THE ONE "PERFECT RACE"

OF ALL THE RACES THROUGH ALL THE YEARS... THIS WAS THE "ONE" - THE ONE "PERFECT RACE"

A DISTANT MEMORY - REDISCOVERED: I was sitting cross-legged on the cold concrete of my basement a decade ago. Grey light slanted through the dirty sliding glass doors and brightened the puddles of warmer light under the bare dangling bulbs with their strings. Squatting in a far corner I sorted through piles of books and shoeboxes heaped with musty old letters and papers. There, under a pile of receipts for products long since gone was an unlikely pair of objects. I had a sense of déjà vu as I drew them from the bottom of the box, a sudden wave of haunting intimate knowledge yet unfamiliarity: I pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook and then thin red hardbound training diary bound by a rubber band.

Of the two artifacts, my curiosity was piqued the most by the latter. I opened it – there was no writing – but some long-lost memory encouraged me to turn it upside down and sure enough – there were the scrawls of my handwriting. The spiral-bound notebook was similarly written backward – I guess these were safeguards from a casual passerby exposing their hidden secrets. Within the box were two 25-year-old gifts from my 17-year-old self – jaggedly scrawled journals of my first two trips to the world championships – first, the 1986 world speedskating championships in Amsterdam in March of that year, and, the second, the junior world cycling championships in Morocco months later in July that same year.

As I pulled back the cover, the scents and sounds came flooding back: North Africa, Morocco, Casablanca, French bread and garlic and soups, the bazaar, loneliness and adventure - torn pages of memory now whole: senior year of high school, graduation, the 7-11 cycling team, Eddy B., the Colorado Springs Olympic Training Center, and a return to a familiar yet alien place where I was doubly an outsider. A dozen 17 year-old kids were dropped in North Africa with little supervision absorbing the sights and sounds of a completely foreign culture... 

Then… yes then, a sudden smile, of a memory of that day that preceded it all: of the heat, the still air over the shimmering concrete of the banked track, and the crisp latticed shadow of bicycle wheels on the velodrome, and then that memory of “the perfect race” - an exquisite combination of adversity and triumph, surprise reversals, and vindication.

In my competitive career, nothing since has ever topped it. Not any of the following world championships, not the Olympics, nor the medal race. No, the “perfect race” of that summer of ‘86 possessed all the elements of a McKee plot – the inciting incident, progressive complications, crisis, and resolution. Never again would the outcome of a race so utterly possess all facets of my existence. And for that, there is one person to thank – my arch-nemesis and sometime friend Jamie Carney.

WORLD TEAM TRIALS - THE OLYMPIC TRAINING CENTER (OTC), COLORADO SPRINGS, JUNE 1986: The sun was white-hot in a metallic blue sky just beginning to angle west, etching a crisp spirograph of the web of my spokes onto the shimmering concrete. My hands were shaky on the bars of my red Serotta “Murray” track bike and my stomach was a cavern of nausea.

My coach, Roger Young, wheeled me to the starting line first – high up on the apron of the track. My competitor in the finals, Jamie Carney rolled up beside me, but instead of parking 10 or even 5 feet away on the 20-foot wide track, his handler pushed him so close that our forearms were touching. He leaned in, jostling with each word, “whatcha got Coyle? “Whatcha got?” He laughed. “You’re going down – down – down.”

I ignored him and waited for the starter. “Toreador, “Attenzione, “Go!” We were off. Vibrating with energy, we tuned the strings of our fast-twitch muscles and eased off the line, looking at each other, twitching.

The “match sprint” event on the track is a 2-man showdown. Time matters for nothing and there are few rules – contact is permissible and the first man across the line wins. Three laps and one kilometer long, the dynamics of the race and the qualities of aerodynamics find equilibrium at a magic set point at a line painted on the track at 200 meters to go. Should a racer start a sprint much prior to 200 meters (about 10 seconds at 40mph) then the competing racer can use the cover of the “draft” - or reduced wind resistance in the wake of the lead rider - to slingshot around the leader prior to the finish line. Should the lead rider wait to start a sprint too far past the 200-meter mark, then the first man to “jump” or accelerate has the advantage – and the following rider has an advantage due to lack of visibility of his actions. A human on a bike can accelerate for 7 or 8 seconds before faltering – the first rider to jump with even a minor advantage after the 200-meter mark is able to accelerate through the stall point that might otherwise enable a chasing rider to accelerate past.

