Well recently I was wasting my time on social media and came upon a story about an obscure amateur 6 day race in Cologne Germany way way back in 1977.
The winner of the race boasted how easy it was to win - and sure enough that Dutch Team was really good; so they’ve got the right to toot their horn years later without anyone feeling bad. But that was the last time I saw my partner/friend Dave Boll and though he’s long gone I can only smile when I think of that boy from Rumson, N.J. whose family were wealthy “waste management” tycoons. Dave was sent to Stanford where he mastered in math, then went off racing bikes instead of taking up the family business.
That’s Dave on my wheel as I’m getting slung into the race by Fishbait… Fishbait stayed home and Dave came with me to Europe where we won a few races and were a favorite for the 6 day of Cologne (Koln in the local spelling). That German track was fast and very short (150 meters) - and when I came down for our vary first exchange Dave drifted up out of the pole lane, put his front wheel in my left pedal, and flipped over ten feet in the air before landing on his head on the apron. [he’s seen somewhere in the above pictures, sitting up from the crash] I didn’t go down but my toe strap was severed and I had to come in for a replacement. Meanwhile, Dave abruptly jumped up, got on this bike, pushed his way into the fast moving peloton, and started to race. Per the rules, Dave was told on the P.A. to go in and out of the race with one of the Belgian riders. But he stayed in the race lap after lap while Horst, my helper, looked up and down for a strap finally finding one and installing it on my pedal. So I get on the track, pick up speed to go in the race and instead of exchanging, Dave just rides by me. OK I figure he’s gun shy from the crash so next time he comes by I match speed and Dave just looks at me. “Hey Dave! Its me!” I say. Dave just looks at me like I’m a Martian or something. Something’s really wrong here I tell myself and I take Dave by the jamming tool, a lump in a rear shorts pocket, and gradually pull him off the track. Almost to a stop Dave collapses into Horst’s arms completely unconscious. Now-a-days I would’ve gone with him to the hospital but not that day. I actually had a lot of fans in the stands and the organizer pointed out that some of our friends (including the Mindblast brothers) were there to help Dave. So I got back on the velodrome and rode in and out of the race with one of the Belgians the rest of the evening. The next day another friend, Danny Vanhaute (Verbeast), whom was there just to watch was allowed to partner with me for the rest of the race week.
The next day Dave came-to looking into the face of an old pro named Willy who’d also taken a spill then shipped off to the Krankenhuis… “Hey boy you took one on the head pretty good!” Willy said from his cot across the room. A few minutes later the Mindblasts, Verbeast, and I showed up. Dave didn’t recognize us. A few hours after that his family showed up from New Jersey.
Dave’s family thought they’d won the battle for his soul but days after returning to his home…
Dave hightailed it (like a cowboy) back out west to start a carpentry business, probably the only one in Berkeley run by a mathematician.
He never raced again (ergo I never saw him), but he did have his own life with (I assume) thrills and softer landing spills.
By the way, I do NOT claim to be a cowboy though I honor Will Rogers’ cowboy way. Back then in 1977 or so; I took to wearing a cowboy hat, bandana, and Justin cowboy boots just to keep the Europeans from mistaking me for an Englishman. Not that I have anything in particular against Brits. They just don’t get it.
I tend to aline with Jack Nicholson who in a western once said: “I got my faults. Hell I admit it. But I got my ways too…”
Anyway what started as another example of old-timer Dutch braggadocio reminded me of a good tale. And so (according to the Swampdog and Kurt Vonnegut) it goes.
Ride hard, be careful if necessary, and have fun,
Roger