of sprinting to the top of every hill during a three-week race, but the competition for the best climber in the Tour de France has long captured my imagination.

The ugliest of all jerseys, it is also somehow the coolest one, despite the many abominations that have been created in the recent trends of matching the rest of one’s kit to competition leader jerseys.  Who would have the nerve to design a jersey made up of a pattern or red dots?  The French, apparently.

I first noticed it in the 1988 and 1989 Tours.  Here were these crazy, tall, lanky Dutchmen dominating the mountains.  The Dutch are flat landers for whom, aside from those living in the Southern province of Limburg, the phrase “Living at Elevation” means living at three meters.  But it turns out that tall Dutch guys can climb, as is routinely demonstrated by Robert Gesink in his countless mountain escapades – not to mention in yesterday’s finale up to Morzine-Avoriaz.

Recent memory has this jersey particularly stained by drug scandals, but a review of what is involved in challenging for – let alone winning – this jersey makes it somewhat easier to appreciate that a little dose of EPGo might help out.  The jersey is decided based on points awarded at the summit of each categorized climb along the route based on the following scale (from Wikipedia):

• Hors Catégorie climbs: 20, 18, 16, 14, 12, 10, 8, 7, 6 and 5 points respectively for the 1st until the 10th rider to climb the mountain
• First category climbs: 15, 13, 11, 9, 8, 7, 6 and 5 points respectively for the 1st until the 8th rider to climb the mountain
• Second category climbs: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 and 5 points respectively for the 1st until the 6th rider to climb the mountain
• Third category climbs and hills : 4, 3, 2 and 1 point, respectively for the 1st until the 4th rider to climb the hill
• Fourth category climbs (hills): 3, 2, and 1 point, respectively for the 1st until the 3rd rider to climb the hill.

Consider, then, the profiles of mountain stages like we’ll have tomorrow to St.-Jean-de-Maurienne, and the weight of this competition starts to weigh heavy on the legs.  Climbing these mountains in the first place is hard enough, but to add a sprint to the top of them is something else altogether.  Drugs or not, that requires a heaping spoonful of Rule 5 and an intimate exploration of the depths of Rule 10.  Personally, I think Jérôme Pineau might just be mad enough to try for it this year, although it might also come down to Gesink if he were to give up his GC ambitions for the chance to take home the Spotted Tog.

In any case, whoever wins it will have my admiration.  And then I’ll hold my breath in anticipation of the doping suspension.

The other Mr. 60 (photo: Sirotti)

To describe Piotr Ugrumov’s professional career as fleeting may be a tad on the unfair side.  While he enjoyed a good deal of success in his early years, he also seemed to burst onto the bigger stage of the Giro and Tour from relative obscurity, at least to this observer.  Looking back through his results though, reveals a talented climber and time triallist who used those assets to pick up a win at the Baby Giro (the Giro d’Italia for amateurs) in 1984, backed up with the Young Rider classification in his first crack at the Giro in 89, 8th on GC in 1990, and 2nd behind Miguel Indurain in 1993.  But it wasn’t until 1994 that the Latvian made his mark on Le Tour, and when he did, it really did appear to be a remarkable performance.

This was also the year that the Gewiss Ballan team ran roughshod over the peloton, coinciding with their collaboration with Dr Michele Ferrari.  Berzin had also ‘come from nowhere’ to win the Giro, and the now infamous 1-2-3 at Fleche Wallone was in the books with a huge asterisk next to it.  With Ugrumov skipping the Giro, he came into the Tour with a fire in his belly, and rocket fuel coursing through his veins.  Still, by the time he’d appeared on the radar in Stage 17, where the Colombian Rodriguez sucked his wheel all the way to the summit finish at Val Torrens before taking an classless win, Ugrumov only seemed a bit player in the bigger production of the world’s greatest race.  The next two stages were to elevate him into a much larger role.

Somehow finding remarkable powers of recovery after his day-long breakaway, Ugrumov went on the attack again, this time soloing into Cluses over two and a half minutes ahead of Indurain and Virenque, with Pantani even further back.  Then, the following stage saw him smash the long mountain time trial, putting 1.38 into the Pirate and 3.16 into Big Mig, catapulting him into second overall, a position he would maintain all the way to Paris.  And all this at the tender age of 32.  A late bloomer? Perhaps.

