The Evolution of A Fan

I knew what my husband was when I married him:  a cyclist, through and through.  I knew it the first time I laid eyes on him;  riding into Nash Hall,  smoothly maneuvering the corners and the students lounging in the hallway.  Without even a hint of worry, or fear of falling, or knocking into someone or something.  He and his bike were one.  

And all these years later, they still are.   I should know.  I'm his biggest fan.  And throughout the twenty-one years of our marriage, I have proudly cheered him on.  At criteriums, road races, mountain bike races, and, most recently, cyclocross races.    (Yes, I even have my own cowbell)  I have picked him up at the finish of  200 mile rides looking spent and happy.  I have seen him covered in mud and blood after a day in the trails.  I have seen both his skin and spandex ripped after wipe-outs incurred on his commutes home.  Consequently, (as wife and Number One Fan) I have also been honored with the task of washing said spandex: the shorts, the tights,  the leg warmers, the arm warmers, the shoe covers, the gloves.  (Being Number One Fan isn't always a glamorous job)  

But I have loved every minute of it; because he has loved every minute of it.  Whether he's out riding with friends, or tearing it up in a race, he's happy.  Whether he comes in first, last, or right in the middle, he always has a smile on his face at the end.  Because he's doing what he loves.  

Being married to Dave has also made me a huge fan of The Tour de France.  Every July our DVR is set to record each day's stage.  And we come together every night, eager to hear the day's events from Phil, Paul, and Bob.  And while I don't know every rider on every team, I certainly know all the big guns.

Over the years, I have cheered on Lemond and Lance, Big Mig, and Ulrich, just to name a few.  Recently, the next generation of riders have captured my heart: Tejay, Taylor, and Tyler, (Hey, he's from Washington)  And the Schleck brothers have been my "ones to watch," in the mountains.  I have seen crashes, blood, and popping collar bones.  Consequently, I've felt the suffering of those forced to drop out, due to injury.  I have seen riders storm other team buses, ready to "put the hurt on" a rider they believe raced badly.  And, like all fans who have watched their idols behave in an unsportsmanlike manner, or violate the rules of their sport, I've had my heart broken.  This summer was no exception.  When Frank went home early, because he failed to pass a drug test, and when I saw this on the newsstand, 

Yes it does

the disappointment set in, yet again.  

And yet, I return every July;  for I really do love everything about this race.  The crazy Speedo wearing fans, the endless fields of sunflowers,  the history of the chateaus Paul shares with us, the beautiful white cows, and, of course, the drama of the riders.  To me,  The Tour is more than just a race;  it is a spectacle, to be savored.  

Thus, making it to The Tour is definitely on the top of our Bucket List.  However, since traveling to France is not a possibility, at this point in our lives,  my husband and I recently opted for an American race to make our fan debut:  The US Pro Cycling Challenge.  We picked two stages: Beaver Creek, and Boulder, packed one kid, one van, and set out on a road trip that would include camping, Yellowstone National Park, and, of course, bike riding.  Not to mention an opportunity to see Big George, before he officially retires.  

Despite my interest in The Tour, I've never been one of those "serious fans."  I have never felt the need to know the stats of the individual riders: their finish times, their overall times, how many heart beats per climb, what they ate for breakfast, how often they get massaged.  And I've certainly never seen myself as The Stalker Fan.  The fan who follows behind,  screaming begging for an autograph, or picture.   I never wrote fan letters.  Never sent them cookies.  Never joined their armies or followed their Tweets or Face Book posts. (Probably because I am the only person in the world without FB)  My fanaticism has always been on the quiet side, shared only with my husband, my daughter, and my dad, (who has recently become a huge cycling fan, despite not even owning a bike.)  I simply, watch and admire from afar, (the couch in my TV room).  

The last few years, however, I've really become a fan of one rider  man: Jens Voigt.  And I say man, rather than rider, because I admire him for more than just his bike racing.  I mean, he's shown the world he can ride.  He can break away.  He can stay away.  And, obviously, he can climb  a hill.  But more importantly, he seems to embody the kind of athlete we should all  aspire to become.  We should want our children to aspire to.  Someone who is fiercely competitive, but always has a good attitude.  Someone who works his ass off, but has a smile at the end of the day.  Someone who cheers on his teammates, even when he, himself, has a bad day.  And then someone who will go home, have a beer,  take his kids geocaching, and take his dog, Linda, for a walk.  (Okay, so I have recently discovered his blog:  Hardly Serious with Jens Voigt.  OMG maybe I AM a Stalker Fan.)