These subtle elements of position, timing and advantage filter backward into the first 800 meters of the 1000-meter 3 lap race, and a “cat and mouse” game often begins right from the start line. “Track stands” – moments (or even minutes) where both racers come to a complete stop and balance without moving to avoid being in the slightly disadvantaged forward position are common.

Gun held high, the starter shot the pistol, blue smoke fading into the metallic sky and Jamie and I slinked forward. I was facing forward, all muscles relaxed yet on full alert. Jamie rode below me with his head cockily angled to the right at 90 degrees to our progress, taunting. 10 feet, 20 feet, 50 feet, we progressed at 5 mph.

Without warning he leaped from the saddle – and I matched instantly – but without forward progression – a fake. Just as suddenly he sat down, and even as I matched, he steered upward, and rammed my front wheel at 6mph.

On the slippery embankment, both tires lost contact, and we both slid out and skittered to the bottom of the rack, bikes entangled. “That’s it Coyle? That’s all you got?” He continued to barb me as we loosened our straps and exited our bikes.

I quietly returned to the line and mounted my bike. Seconds later he materialized, lining up even closer so that this time his elbow could touch my abdomen and our handlebars were touching. “Welcome to my track Coyle – MY Track! You are going down again, and again and again…” The referee issued a vague warning and then again, the starter raised his pistol… We rolled off the line.

This was the finale of the match sprint trials for the 1986 Junior World Championships and most of the 70 or so other junior racers had turned out to watch - most of whom had already competed in their own events. Unlike other events where riders could qualify for several open spots on the national team in said event and win an all-expenses-paid trip to Africa, in the match sprint there was only one open spot. It was a 2 out of 3 series showdown with winner-take-all.  Jamie and I had already raced 6 times that day: 3 mano y mano matches where a third race was unnecessary - we were both undefeated going into the final.

REWIND - TROUBLE ON ARRIVAL: The trouble had started upon my arrival – the national team coaches had wanted to own all the practice times and use those practices to “evaluate” riders, but my coach Roger had other ideas and after a verbal showdown with head coach Eddy B. had demanded some time on the track for me and a few other 7-11 riders (“Slurpees” as they called us). I was glad he had created space for me to train but felt even more isolated from the U.S. team and coaching staff who had failed to invite me into the fold. I was not ignorant of the fact that these same coaches would become my future team if I was successful. Meanwhile, across the track, I could see Jamie working directly with head junior coach Craig, assistant coach Anje & Eddy. Clearly, they had determined that he had the talent they were looking for and had invested a lot in his success. “Eddy B” is Edward Borysewicz – the famous Olympic coach who had helped the USA capture 9 cycling medals at the LA Olympics – including gold and silver in the match sprint – my event.

Ours (Jamie and I) was an old rivalry. The days of summer are long in youth and their shadows stretch even longer across the seasons. The fact that this match - this head to head combat - had started at age eight was the equivalent of a 100 years’ war. Jamie and I had always been at odds. From my very first race in the rain around the Dearborn towers nearly a decade prior in 1976 (Frankie Andreu won, I was second, Jamie was third) we’d been evenly matched in talent – but with temperaments that put us at odds.  http://johnkcoyle.wordpress.com/2008/10/16/clair-young/

Four years after that race, and six years prior to the trials Jamie and I had matched up at our first national championships for the “midget” category (age 8 - 12) finals in San Diego in 1980. We were the clear favorites of the bunch, and our rivalry extended to our parents as well, with Jamie’s dad taking repeated opportunities to provide intimate and intimidating details of Jamie’s training regimen, diet, preparation and successes with my own father in the early days prior to the event.