He would never reach those heady heights at the Tour again, although a 3rd at the 95 Giro and 7th at the 96 Tour are none-too-shabby in anyone’s books.  Yet, the ‘magic’ that had imbued him and his team in 94 was somehow never as potent, and a couple of seasons of mediocrity would spell the end of his career.  But Ugrumov did have one other impressive number next to his name; after being recorded as 32% in December 1994, his haematocrit level had jumped to a massive 60% in May 95, right in the middle of the Giro, and two days after following Rominger and Berzin in for 3rd in a TT.   

In a bizarre footnote to his involvement with the darker side of cycling, Ugrumov lived in an apartment directly across the street from the hotel where Marco Pantani met his death, and was planning to pay the Pirate a visit when he was told of the deteriorating mental and physical state of his former climbing foe.  He never got to make that visit, and we’ll never know if it would have made any difference to Pantani’s fate.  What we do know though, is that Piotr Ugrumov was one of the few riders who could challenge, and beat, the sport’s best climber on the biggest mountains of Italy and France.  Just how he achieved such feats, well, could it be all in the numbers?

View Photo Album

A Velominatus' labor of love: working on a bike

Each of us remembers how they became a Velominatus. For me, it was at Grimpeur Wielersport, in Zevenaar, The Netherlands. Its the perfect place: a small shop, on a small street, in a small town, in a small country, run by a Giant of the Sport, Herman van Meegen. I haven’t been back in years, not since my mentor and original owner was forced to retire due to a nagging back injury.

Despite it’s diminutive appearance, inside this small shop existed a world vast beyond my wildest imagination. The owner spoke with the soft ‘G’ – typical of the Dutch dialect in the region.  Former head mechanic at Helvetia – La Suisse, and later for Team 7-Eleven, he had previously wielded a wrench at the world’s major events including Le Tour before opening this shop. He knew everyone. Pros strolled into his shop on a regular basis. Imagine the awe of a thirteen-year-old Velominatus Novus as Erik Breukink wandered into the shop and dallied about for a bit.

But it was the tales and experience from many years on the Pro circuit that made those visits to special to me.  He explained in detail the way Steve Bauer preferred to ride a smaller frame than his contemporaries or how Pascal Richard liked the tension of the spokes “just so” as he laced a set of wheels for my dad.  He showed me how he filed out the holes in the hub flange to cradle the spokes better and reduce the chance of breaking one.  He built wheels on a truing stand he built himself and to which he affixed a micrometer.  He told me that a perfectly true wheel will never go out of true, not even on the cobbles.  ”Maar het moet werkelijk perfect zijn.” But it has to be absolutely perfect. Sounds like something you need a custom truing stand and micrometer for.  (That bike is now something like 20 years old, and has never seen a spoke wrench; the wheels are still perfectly true.)

He was personal friends with Eddy Merckx and picked up a frame my dad had ordered after dinner with The Man at the factory in Belgium.  A prototype Campagnolo saddle with titanium rails and air bladder that never made it to production somehow found its way atop my dad’s seat post.  I can’t imagine how his insides churned as my dad insisted on having a set of Scott Drop-Ins installed on that bike.  He never uttered a word about it, opting instead to teach me how to seamlessly splice two rolls of bar tape together to accommodate the long bars – a skill he picked up wrapping the bars of riders who wanted double-wrapped bars on the tops but not the drops at Paris-Roubaix.  He taught me to cut my cables short and solder them before cutting for the perfect, sleek finishing touch.  He taught me how to “feel” a bolt to get it just the right amount of tight – where it holds but the soft aluminum doesn’t strip.  He taught me to trim soda cans and tuck them in between the bars and stem of a handlebar that persistently slips.  But most importantly, he showed me the intricate beauty of our machines.

He also stocked a backpack called the “Body Bag” which I always felt could have used a more sensible name and whose marketers perhaps missed a nuance in the language.

