Alternate Universe

I got me some airtime on the local news as the face, or at least one of them, of the SLO criterium saying how I remembered watching the crit in 86 as a young high school teen punk and how it got me excited about racing bikes. Well, truth be known, I was not a punk back then, but goth. And more truthfully, we called it death rock back in the day. Long live Bauhaus!

Anyway, it brings back memories, all nostalgic and stuff, but also thoughts about where I am now, home.

Spring of 1986, there I was, nearly a high school dropout. What did I care about education? College was for the rich smart kids. I was a kitchen hack, born and bred. I missed prom cuz there was a punk rock show that night, and I would rather slam dance than dance to Journey (there was a little punk in the goth). And I liked me some cheap beer, and cheap vodka (with plenty of OJ of course).

So, what was I doing watching a bike race and getting all excited and stuff? Well, there was a little bikie under that black hair dye and eyeliner. In fact, I probably would not have gone goth, or at least to the extent that I did, if it were not for a junkie needing a fix.

Grewal, Lemond, and the Badger had all got me excited to turn this pedaling thing I found by accident into something more. The accident: I was caught flipping through Bicycling magazine one day during my junior high pre-algebra class. Hey, I already had pre-algebra in the school I transferred from, so I was bored. Don't ask me why I had a Bicycling magazine, too much cheap vodka between then and now to remember. So, Mr. Beck came by and said, "like biking, sonny? There's a century going on in a couple of days, why don't you give it a spin?" I was 13 and stupid, so what the heck. I borrowed a bike that was way too big, and rode around SLO county in a pair tennis shoes, running shorts and a t-shirt 3 days later. Eight hours and one bee sting later (up the running shorts), I was hooked. I liked this two wheeled thing.

The racing thing did not immediately draw me in. For some strange reason I saw myself as a cycling tourist. It must have been the century influence. But after seeing Grewal spank that Canuck, Bauer, in 84, I knew I wanted to ride, and ride hard. My local shop hooked me up with the kind race ride, and let me make low easy payments. A beautiful, shit brown, quad butted, Suntour equipped Fuji speed machine was mine for the taking, and I planned to do some Grewal style ass whooping with it. Problem was, it got stolen before I took out a racing license, and after only a few payments. I guess I should have known better than to leave it unlocked in the Roach Hotel (it's been seriously gentrified since then, but a little too late for my purposes). Sorry, Alexi, Mr. Brownstone put that inspiration on hold.

Drinking, dark music, and dancing became my new life style. That's right, I said dancing. I tore that shit up on the dance floor, shaking my groove thing to the 80's music that we all know and love (no, not Journey). Okay, I had one foot in that lifestyle and the other on a pedal when the bike was stolen, but I would have probably given that alt lifestyle up to the devotion and money that the racing thing was surely gonna require. But you might understand why Bad Boy Grewal inspired me, given my distain for the norm lifestyle.

Back to the 86 SLO crit. Watching it got me all excited, but I already said that. But at the time, I had a friend who rode for the Cal Poly Wheelmen and was also a DJ for Burnt Dog Radio, Cal Poly's radio station, spinning the punk rock (again, there was, and still is, a little punk in me) and he egged me to hop back on the bike if I was all excited about the spandex spectacle. I stopped dying my hair and started shaving my legs, cobbled together a bike from parts and stuff I had, and started riding with DJ Slow Boy. I eventually paid off that Fuji, too.

The bike racing did not start immediately, and when it started, it was a bit of a rough ride. I worked full time plus, so there was little time to train. But I could ride, oh yeah, I could ride. I lost my cheap beer gut and started to find some speed. But after too many flats, not enough money, a full time job, and a gal that wanted my time, well I gave up the racing thing before it really got off the ground. I did not, however, give up the bike.

After a year off of racing, I gave it one more shot. Boom, a month into the 1990 racing season, I got my cat 2 upgrade. Boom again, a few months later I got my cat 1 upgrade. Somewhere in between, Tracy told me I loved my bike more than her, and boom, I had more time to ride my bike. A few months later, I was at the Olympic Training Center listening to Chris Carmichael tell me how to ride my bike, and building a healthy distain for some young, fat headed punks. A decade later, I would find myself in grad school, watching many of those fat headed punks tearing it up in the Tour. Punks!

Twenty years plus one from the 86 crit, and I am getting ready to saddle up and spin around the SLO block. What a long, strange trip it's been. Wait, I hate The Dead. Long live Bauhaus!