Having faced similar posturing at prior races, my father decided to strike back in his own way the night before nationals began. He stopped at a local bike shop to pick up a cardboard bike box to fly my bike home after nationals, but instead of leaving it in the room, he boldly set it out on the deck of the sprawling motel we were all staying at, taping it carefully closed as though it were a new bike straight from the factory. Sure enough, Mr. Carney saw it and my father calmly explained that it was my new, custom made, superlight race bike from Europe (rather than the 20-year-old repainted steed I was riding). My dad and I have chuckled about Jamie's dad's insatiable curiosity about that box for years.

Jamie and I were closely matched in those first nationals, but I came out the victor, and he a close second. These competitive clashes continued to play out over the years – as did the contrasting approaches and personalities. Jamie was the extrovert – the muscular, fun, trash-talking ‘typical’ sprinter. I was more like a typical road rider – thin, independent, and relatively self-absorbed – but without their endurance. I wished I could fit the mold of one or the other, but I didn’t yet know what my strengths were.

RESTART #1: Rolling forward for round 2 of race one of the Junior World trials Jamie was again slightly in the lead as was required. As the banking steepened, he suddenly looked back at me, grinned, and then steered up the track. My front wheel hooked sideways and even as gravity pulled me toward the concrete, it also pulled my front wheel down into his rear wheel we both collapsed again into a heap at the bottom of the track. We'd raced twice and only progressed 90 feet total. The raspberries from the road rash were starting to shine in the heat. My frustration mounted.

RESTART #2: As we returned to the start line Eddy B. and Craig were giving Jamie a firm talking-to. No one bothered to talk to me. This time the referee’s warning was stern – any other incidents and Jamie would be relegated. We lined up again and this time my Roger waited until Jamie settled on the line before rolling me to the start line well above him. Head down on the line I waited for the gun. Where before there was fear, nausea, and doubt now there was clarity - I had a strange sense of calm and of strategy. “No way I lead this out,” I thought, “and… no way he beats me.” The starter yet again raised his gun and we were off.

Jamie moved forward from the line at a relatively brisk pace without the usual theatrics or even looking behind. The warning from the referee did the trick and we managed to complete the first lap without mishap. However, halfway through the second lap, just upon entering the relatively flat section of the backstretch, Jamie suddenly stopped. I locked my legs and skidded to a halt next to him, both our bikes angled slightly down the track, bodies rigid and standing up, forearms and legs providing a contracting set of forces that compensated for the gyroscopic effects of the wheels. A “track stand.”

A few seconds ticked by and we hovered motionless. Then 30 seconds. Then 60 seconds. Now the crowd of junior riders assembled for the trial began to voice their opinions. “C’mon! Race!” “Hold it and race in the dark!” “Want a Slurpee, Slurpee?” (7-11 riders were known as the Slurpee team.) “C’mon Carney, kick his ass!” “Coyle, Coy-le, Coy-ale!” I could hear my best friend at the camp, Rich Hincapie (brother to George – the Tour de France great) chanting and building energy for me. Now I could hear Clark, Rishy Grewal, and others.

Still we balanced and ants trickled through the cracks and the sun beat down on our backs and we grimaced and waited. I had no intention of taking the lead. I could have and would have waited for hours. I was calm.

Perhaps sensing this, 3 or 4 minutes later, Jamie pretended to sprint, but merely pushed away and I followed casually. I felt that odd sense of “knowing” and instead of my vision narrowing it widened and I could see the track ahead, the track behind, the boys in the crowd chattering. We still had over a lap to go. I followed Jamie’s wheel pretending he was in charge.

The bell was loud as we crossed the line and it brought with it anxiety and acceleration. The junior racers and general audience had come to their feet roaring in anticipation. We paced by the blue finish line and entered the corner gaining speed, Jamie’s neck swiveled, eyes darting every half second to gauge my position. I waited, stalking. This was it - predator and prey. We filed neatly through the corner and as I waded through Jamie’s draft he accelerated.

