Poor assimilation

During the spring of 1994 I was able to race bigger one-day events and stage races in France, Holland and Germany. But come summer, The team director bumped me to solely race the kermis events in Flanders. Maybe because having already stolen most of the cash, start money and meager winnings I had, he knew I was tapped. Or because I was so abundantly skilled at tail gunning the General Classification at week long stage races. What I am sure of is that any of us were lucky to still have our passports for all the riffling through our duffel bags while we were busy racing.

So for the summer, Johnny would pick me up in his Ford Escort station wagon each Saturday and Sunday. He insisted I sit in the passenger seat while he set my bike in the back of the car. He always fumbled with the same old wool army blanket over the frame, then put both pairs of wheels one for the race and a spare set, one wheel at a time on top of the frame, each with a layer of blanket covering.

En route to the race he would tell me course details and stories of the race or nearby races from the past. He spoke Flemish and I could only pick up a few words. He also never rolled the windows down in the car, which had no air conditioning. He just sat there in slacks, a short sleeve dress shirt and sweater vest talking, sweating and driving. I barely had a clue of what he was saying. Sometimes he would use hand motions. When he would count, he always used his thumb for the number 1. I’d nod and smile but mostly I hunkered down toward the air vent hoping the warm moving air would somehow refresh me. If we drove past a hops farm, he would point, and then say, “For bier.”

Once in the race town Johnny would wait in the car in front of the bar where the registration was for the race. Only when the car was stopped would he roll the door window down. Upon my return with a large vinyl race number peppered on each corner with holes from years of being pinned on hundreds of other riders backs, I would point and tell him in pigeon Flemish where the changing rooms were. He would nod, say something and drive straight to where I needed to be.

The changing rooms varied from back rooms of bars to auto mechanic garages, to sport center gymnasiums or best of all, the actual sports center locker room. Mostly though, people offered up their own garages or houses. About half the time we went to the home of someone that Johnny knew. Like Johnny, the host was usually old. After I changed, Johnny would squat in front of me and massage my legs with some sort of embrocation cream. The cream would vary based on the weather, but always I raced with an oily sheen on my legs.

After the races the routine was similar. He would wait for me at the finish with a jacket or long sleeve jersey, no matter how hot it was. Then jog with me as I rode slowly back to where I had changed before the race. Once I showered, we would drive back to bar where again, he waited in the car while I returned my number for my deposit of 200 or so francs and collected my winnings if I placed in the races classification. Then back to the car where he’d roll up the window and drive us home. Always making sure to point out the potatoes or hops or whatever while replaying my race, counting with first his thumb, then index finger and making a fist to describe how intense the selection of contenders was as we passed through the village during the race. The routine was the same, both days, every weekend, all summer.

My Flemish slowly improved. One or two days mid-week I would ride to a race on my own, testing my new language skills by asking for directions at every round-a-bout. At the race I'd change with the other riders in the back of the race headquarters/bar or in the shadow of a Citroen needing a new transmission. I’d massage my own legs with warming oil and tell jokes with whichever other English speakers showed up to race. But the weekend races with Johnny were special in their own humid, stale air way.

On Monday evenings he would come to my house with his daughter to translate. We always sat at the table, Johnny across from me, his daughter to the left. He would explain how I needed to train that week. Counting first with his thumb and punching his fist into nothing to emphasize hard efforts. “Driving,” meant riding hard. When he tapped his chest he’d call it his “ticker.” I was instructed to either keep my ticker low or high. That's it, no 5 ranges of heart rate or wattage or types of effort, just "Umph, or Shhh." Each days training advice was written down in “Huers”, which gear to use and what rpm to maintain. His daughter, 19 and not so pretty, translated in a bored, monotone voice but mostly watched MTV, the only non-BBC channel I could watch in English. It took a long time to get to September.