Friday Follies ~~ One of the best rides ever

Back in the last century, in the early Spring of ’96, we were all pretty excited around here.  The Olympics were coming.  No secret there.  We’d known it, for sure, since ’90.  But it was a buzz.  Things were happening.  The venues were getting built.  Come Summer, we would be hosting the world for the big games.  Of course that didn’t mean a lot to most of us on a daily basis.

I lived just outside Woolsey, GA, in the then still largely rural southern end of Fayette County.  I had a rare day off of work, and better yet, the weather was unusually mild for the early part of Spring, so (naturally) I geared up and went for a bike ride.  I was out on one of my favorite routes, settled into just rolling along and enjoying the day.

Off in the distance, I spotted a cyclist or two, on the opposite side of the road.  That vision quickly resolved into paceline coming toward me.  First impression, these guys are orderly, and seem to know what they are doing.  Second impression, they seem to be (mostly) kitted out the same, and the kits don’t look new.  Third impression, they are really moving!  Fourth impression, they all seem pretty young as they fly past in the other direction.

At that time and place, most of these impressions were fairly unusual.  We didn’t have that many road cyclists in the area.  The “Lance Effect” was still in the future.  To see a group that obviously knew what it was doing, fit, and fast, was more than unusual.  “Must be some kind of team,”  I thought.

That group blew past me, heading in the other direction.  I waved and called out a greeting as they did.  I could hear some conversation among them, but couldn’t make out what was said.  I had just filed the extremely brief incident under the mental heading of “Neat Stuff That Happens,” when I became aware of something really odd.  That entire group was doing a turnaround, back there behind me.

Now consider this.  I was on a good road, with a light wind.  I was fresh.  I was motoring along, somewhere above 20 mph.  It can be assumed that the paceline was going at least that fast as we passed each other.  The paceline turned, in order, like a line of ducklings.  So there was a pretty big gap between me and them.

I was just getting to the point of wondering what in blazes they intended when…  They accelerated.  They did it effortlessly, and closed on me in startlingly little time.

Cyclists do play games with each other.  I was wondering just what this game was going to be, when their lead rider came abreast of me, the paceline slowed and matched my speed.  The leader looked over at me and spoke.  In French.  I was lost after his, “Bonjour”.  My French is lousy to non-existent, but he really seemed to want to convey something to me, and it didn’t seem to be hostile or challenging.  So I replied,  “Bonjour.  Non parlait Francais.  Anglais, s’ il vous plait?”

That started a discussion among them.  In French, I think.  By then I was noticing things.  There were seven or eight of them.  One was talking on a cell phone, and the discussion seemed to be fairly intense.  At the same time, the group seemed to reach a consensus, and they accelerated slightly, until one of the men in mid-group was opposite me.

“Allo!”  he said,  “I am Johann.”  He continued, in accented English, saying words to the effect of,  “We are hoping you may give us help?  We have become confused about the way.  We do not have home here.”

I’d pretty much figured that out.  First off the jerseys they were wearing were alike, and there wasn’t a word of English on them.  But they did feature a flag with stripes in black, yellow, and red, and I recognized the “Lion of Flanders” in one of the designs.  I suddenly had goose bumps, and not from the air temp.

A little conversation with my new-found acquaintance gained more information.  They were a cycling team.  They were lost.  Their coach was in the team van, with the mechanic, and he didn’t know where he was.  Could I help them?  They all looked very worried.

That worry is understandable.  At that time the U.S. was getting some pretty terrible press about the way we treated foreign visitors.  A young Japanese tourist had recently been shot for walking up to a house in Louisiana and asking directions.  These guys were, to say the least nervous.

I said that I would be happy to help.  Yes, I would talk with their coach on the phone.  I suggested that we move ahead down the road to a spot where we could safely stop while I had that conversation.  There was a little talk among the group.  A decision was reached, and magic happened.

Up to that point, these young men had been riding beside me.  They had respected my space on the road, and stayed out in the middle, giving me complete freedom to move around, while they easily matched pace with me.  At the moment that the group reached their consensus, and knew that I was willing to help, one of their number shouted out a couple of commands, and…

They reformed, around me, incorporating me into the center of the group.  We moved smoothly ahead, at a somewhat faster pace, until I indicated that here was a good spot to stop.  We pulled off of the road, and I was handed the cell phone.

The man on the other end spoke excellent, if accented, English.  He was one of the coaches of the team.  He and the mechanic were in the team van.  They had stopped to deal with a mechanical on one rider’s bike.  The team, continuing their training ride, must have missed a turn, while the van was stopped.  Now the team did not know where they were, and neither did the support crew in the van.  Could I help them?

Okay!  I knew where I was.  So job one was to figure out where the van was.  The coach did not know.  I had him drive for a while, asking him for road signs, and descriptions of landmarks.  It took about ten minutes for me to get him located.  He was then, about 20 miles away from my location.  I was able to give him easy to follow directions to the town of Brooks.  That would cut the distance between us to about 15 miles.  We would ride there to meet him.

What happened next was pure magic.  These kids were in their late teens and early twenties.  They were athletes in superb condition, future Olympians.  I was reasonably fit, but in my mid 40s.  They formed up around me, and we were off.  Suddenly I was in that wonderful, fabled, and dreamed of position, that of the team captain, or the specialist of the day, the rider that the whole team works to advance and protect.  Me!

They surrounded me.  There were two in front, side-by-side, taking the wind away from me.  There was one each to my left and right, blocking sidewinds.  There were two more tight behind me, and one or two behind them.  They rotated around me, without speaking, never holding any position for more than 15 to 20 seconds.  My water bottles and pack were taken from me as we rode.  When I needed a drink, a bottle was handed to me.  When they thought I needed a drink, a bottle was shoved into my hand.  (Rather more often than I would have chosen.)  If I faltered in the slightest, a hand reached out and steadied me. When I started to lag on a hill a pair of hands, one from each side, pressed firmly against my lower back, lifting me up.  We owned the road.  It didn’t happen, but I suspect that if a semi had challenged us, they would have ridden it down and shouldered it off the road.

I was not allowed to take a lead pull. I know they were slowed and limited by my capabilities.  None of them were even breathing hard.

I was far too busy to look at my cyclecomputer.  I did later.  My max speed for the entire ride was well over 35 mph, and there were no significant descents on the route!

In well under 45 minutes, we pulled into Brooks, Georgia.  The rental van was parked at the US Post Office.  The coach got out of the van, smiling.  He spoke briefly to his team, and then came to me and shook my hand firmly.  He expressed his gratitude and relief.  He thanked me for going out of the way to help his team.  Could he give me a ride home?

I declined the offer, pointing to my bike.  That would be no problem, the van had the racks to carry bicycles.  I thanked him again, and said I would prefer to ride home.  “I understand completely,”  the coach said.  “How far is it to this home of yours?  Could you show it to me on this map?”

I was a little confused by that request, but he continued, saying that, if I would not accept a ride, then the least he and his team could do was to support me in the rest of my ride.  And they did.  They formed up around me, and kept me in the protected position in their group as I rode the 15 or so miles to my lane.  I indicated that this was my turn, and magically my own bottles appeared in my cages, and my pack was settled on my shoulders, all without slowing or breaking formation.  They waved to me as I pulled off to the side and they continued on their way.

That was how I rode with the Belgian cycling team.  They were here, doing some scouting and training in preparation for the coming Olympics.