Maybe it's because I'm getting older.  Maybe it's because I know how hard it can be to get my butt up a hill.  (Notice I'm saying hill, NOT mountain)  Maybe it's because I'm a parent, and he is a parent.  But he seems to have his life in balance.  Maybe he just seems like a cool guy.  Whatever it is, I enjoy watching him and rooting for him.  

That's why it felt like a dream come true to see him, in the flesh, at this year's US Pro Cycling Challenge.  I first laid eyes on him at the finish of the Beaver Creek stage.  You know the one where, apparently, he said, have a good ride boys.  I'll see you at the finish.  

As I watched him ride up the hill, all alone, with a smile on his face, I couldn't believe it.    Here he was.  Here I was!  And I no longer cared that the announcer was mispronouncing his name.  Instead, I felt like a proud parent.  Happy that my kid had won.   And then he rode passed me, and I found my voice:  "Go Jens!" And then he was gone.  Off to pee in a cup, or change out of his sweaty riding clothes, or shake some one's hand.  Whatever it is they do.  But I was happy.  I had seen what I came for:  My Guy had taken a stage win.  When I commented to the guy next to me, (a Boulder resident who was really hoping to see Taylor Phinney win) that Voigt is my favorite, he smiled and replied, "it's always nice to see your favorite win."  He's obviously been to A LOT more races than I have.

And then it was back to the bell ringing, for Levi, and Chris Horner, and Big George and Tejay.  And for my dad, who was watching from his chair at home, taking care of my dog in our absence.   And for all the fans who have never been to a race like this.  

And then it was over.  The riders had all crossed the line and were beginning to make their way back down the hill,  back to their race vehicles, or hotel rooms, where massage therapists and big plates of pasta were waiting for them.  Unless you were on the Colombian team.  Apparently, they only got a Bento Box and a Coke.   (After riding 97 miles!)  Said Taylor Phinney fan reported that they were on a VERY TIGHT budget.  I told Dave we should take them out to dinner.

Not ready to say goodbye to all the fanfare, and catch the shuttle back down the hill, we decided to wander through the festival one last time.  And I'm so glad we did.   Because while I was standing in line for the bathroom, (I know, how embarrassing) I heard Dave say, "there he is" and I knew exactly who he meant.  And there he was--AGAIN!  Walking RIGHT PAST me  in his fresh, new, orange and white jersey.  (most aggressive rider?)  And I didn't know what to do, what to say.  None of the sentiments flying around in my head seemed right:  Hey Jens!  Good Job Jens!  I think I, finally, muttered a quiet "congratulations."  (Shyness, I learned, is not a quality that comes in handy for a fan)

Needless to say, he didn't hear me.  He didn't even see me.  He was too busy commenting on some other fan's t-shirt.  Hey, that's a cool shirt!  Really?  All it said was  Jens Jens Jens.  Well, I guess that's enough to get noticed.  Stupid Stalker Fan!  And then he was gone again.  Whisked away by his posse, all smiles and laughter.  Where he was going?  I don't know.  They did, however, appear to be heading toward the back of the Fat Tire tent. (I'm just sayin!)

Oh well, I probably looked a little ridiculous anyway.

Just a little ridiculous 

The next day, while Jens and the boys (I say this as if I know them)  were riding from Breckenridge to Colorado Springs, we were making our way to Boulder.  And I'm so glad we did.  Because Boulder is a great town.  And Friday was a great day.  After checking into our room, we rode our bikes on the Boulder Creek Path, played at the playground with Nora (who was in dire need of play time) and then ate a delicious dinner at The Mountain Sun Pub and Brewery.  Let me just say their seasonal beer, the one made with ginger, was delish!  Afterward we walked the Pearl Street Mall and enjoyed the "musical and acrobatic talents" of Boulder's finest.  We finished off our evening with a stop at Ben and Jerry's before calling it a night.  

