On Friday night I attended a dinner loosely attached to the SF Grand Prix, a 108-mile pro cycling race that took place on Sunday up and down and around the hills of San Francisco. The dinner was a benefit for the Davis Phinney Foundation. Phinney is still dubbed the "winningest" American cyclist. Probably the title belongs to him and not to Lance Armstrong because Phinney, in his day, was a sprinter - a breed of cyclists considered insane for the high-speed rough-housing they engage in while fighting to the line. Phinney is retired now but still fighting, only this time against Parkinson's disease.
The dinner was held at the SF Italian Athletic Club, in a square, high-ceilinged ballroom with long family-style tables and three big guys in thigh-length leather coats guarding the doors. There were about 275 people there, many of them retired cyclists out to show their support for Davis or current pros carbo-loading for Sunday's race. The tables were already filling when we got there, so we took seats where we could find them. Opposite from us were two guys, then four, then five, who were wearing identical shirts. We had landed across from one of the teams competing in Sunday's race, the Kodak Sierra Nevada team. Nice guys who probably thought I was a girly groupie until I started grilling them about Vinokourov and hill tactics and inquiring about races like the Tour of Georgia and Paris Roubaix (ok so I am a groupie of sorts, but an informed one). At the table to our right, a few chairs up, sat the Navigators Insurance USA team, wearing identical blue denim shirts buttoned all the way to their necks (Cesar Grajales, a Colombian climbing specialist, was shooting me some interesting looks, possibly on account of my bright orange pants). At the table to our left was the Gerolsteiner team, a rakish bunch of fashion-haired Europeans who, unlike the other teams, seemed pretty intent on getting sloshed; they stayed long after the other teams had left, the table in front of them filling with empty bottles.
Sitting closest to me at my table was Dominic Perras, who I later learned was the 2003 Canadian national road race champion and notoriously aggressive on hills. We chatted for about an hour, during which I let slip my Tahoe ultra intentions. He lifted his eyebrows. He knew the terrain. Here was a bona fide hill specialist, looking at me like I'm crazy. "That's nuts," he said. I gulped, and grabbed for my water.
The evening had numerous highlights, including the surprise appearance of Robin Williams, a rabid cycling fan. He swept in to auction off a bike and ended up launching into a 30-minute shtick. Also entertaining was Bob Roll, the bizarre ex-pro cyclist who helps commentate the Tour de France on OLN. It's hard to say which of the two was more manic.
The big inspirational highlight of the night, though, was hearing David Phinney tell the story of a particularly brutal day during his last Tour de France, in 1990. The tour had made it to the Alps, and as a sprinter he was naturally struggling in the mountains. He had slipped so far behind in overall time that he was teetering on the edge of being dropped. On this day, he was already 20 minutes behind, the last rider on the road. There were several punishing hills ahead of him, culminating in a final twisting climb up Alp d'Huez. He figured he was finished, sure to be dropped. But then he told himself, well, I'm here. Why not give it everything I have? And so he did. He went all out up each mountain. Fans who were clearing out turned with surprise when they heard him coming, dropping their coolers and car keys to clap for him. Finally, after several more endless painful climbs, he approached the finish line. Race organizers were already taking down the scaffolding, but his coach was still there. He crossed the line, and neither man said anything for several minutes. And then his coach said, "Two minutes..... You made it by two minutes." Davis explained how he is still, a a sense, living that day. He's still in a race to get to the finish before the time cutoff - only this time it's a race to find a cure for Parkinson's. As he told this story, his left arm shook uncontrollably, the disease having taken it over.
Sunday's race was beautiful to watch. Basso, Hincapie, Leipheimer - big tour guys giving away nothing on their faces as they pedaled up Fillmore, again and again. Dominic was in one of the early breakaways, and ended up finishing the race in tenth place. The winner was Fabian Wegmann - one of the Euro pack of Gerolsteiner guys getting ripped at Friday's dinner. A secret tactic, perhaps.
Comments