Guido went to extraordinary lengths to shield young Joshua from the horrors of the war. On the way to the camp, a bicycle race passed their truck. As the riders, themselves escaping a life of grim toil, dirty and sweaty from the effort of heaving their heavy steel bikes up the col, rode by, Guido lifted his son from the truck and placed him onto the road.
The crowd clapped and yelled encouragement to their heroes, and the riders responded by rising from the saddle, straining to turn their big gears over as the slope steepened. Strange men ran alongside the riders, and the cars honked at them to get out of the way. A broad smile lit up Joshua’s face, and it was at that moment he knew that he too wanted to race a bicycle. Suddenly, as quickly as they appeared, they were gone. The crowd dispersed, silence returned, the truck continued on.
But for those few minutes, life was indeed beautiful.
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@wiscot
EXACTLY! That older gentleman chasing them was probably a stone mason or a miner or some awful, soul-crushing labourer during the week (and most likely weekends as well in order to eke out a living) but for that moment, he was flying with the Gods and truly transported out of his hard life. Beautiful photo and the fans are what really make these old pictures for me.
Years ago, I spent a summer with my uncle in Portland, OR. I was 15, and like many teenagers, mostly on the look out for some trouble. My uncle who was not a father himself at the time, seemed to have just the right medicine. Back home my dad took us on these short, family oriented city bike bath rides. Usually short, and almost always to the same place for lunch at Mississippi Mudds on the Niagara River. My dad was using these trips to diagnose my ability to follow traffic laws, and judging my actions to decide if he was going to teach me to drive a car. We were certainly not cyclists, but never the less, I had a budding love affair with the machines we rode.
My uncle was quick to put me to work during my summer trip, and once I showed a bit of interest in the three steel frame "10 speeds" as I called them, hanging in the back of his garage, the money was set aside for me to "rebuild" these old steeds. I was not a bike mechanic, but my family acknowledged my "fix up old shit" abilities, and passed down to me all their broken stuff. So, I found myself a local bike shop to supply all the parts, made trips back and forth on the most functional of the three. Crashed the brakeless "holy shit I can fly on this thing" trying to pass a van on a side street that didn't take so kindly to my speedy move (and I found out those curbs in Portland are abnormally tall).
All in all, I completely rebuilt each of the three bikes, and by the end of the trip my aunt, uncle and I were riding those machines all over the city, where I will never forget, cresting one of the many Portland hills to see "the upside down strawberry" of Mt Hood as the sun set and cast its beautiful setting red rays of light on its snow cap.
Now, I'm 37, and only just over a year ago have I even purchased my first real bike. A long way away from that steel frame, friction shifting. pure awesomeness of a summer...
The old photos of these hardmen of days long ago, always take me back to that trip across the country, reminding me of that summer when I connected with those three awesome machines, regretting I took so long to continue the love affair.....
@VeloSix Brilliant. I raise my cap to you!
I find myself lost in the stories and pictures of these men. I pray the history of this sport is never lost. And I encourage all those who have real knowledge of these day to write it down.
@VeloSix
Great story and thanks for sharing. Those formative experiences sure stick with you, don't they? I distinctly remember my first ride on a bike with "racing" handlebars: mid-late 70s, Grangemouth, bike from Aunt's garage. Felt like I was doing 100 mph - on the sidewalk, in the dark. Happy days!
@Buck Rogers
This is just fabulous! I love the second clip..."This is a terrible mistake because I already used up all my English!"
@wiscot
Yes, I certainly relate.
I will never forget the moment I realized, "Hey, I can pass this small block V8 powered 70's shag-wagon using my legs!! Let's do this...!!"
Absolutely no idea how fast I was going, but when the driver saw me in his mirror and thus proceeded to "drift my direction", the speed was immediately realized. I tried to lean and point the dry rotted brake pad equipped bike left, into the intersection I was originally expecting to proceed strait through. As quickly as the speed was realized, so was the fact an attempt at a turn was impossible. All I could see in the eternity of a few seconds, was what seemed like a 3 foot tall curb, a 6 inch wide sidewalk and a rusty chainlink fence. We were all immediately introduced to each other.
What did this do for me, but just fuel my passion for ludicrous speeds, which in Portland could be found after each of hills I climbed....
@Mike_P
Hard to comprehend that Helen Hunt has an Oscar and Emily Watson doesn't. Kinda like (pardon the pun) Oscar Pierero winning the Tour and Raymond Poulidor not. Injustice!
I love this photo. Back when "manly men" ruled the peloton. So rare these days. No "stomach filled with anger" back then, more "punch you in the fucking face". Race your bike, then go back to working at the steel mill, farm or some other blue collar tough guy job. Pretty sure they didn't have $1million team busses and hot blonde masseuses either.
@VeloSix
..... and only just over a year ago have I even purchased my first real bike. A long way away from that steel frame, friction shifting. pure awesomeness of a summer...
Whooa there, slide back there, throw out an anchor. What's not "real" about a classic friction shifting steel bike? Whole bunch of different skills and class in timing smooth gear shifts for instance. OK my carbon stealth machine is fabulous to ride but my vintage rebuild will be equally real (I hope!) when it is finished and in some ways more so. They are all real but just different experiences to be cherished and enjoyed in their own rights.