The next day was race day.  So, of course, my husband wanted to climb up Flagstaff.  To see just what the riders would be enduring.  (When he commented later that he got passed by a girl, I said, "don't worry honey.  It's the elevation.")  So he went for a ride,  and Nora and I hit the LARGEST toy store I have ever been to.  And thanks to Grandpa Dahl, who had given her souvenir shopping money, we spent an extraordinarily LONG time there.  Finally, after perusing EVERYTHING in the store, Nora settled on a horse figurine.  Really!  And before we knew it, it was time for the riders to make their first lap through town.

And just as a side note:  In case you ever get a hankerin to attend one of these races yourself, let me say, the crowds are huge!  (100,000 according to the guy at Vecchio's Bike Shop) And they were all lined up next to me, while the VIP tent, which was directly across the street, was practically empty!  I was ready to jump ship, fork over our last few meal dollars,  just so I could have some elbow room, and a photo that didn't contain the cell phones of every other spectator.  Thus, my advice:  if you've got the extra dough, fork it over.  It will be money well spent.   But I complain digress.

And then, there they were!  And Jens was in front--again!  Holy Cow!  He was going to win another stage!  I could just feel it!  Maybe it's me!  Maybe I'm bringing him good luck.  Me and my cheering, my bell ringing, my banner waving.  Heck, my mere presence must be just what he needed!  I must be his muse!  (Do cyclists have muses?)   So, of course, I texted my Dad: The same dad I previously mentioned.  The same dad who was, at that moment, at home, in his chair, watching the very same scene-minus all the camera snapping cell phones.   "OMG!  Jens is out front again.  He's going to win again!"  He didn't text me back.  He knows I get a little excited.

And then we had three hours to kill, until the riders came BACK through town on their way to the finish.  So, of course, we went in search of food.  And after a VERY long walk, we found it:    Salvaggio's Deli.  What an Italian Deli is meant to be.   I was SO impressed with my "Italian," (I know original name) I took a picture of it and immediately sent it to my friend Angie, who just so happens to be Italian. (by adoption, but whatever)

The Italian

After our big lunch, another playground session for Nora, and another LONG walk BACK to our room,  we checked in on Dave's Pro Cycling Challenge App to see when we needed to be back at the race.  We learned we basically had a thirty minute window,  between 3:00 and 3:30, wherein the riders could show up.  Thinking we had PLENTY of time, and we were only going a few blocks, we hopped on our bikes and headed out.  And then we heard them: the sirens announcing the arrival of the first riders.  We pedaled faster, making it to Mapleton and Broadway with just enough time to toss  our bikes behind a big shrub, cross the street, get the camera lens off, and unfold my GO RADIO SHACK banner  before Jens (yes Jens!) and the first few riders zoomed by.  Again, I yelled:  "Go Jens!"  Again, I'm sure, he didn't hear me.  And then, in all caps, I texted Dad again:  "HE'S GOING TO WIN AGAIN!"

Then, with our schwag in hand, we sat on the curb.  And waited.  Long after all the riders had passed.  After the medics and the sweeper car passed.  After the spectators faded away.

Thank You Team Bissell!

And read the updates, via Dave's Iphone, until we learned that Levi took the overall lead.  Sutherland took the stage win.  And Jens took third.  And then we took Nora swimming at the Spruce Street Pool.

On Sunday morning, over beautiful lattes at The Laughing Goat coffee shop, we decided to skip the Time Trial in Denver.  We'd seen enough.  We'd seen Jens win.  We'd seen him almost win a second time.  We'd seen Big George in one of his last professional events.  We'd seen Tejay and Levi and Chris Horner.  In short, we'd been blessed with the honor of watching these amazing men race on two separate occasions, more than most fans ever get to see in a lifetime.  And that was enough to make us completely happy.  If we'd only seen Phil and Paul (and Bob), our trip would've been complete.  Well, that will have to wait until we make it to The Tour.

For now, we were going on our own ride, with Nora, to the Boulder Reservoir.

Riding to the reservoir with my favorite cyclists 

Because it was almost time to go home.  Because it was hot out.  And because Nora needed some Nora Time.  I mean that kid was a trooper.  We drug her all over: on foot, in the car, on the bikes, just to see some crazy bike riders, with nary a complaint.   So, thanks Nora for being such a great traveler.  Thanks Jens for putting on such a good show.  And while you are definitely in the running for Sonja's All-Time Favorite Cyclist, the standings, as of right now, show the #1 and #2 slots are taken.  

xoxo--
S