Around the corner and there it was – the horizontal line of the 200-meter mark, and suddenly, oddly, Jamie slowed - tight on the pole lane. I rolled up next to him, wheels overlapping. He smirked and then began to accelerate again, out of the saddle, but head angled to the right, watching me continuously as he moved to the right, riding me up the track. I rose from the saddle as well but allowed my momentum to keep me just even with his hip, playing his game.

We proceeded down the backstretch gaining speed but still only at 24, 26 mph, Jamie always watching, gauging. His plan was now clear to me – he intended to utilize our overlapping wheels to ride me up the track and then dive back down before I could respond. I knew when and where it would start.

I knew too, what I would do.

150 meters to go and we began to enter the steepening confines of the final corner. As predicted, Jamie rose further from pole lane as the slope began to increase. Keeping my wheel overlapping (which I allowed), he climbed up through lane three, rising toward the fence, starting to accelerate as he readied for the final pounce…

I beat him to it.

As we climbed, I slowed but pushed my bike forward so it appeared that our wheels were still overlapped. After his final look in my direction I prepared my escape. Just before the impending jump, I grabbed the top of my bars next to the stem, thrust my bike backward, rolling my center of gravity forward so that I was nearly sitting on my stem and I turned my wheel down the track, narrowly missing his back wheel. I then shunted my bike forward, grabbed the drop bars, rose out of my saddle, angled down the steep embankment and put every single shred of energy, fear, hatred and pride into the muscles and electrons surrounding my legs and heart. My tires tore against the surface of the track with the beautiful sound of ripping paper and like Han Solo I hit hyperspace as the backdrop blurred and the track streaked by in a hum.

Octaves rising I was head down hitting 200 rpms down the final straightaway. I knew, just knew, that no-one, just no-one could sustain that kind of onslaught. It was a crowning moment, an emblem of every single one of my limited strengths. Never in my life had I been mind-gamed or out-jumped. Here, in the most important race of my life, my arch-enemy had just overplayed his hand. I had dropped the ace, and the roar of the crowd answered my card. With a surge of pride I raised my hands from the bars to celebrate victory and dared a peek to my right just prior to the line.

There was no one. No Jamie. To the rear, no Jamie – and then on the apron… the Joker as trump card...

Instead of raising my hands to the sky, I put them on my head. There he was, 150 feet back, freeing his feet from the his straps, pedals windmilling, legs splayed widely as he looked quizzically down at his bike…. He had aborted when the win was out of reach – keeping himself fresh for the next round.  Then the theatrics began - an invented equipment failure. He coasted to the line then immediately dismounted, inspecting his bike and pedals from the side.

It was effective – no celebration for me. At least one more round before the chance at desert, sands, and bizarre bazaars. And... Jamie was fresher for pulling out.

REWIND - THE SEMI FINALS: Jim Michener was vomiting into a trash bin in the center of the track, his muscular hulk shuddering, rattling the metal against concrete. He stood up and wiped his mouth as I passed by. “Good luck against Jamie – he’s tough, but you can beat him.”

These encouraging words came from my defeated semi-final round competitor at these Junior World trials. Jim had given me a run for my money two races in a row, possessing an uncanny ability to wind it up from 300 meters and keep the acceleration going all the way to the line – a race strategy directly in contrast to my ability to produce a short surge of speed and then try to sustain. Jim confessed to having thrown-up before and after each and every race.

Match sprints and short track speedskating have much in common in terms of the waves of lactic acid induced nausea and weakness after each event and the need to recompose in a relatively short interval of 15 minutes for the next round.  Showing back up to the line after a maximal anaerobic effort is parallel to spooning up another plateful of whatever food you just threw up – “as a dog returneth to its own vomit…” I always felt like throwing up but had managed to avoid it.

My stomach troubles were further exacerbated by the self-induced pressure that had been building over the years and always-close competitions with Jamie. As our rest period ended, I was still shaky and breathing from the prior effort. Heading to the start line, Jamie looked calm and composed: he had pulled out of the last sprint and was still fresh. My nerves and fibers were frayed.

RACE #2: We lined up at a safe distance 15 minutes later and then, without theatrics, the 4th gun was fired for the potential finale of the Junior World Championship trials. By now, all the Juniors had clustered right down by the wall and were on their feet yelling at us from the moment the gun went off. The “cool” kids were cheering for Jamie but I noticed that I had adequate representation in the stands.

