Meet Alex Stieda

Alex stieda and 7-eleven team boss jim ochowicz in 1986.

Here’a an interview with Alex I published on an old blog in mid April, 2011.


Former Canadian professional road racer Alex Stieda is 50 years old today, in a year which also marks the 25th anniversary of his taking the Tour de France leader’s yellow jersey after the first of two stages on July 5, 1986. Racing for the 7-Eleven Cycling Team, directed by current Team BMC Racing co-owner Jim Ochowicz and including Olympic speedskating quintuple champion Eric Heiden, Bob Roll, and Taylor Phinney’s dad Davis, Stieda pulled off the seemingly impossible, becoming the first North American to wear yellow.

Alex: 2011 marks two big milestones for you: you turn 50 today, and July 5 marks the 25th anniversary of your taking the Tour de France yellow leader’s jersey. I imagine the emotional wave is already starting to consume you...

Well, I don't know about 'consuming' but it certainly feels surreal – 25 years ago (half of my life!) sounds like a long time but it doesn't feel that way. Our 7-Eleven team had an incredible run in the '80s and I was proud to be a part of that team. We really had incredible team spirit, something that is witnessed by the fact that we get together for a reunion every five years or so.

Does 50 suit you? How do the legs feel on the bike?

I feel great! I’m staying fit during our long, white winter here in Edmonton with ice hockey, cross-country skiing, ski touring. I also run an indoor cycling class January to April.

Did you have a specific strategy on July 5, 1986, and did you share it with anyone in the organization? Whose idea was it for you to wear a one-piece skinsuit on Stage 2 from Nanterre to Sceaux? It was a short, 53-mile stage...

As an ex-pursuiter and criterium guy, I knew that this distance would be perfect for me. There was no need to carry any food with me and there was no rain in the forecast, so why not use a skinsuit? I knew there were time bonuses and I was the best-placed guy on our team after the prologue, just 17 seconds down on the General Classification.

You never know what can happen, but I had a solo break in the back of my mind. I didn't actually share this with my teammates as it would have sounded a bit audacious: "it's our first stage in our first Tour and I'm going to go solo, okay guys?" But, I knew if I got away, they would cover the chases.

The time bonuses ended up working out perfectly; the last one I went through was close. Mike Neel – our Director Sportif – had to come up in the car and encourage me to go harder as a break was catching me. That extra bonus made the difference in the end.

Phil Anderson was racing for Panasonic that year, and seemed hell-bent to chase you down. There were 204 riders breathing down your neck. Could you feel the pressure? What was going through your mind?

I certainly knew that everyone of those riders wanted to win the stage, and that it could certainly come down to a bunch sprint. When Phil’s break caught me, he gave me a pat on the back and told me “mate, you’re in the jersey”.

From that point on I realized that I had to keep the break away from the main field so (Eric) Vanderaerden couldn’t win the bunch sprint and get an additional time bonus to leapfrog me. Once the break caught me, I covered every attack to keep us together and hung on for dear life, as another attack went. This way, the break was motivated to keep working together since they all thought they had a chance to win the stage.

You finished fifth on the stage, but took the yellow leader’s jersey from prologue specialist Thierry Marie. Did you realize the gravity of the situation right away, or did someone have to tell you?

Once I had gone through the third time bonus sprint, I knew that I had a chance and I rode maximum for the rest of the stage; I wasn’t thinking about the team trial trial, just getting to the finish of that stage ahead of the main field.

Do you think it was cruel fate to have become the first North American to wear the yellow jersey, especially ahead of Greg LeMond, who was on a trajectory to take it before anyone else? Did you and Greg talk that day?

We didn’t really have much interaction with LeMond. I certainly didn’t speak with him. You could tell there was lots of tension on his La Vie Claire team, and we were busy trying to stay out of trouble and represent North American cycling.

Many of the Euros were looking down on us and we had to be careful to not get in the way! A few Euro pros befriended us, including (1978 world road champion) Gerrie Knetemann, and they made an effort to speak English and, I think, understood our precarious situation.

Let’s talk about the 34-mile team time trial from Meudon to St. Quentin, the second of two stages on July 5, 1986. Watching coverage from that day, you ran out of gas after some unfortunate issues. Then the Peugeot team passed you; was the earlier effort that day that got you into yellow just too much?

Our TTT was a disaster from many perspectives. We hadn’t pre-ridden or pre-driven it, nor had any of our team management. We simply looked at the course map in the race bible before the start and then we were off. There were incredibly fast sections of downhill with T-intersections at the bottom, one where we had to turn left onto a main road with a traffic island in the middle. Half of us went one way, while the other half went the other and three guys crashed. It was early in the TT so we decided to wait. It took forever to get wheels changed and then we were rolling again.

Final count for Team 7-Eleven was four flats and one crash in 1 hour, 16 minutes. La Vie Clair, finished two minutes behind the leaders, so in reality, it wasn’t a good day for most, including Americans Andy Hampsten and LeMond. Fignon and Systeme U won handily that day, taking back the yellow jersey for Thierry Marie. Stieda was now 5:10 behind Marie. Stieda continues the commentary…

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been pulling as I had laid it all out during the morning’s stage. But, since I wasn’t a GC contender, I just did my part. We entered a crosswind section and half our guys didn’t know that we should use the whole road to form an echelon. At that point I was gassed and started to open gaps. Mike

Neel drove up and told Jeff Pierce to drop back and help me and we rolled in together, just making the time cutoff. We were pretty blown and really didn’t say much during that ride. The writing was on the wall and we directed all of our energy to getting to the finish line.