Apart from his poor choice in backpacks, this was a man who understood the finer things about bicycles, and I’m grateful he took the time to teach me even a tiny little bit of what he knew.

So, I leave you today with this question: if you could ask a pro bike mechanic – perhaps even one on the ProTour circuit – one, single question, what would it be?

What motivates a Velominatus?  It seems a simple question, but the answer is complicated and gets into various issues that are neither interesting nor compelling.

For me, cycling has been a life-long obsession.  I enjoy any kind of riding.  I enjoy technical, single-track mountain biking, I enjoy riding on dirt roads or wide trails.  I enjoy commuting by bike, and I enjoy riding my bike to the local markets. I love riding an old clunker bike around a city like Amsterdam.  But my heart has always belonged to road cycling.

When I was a kid, my dream was to start a frame-building business.  In my free time, I sketched bicycles – anything from standard road bikes to exotic time trial machines.  I even designed logos for my imagined company, humbly named Strack Cycles.  When not designing frames, the next priority was to dream up the names and kits for the teams Strack Cycles would invariably sponsor.

When time allowed during the Summer months, I would go for multiple training rides per day, some on the road, and some off. Officially a Nordic ski racer, I realized that I had become a cyclist when the shortening of the days as Fall approached was met with dread that the cycling season was coming to a close rather than excitement for the imminent ski season.

Long hours on the road bike were filled with fantasies of being in day-long solo breakaways at the Tour de France; motivation to climb aboard my bike in the rain was eased by imagining I was racing in a Belgian Spring classic.

Such are the motivations of this particular Velominatus.

Then came Velominati.  We’ve carried on long conversations.  We’ve established our own vernacular. Most of us are probably on some psychiatric “People of Interest” list.  And, we have our own kit. In addition to bearing the Velominati colors and logos, the kit bears various details that only those of us in the know will appreciate:  the “Obey the Rules” emblem appears in various places, and the right leg of the bibs bear three Rules, referred to only by number and oriented such that they are legible for the wearer.  We modestly believe it to be the most awesomest kit on the planet, ever.

A non-nondescript box greeted me upon my arrival home from work yesterday.  The box bore a simple, handwritten note: “Velominati – You Must Obey”, signalling the arrival of the first order of the Velominati Kit (which leads me to believe the folks at Castelli subscribe to Rules Holism).   My hands were shaking as I opened the box and gazed in at the oblique realization of a lifelong dream.

With that, I present the Velominati kit, made by Castelli and designed by KRX-10. We’ll be placing more orders throughout the year, so just drop us a line if you’d like to put the whole Rule 17 issue to bed and fly the Velominati colors.

UPDATE: I have updated the set of photos in the post to more accurately reflect the colors of the actual kit.  The kit is black, and in no way brownish or purple, as some of the photos appear to be.

View Photo Album

The way they used to do Rule 5

While walking about town, one of my favorite things to do is to puruse the commuter bikes locked up outside stores and study some of the gems being ridden around.  Sometimes, I come across a really special bike, and marvel at the notion that the bike’s owner might not have any idea what piece of history they’re riding.  For example, I saw an old Vitus, decked out in 7-speed Dura-Ace, beat up and locked up to a lamppost in Ballard yesterday, it’s owner no-doubt unaware that Sean Kelly taught the world the upper limit of the word Hardman aboard that same bike. Then there was the Concorde painted up in PDM colors, which to my knowledge was never available in the States, so I can only marvel at how that awesome piece  found it’s way to be locked up outside a cupcake bakery (also in Ballard).

This past Friday night, I was walking by Prost on my way home from the local market when a full-carbon Bottecchia caught my eye.  This was obviously not a commuter bike, this was a full-fledged race bike complete with the Dura-Ace 7900 groupo.   Had this been a steel steed – like the Vitus – it would have occupied a completely different place in my mind, but I was surprised to find almost nothing interesting about this machine, despite the considerable significance of the name it bore on it’s downtube.