I drew pole position and was required to lead the first lap and did so without deliberation, setting a pace of 20mph and following the black pole lane for one lap.

We came around with 2 laps to go and as soon as we crossed the line I swung up and slowed. I had seen Jamie’s face on the line - he’d been bested despite the theatrics and tactics – his guidance would be to take the race on merit. Sure enough as I slowed, he paused and then pulled through on the pole lane and we continued around the backstretch and into the far corner, 1 ¼ laps to go.

We entered the final straightaway with 1 lap to go and the bell began to ring, Jamie moved up the track and began upping the pace such that we were traveling 25mph by the time we hit the start/finish line. I kept about a 3 bike length space between us and I rode high towards the barriers where the juniors were leaning over, screaming almost right in my ear as we streamed by. I kept “slingshot room.”

We sped through the corner high up the track, both of us out of the saddle, Jamie ever vigilant, watching me, riding down lower to intersect any early attacks. As headed for the far side of the turn Jamie jumped and dropped down to the pole, accelerating to more than 30 mph as we crossed the 200m mark. I followed, halving the distance between us in order to capture the benefits of the draft. Whether he knew it or not, Jamie was coldly eliminating my strengths of a quick acceleration, short sprint and bike handling. If the race were to become a straight out drag race it would be close.

Then pride interceded: midway down the straightaway, Jamie paused in his constant acceleration and, looking back, dodged up to just above lane two ( about 3 feet above the pole lane) providing a tempting hole to dive through. I was not foolish enough to spring that trap and hovered above waiting. The pace stabilized for a moment - breathing room.

The final corner approached and I started to accelerate laddering up the track out of the saddle to keep the distance between us steady while increasing my potential energy. Jamie bobbed and weaved trying to own all three lanes looking back. As we began the turn in earnest, Jamie committed, turning his head forward and hitting it hard. Back out of the saddle, he scissored down to just above the pole lane and our pace leapt from 30mph to 40mph in 20 meters – it was on.

The uneven pace on the backstretch had given me a moment to reload my springs and I uncoiled everything I had remaining. The G-forces in the corner pressed me into the saddle and as I leaned far to the left, the cracks in the track rattled through my forearms. I arched over the bars forming a protective shell over the motor of my quads and calves thundering below and that warm hum began as power throbbed through my legs into the pedals. I matched Jamie’s acceleration and more: despite having the outside lane and longer trajectory, I closed the distance and began riding up on his back wheel.

As we exited the corner I had drawn even with his hip and my front tire had come into view. Jamie flicked up and we had momentary contact and then he dropped and locked onto the pole lane. Any movement from there and he would be disqualified. Meanwhile the initial liability of the outside lane delivered its double rewards of higher rotational velocity and declining altitude as the corner flattened. I burned the remainder of my reserves and loosed the catapult, coming shoulder to shoulder with Jamie, both of us pulverizing the pedals.

Pulse hammering in my brain, my head, hands and hamstrings delivered a surge of speed down the remaining straightaway and I surged past Jamie to cross the line with a ¾ bike length advantage.

Sound returned and a sudden roar filled my ears and I realized I had done it. As I swung high up the track to absorb my speed, I realized that I had won the Junior World Championships Trials and the one and only spot to go to the World Championships in Casablanca, Morocco in North Africa. I raised my hands… again only to cradle my head – this time in relief – and spun down around the corner, cheers echoing from the far side of the track. I finished the warm-down lap, slapped high fives with a core group still at the fence and then retreated to the apron. Richie and a few other juniors were there to catch me and hold the bike as I unstrapped, and Richie shared the unofficial 200m time – at 10.96 possibly a new junior record.

I quickly gathered my things, and as I prepared to leave, there he was, the “man” himself, Eddy B., who shook my hand, smiled stiffly and in his thick accent said, “Yes, good racing. Jamie not race well though…  Perhaps we must bring two sprinters to Junior Championships…” and then he was gone. Disappointed that I would potentially yet have to face the threat of my mortal enemy across continents I was thrilled with the outcome of the most stressful and rewarding races of my career.