It got me wondering what it is about the old, handmade frames that captures my imagination so.  Am I little more than a hopeless romantic, trying in vain to recapture the appeal cycling had when I was a younger lad?  Am I the Jack White of cycling, trying to get on with Rule 5 and pretend technology does little to make us better cyclists and instead just makes everything too easy?  As much as I’d like to think that’s the case, I also know that I would never give up any of my 10 cogs, brake-mounted shifters, deep-section rims, and stiff frame.   The undeniable fact is that when it comes down to my Number One Bike, it’s Rule 43 all the way.  Besides, Rule 10 implies that all that stuff doesn’t make riding a bike easier, it just makes us go faster.

I think the bottom line is that as more and more bicycle companies outsource their manufacturing operations to countries like China and Taiwan, the allure of the “hand-built bicycle” diminishes.  My steel and aluminum Bianchis were hand-built in Italy, by an Italian framebuilder who cut the tubes, placed them in a jig, and welded them – making little mistakes along the way.  Each of those bikes are completely unique and have a different ride quality from every other bike in the world; that’s the magic of “hand made”.  The very top-end carbon frames still have this same quality to them since the sheets of fiber are laid into the mold by hand and, even though they’re built in Asia, the frames are all still slightly different from one another and you can still sense the human intervention in the assembly line when you study the frame.

But what of the the companies who know and care little for carbon and have turned to producing frames made of it purely to satisfy market demand?  In this case, what does Bottecchia know of engineering a frame not made of tubes, but of fibers?  These companies excelled at picking steel tubesets and identifying ideal geometries through experimentation, not engineering.   To them, frame building was an art form, not a science. Seeing this carbon bike in front of Prost, the first place my mind jumped to was the stories of factories in China that produce identical frames for countless bands, each differing only in the address on the shipping labels.

I suppose that’s why those old bikes laying in dusty piles in the forgotten corners of good bike shops or leaning up against a downtown lamppost hold such intrigue; each are a work of art, with their own history hidden inside their tubes waiting to be retold.

Frank Schleck sporting a set of round bars with a classic bend.

I almost look forward to riding in bad weather because it means I have a perfect excuse to climb aboard my old Bianchi XL EV2, which currently serves as my rain bike (see Rule 12 for more information on bike requirements). Some bikes just seem to fit, and you feel it with every turn of the pedals. Sure, the frame’s about as soft as George Hincapie at the sight of a cobble stone, but I love the way that bike feels – and I always have. That’s something I really love about hand-built bikes – they all have their unique personality; both my Bianchis are hand-built according to (fundamentally) the same geometry, but somehow the EV2 just fits me like a glove.

One of the things that struck me the last few weeks riding the EV2 is that I really like the feel of round bars. Several years ago, I made the switch to FSA K-Wings for my main bike, believing I would never look at round bars again.  Not only did I love the comfort of the wide, flat platform at the tops of the bars, but I loved the scalloped perch they make for the hands when riding on the hoods. Imagine my surprise, then, as it recently began to dawn on me that the round bars on EV2 felt bit better in my hands, especially when climbing – both on the tops and the hoods.

It got me wondering about the peculiar choices that Pros seem to make with regards to their handlebar choice. It’s no secret that many Pros are notoriously finicky about their gear and in some cases refuse to upgrade from trusted pieces equipment to a newer model, especially when it comes to the touch points on their bikes. Lance Armstrong famously refused to ride Shimano’s SPD-R line of pedals after pulling out of a pair during the finale of a World Championship Road Race and, to this day, rides an old model of saddle, the Rule-Breaking Concor Lite (which also happens to be the second-ugliest saddle ever made, with the Selle SMP taking the win on that one). Similarly, Damiano Cunego Tom Boonen both refused to upgrade to the Time RSX line of pedals from their Time Impacts because they preferred the feeling of the metal pedal body on the old Impacts (I have a pair of these and they do, oddly enough, feel quite different from the RSX.)

When it comes to handlebar choice, it seems the majority of riders prefer round bars, and many also prefer a classic drop – not to mention aluminum (*shudder*). You have to search pretty hard for a Pro who rides a K-Wing or Cinelli Ram, and it also seems a minority even use an anatomic bend; most claim that the classic drop provides more hand positions.  I am not sure I understand this argument;  it seems to me that the classic drop would really only offer more places to build up sore spots on your hands when riding in the drops.  Are the round drops better for concealing amphetamines?  What am I missing?