I crossed the track into the shadows of the stands and as I re-emerged into the lights, was humbled to find two dozen junior elite athletes waiting to escort me back to the Olympic Training Center. The sun had set yet I could feel the warmth radiating from the stucco buildings and we parted the trees on the sidewalk as we passed through the park for the 10 minute ride back to the OTC. Conversation was mostly hushed but I rode at the arrow of the peleton with honor guard coverage for street crossings. As we entered the parking lot, an arbitrary paceline formed to give me a leadout to the PedXing sign and I took the bait, winning the parking lot prime sprint with a surge towards the line and a bike throw and we all laughed as we headed for the cafeteria.

It was Richie Hincapie who brought a dose of reality back into the ceremonies. “Great race – I hope you get to go to worlds – you earned it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice turning shrill, “I won the trials, of course I’m going.” I paused and thinking said, “but I guess Eddy B. thinks Jamie should go too.”

“No Coyle… that’s not what I heard. I heard Eddy talking to Campbell about that ‘maybe’ they should bring you too…”

My mind raced back to Eddy’s words, “Perhaps we will have to bring two sprinters to Junior Championships.”  “No,” I said, mind blackening with the darkening sky as realization set in, “they were talking about Jamie – Jamie might get to go… “I won… “I won the trials..”

“Sorry John, but all these trials disguise the reality that it is coach’s discretion – Jamie’s going already. That was decided long ago. But the good news is you still might get to go if you keep beating Jamie at practice…”

Seeing my face he added, “Sorry man, I thought you knew…”

THE NEXT TRIALS: Days 2 through 10 of the never ending junior world trials began the next day…

The next 9 days were hell. Each day I headed to the track for a new set of seemingly arbitrary evaluations, (though the first day Jamie didn’t show up.) Standing starts, flying 200’s, motor-paced 200’s, side-by-sides jumps from corner to corner, all head to head with Jamie, all potentially determining a trip to the world championships. Each day brought about another version of the trials. It quickly became clear to me that Jamie was unaware of his “shoe-in” position (if it were real at all ). If Eddy and Craig had already chosen him, they didn’t bother to tell him, so each day we both showed up with something to win, and something to lose.

The worst part is that we often timed each other… For example, in motorcycle-led 200m sprints, Anje would ride the motorcycle and wind it up with one of us following and the other timing. Then after an appropriate rest, we’d switch places on the bike or with the watch – and Anje would write down the times in between.  

I felt good on the bike and felt I performed well, pulling up to the side of the motorcycle after significant accelerations, but my times were mid-tens (10.4, 10.5) – at least according to the watch Jamie was holding. 

When I timed Jamie, he performed well, 10.2, 10.3, so I asked Anje to pick it up in subsequent rounds.

He did so, but still, my times were slower… at least according to Jamie’s stopwatch.

Finally, Craig showed up, and Jamie and I both did a few more traverses around the track. This time Craig had the watch. Jamie went first with a good time, and then I lined up behind Anje. He winked at me and said in his thick accent, “If you stay me, no matter what watch say, you are fastest.”  He lit it up on the motorbike and we accelerated through corner – tilting completely sideways and continued accelerating hard down the final straight and into the finish.

“10.2 Carney,” Craig said, “9.9 Coyle,” and Anje winked again. Craig also smiled at me after Carney sulked off. It seemed he wasn’t necessarily in Jamie’s corner either and was just following orders.

Finally, a week or so after the trials, the announcement came from Craig: “Coyle, Carney, you both qualify for the junior world championships.” Jamie and I were both immensely relieved and for a period our rivalry was subsumed by our relief. We were headed to Africa - teammates, competitors, and sometime friends.

Still my distrust of the coaches, the process, and the team underpinned the trip I had finally earned… and it showed up in the diary of my 17 year old self...

NEXT: A dozen 17-year-old boys are dropped into Casablanca, Morocco with little to no supervision. What could go wrong?