That aside, I love the look of the classic bar bend, and as I contemplate switching from my K-Wing to a round bar, I find my mind drifting slowly towards a classic bend as well.  After all, if it’s good enough for the Brothers Grimpeur, isn’t it good enough for me?

Before race radios, riders had to think for themselves or fall back to the cars for information.

Anyone who watched Flanders and Paris-Roubaix can agree that the strongest and most deserving rider won both events; Fabian Cancellara dominated both races and did nothing to lessen his reputation as Spartacus.   One thing that that struck me, however, is how significantly race radios factored into how the races played out.

In Flanders, Fabian and my perennial favorite Tomeke Boonen left the lesser men behind them and rode off together to the point in the course where the race was to be decided.  Approaching the steepest section of the Kapelmuur,  Cancellara pulled up alongside his rival before accellerating and leaving a cramping Boonen behind, gaining something like 15 seconds by the summit.

This was not a real attack.  It was…I pushed a gear less and yeah, went, yeah, like steady up with more speed.  I heard on the radio that there’s a gap, so I pushed again more.

Aside from his delightful blend of English and German sentence structure, one thing stands out to me in that statement.  Fabian did not need to look behind him in order to assess the damage he was doing to his opponent; the news was broadcast to him onhis radio and then all he had to do was “push again more” on those things attached to his feet when he heard there was a gap.

Fast forward a week to Roubaix and we find a similar situation.  Spartacus choose a unconventional moment to attack: on smooth roads, some 45km from the finish.  It also happened to be the moment when Boonen had dropped to the back of the group to recover from his earlier attacks and survey the group.   Cancellara seemingly felt his opportunity through the Force and jumped away, not to be seen again until the velodrome in Roubaix.

As for that moment of clarvoyance, perhaps it was something a little less mystical.  According to his director, Bjarne Riis:

I told him to attack on the radio. As soon as I saw that Boonen was not on his wheel, I said: ‘Now you go’.

Applying the perfect amount of dumb, he didn’t hesitate and trusted his director.  Riis:

A rider like him, when he goes, it’s because he goes to win, not for fun. I knew it was the right moment and that he was riding to win the race. Otherwise I’d have stopped him immediately.

Now, I don’t believe for a moment that Boonen would not have used the same tools and information to his advantage had the roles been reversed, but in both cases, radio communication – not observation and tactical insight on the part of the rider – determined the race-winning moves; it makes me wonder how the races might have unfolded had they been banned, as the UCI continues to contemplate doing.

I, for one, don’t think the race would have been less exciting without them.  I say ban them, and put reading the race back in the hands of the riders.

Tino Tabak

Up until a week ago, I’d never heard the name Tino Tabak.  Tonight, I’m brimming with anticipation about reading his life story.

The Kennett brothers have produced a series of great books on some of New Zealand’s most successful, least successful, hardest, most famous, infamous and iconic cycling heroes. Their latest offering, written by Jonathan, looks at arguably the most naturally talented of all the subjects, the often-times controversial Tino Tabak. This evening I was lucky enough to attend the launch of the book at Wellington’s National Library.

Without going into too much detail (mainly because I know little of his story), Tino mixed it up with the likes of Merckx, De Vlaeminck, Maertens, Zoetemelk, Kuiper and Post on Europe’s biggest stages in the 70s.  He is the highest Kiwi finisher in Le Tour (18th in 1972).  Almost won Ghent-Wevelgem.  He could’ve had it all, almost did, but saw it slip away.

He had a few wines, signed a few books, told a few stories, and engaged everyone in that room.  Foyer.  Church.  We were his disciples.  He was a God.

As he was signing Rachel’s book, he said to her “I hope you enjoy it, but please don’t think I’m a bad person.  If you do, read it again, and if you still do, well that’s ok too.”  Keeping it real, all these years later.  Can’t wait to get my teeth into it.

*This post first appeared on More News From Nowhere November 3 2009.

View Photo Album