The next day was a 214 kilometer stage from Levallois-Perret to Liévin. How did you muster up the strength to continue, knowing that the only rest day of the entire Grand Tour wasn’t until July 22?

I still had the polka dot jersey to defend so that gave me motivation to stay in the front of the race. I focused on timing my efforts to be at the front when the short hill sprints came up and stayed in the jersey for five days.

You stuck it out and finished 120th overall by Paris, where LeMond took the final yellow after battling with Hinault. 1986 was the only time you competed in the Tour; why did you never return, and what was your focus after that?

I ended up racing quite a bit in Europe after the ‘86 Tour, but we really needed guys who could specialize in the longer stage races and I was performing well in other events, so it made sense to focus on strengths at that point, where I could add the most value for the sponsor.

How long did you race for Team 7-Eleven?

I started in February 1982 (my first race was at the parking lot of Caesar’s Palace, which I won!) and ended after 1990 when 7-Eleven’s sponsorship ended and Motorola took over, so nine years total.

How and when did you connect with the Coors Light team?

I had lots of connections in the sport and the industry by that time, including (7-Eleven teammate) Davis Phinney, so when he heard I was looking, I spoke with (Coors Light director) Len Pettyjohn and we got it figured out. They included a Softride (beam) bike in the deal and I was able to win some races for the team and for Softride.

Several former 7-Eleven teammates raced with you during those dominating Coors Light years. Phinney, Ron Kiefel, Alexia Grewal, Scott McKinley…Give us a peek into what is was like.

I think the biggest thing was the camaraderie, on and off the bike. We really enjoyed each other’s company and trusted each other. We knew each other so well, and were able to take advantage of our tactical strengths which made a huge difference. Our lead outs were just amazing, and often after getting three or four of us in a ‘train’ at maximum speed on the last lap of a criterium, we looked back and no one had stayed on our wheels!

Looking back on your career, is there anything you’d do differently with the knowledge you have today?

Well, certainly training knowledge has advanced but I think the biggest thing I would have done differently is actually moved to Europe and committed to living there. As it was, we were constantly travelling back and forth to race in North American and Europe. It made it hard adjusting to an 80km criterium one weekend, then a 250km classic the next. And, I would have focused on races that I had the best chance of doing well in, which were the races in Belgium with short climbs and cross winds.

Which of your former teams would have performed better if a Tour of California existed: 7-Eleven or Coors Light?

Hard to say but I think 7-Eleven since we had more Euro racing legs under us, which is what those stages are like.

What prompted your retirement, and what did you do after that? I recall meeting you at CABDA in the Softride booth.

I was married and had a daughter, and the reality of life was certainly right there in front of me. Softride had offered me a position as their sales manager and I realized that I wouldn’t be racing much longer, and those offers don’t come up every day. It just seemed right to transition at that time and I’ve never regretted it.

We spoke recently about the growing popularity of Gran Fondos. What’s happening in Canada, and how are you involved?

Gran Fondos are catching on in Canada in a big way. I’m going to participate as an ambassador for two of them, Gran Fondo Whistler and Gran Fondo Kelowna. Last fall I did the Whistler ride and went too hard, trying to stay with the lead group! This year I’m going to stop at the rest stops and enjoy the ride.

Meet Lindsay Crawford

Lindsay crawford in woodside, ca. february 2011. image: brian gaberman

When Joe Parkin launched Paved Magazine in 2010, he asked if I had any article ideas to contribute. Without hesitation I pitched him two stories: one about the luminaries of American cycling (Ben Serotta, Gary Erickson, Steve Hed and Jim Ochowicz), and another about the legend of former United Airlines pilot Lindsay Crawford. The former appeared in Volume 1, the latter Volume 2, in the spring of 2011. 

Like too many good publications, Paved stopped doing print several years ago, when road bikes had rim brakes (and looked better, in my opinion). In honor of rekindling my relationship with Lindsay, I’m republishing the article below, because friendship runs thicker than anything. Enjoy.


Lindsay Crawford has raced and finished the Tour of California, beaten a multiple Tour de France winner, appeared on the cover of VeloNews, and stood on a podium in France to receive an official yellow jersey and plush toy lion in front of thousands. His resting heart rate once hovered around 35 beats per minute, and his lung capacity is 7.5 liters, a few ticks under 5-time Tour winner Miguel Indurain.

This is a story about cycling transforming a man with no real athletic background or training into a thoroughbred, at an age when most professional cyclists consider retirement. No power wattage meter, no personal coach, no junior or espoir training in Europe, no rich endorsement contracts. Crawford’s story is one about balance, timing and commitment. In some ways, this story could’ve been about you. 

The Redwood City, California native caught the bicycle bug in a rather uncharacteristic way. Living in Mexico City with his family in the late 1940s, a young Crawford witnessed a large bicycle race, probably the Tour of Mexico. The fluid motion of the athletes and their machines entranced young Lindsay, who carried the spirit of the wheel back to Redwood City on the peninsula south of San Francisco.

In time Crawford bought a Schwinn English racer with a Sturmey-Archer 3-speed rear hub from a local lawn mower shop. He immediately swapped out the swept-back touring bars for drops, and modified the rear hub with a Simplex rear derailleur and cog to create a makeshift nine speed. 

“I remember Schwinn had a comic book, with cycling stories about racing, including stories about Mile-A-Minute Murphy,” Crawford said. “In 1953 I read a story in the newspaper about the Junior Olympics bicycle race at Golden Gate Park; I wasn’t quite 13 years old. I talked my parents into taking me to the Polo Fields to race. No license, no helmet. Most of the people racing that day became famous American bike racers, who had been track racing all along, a part of a secret ‘cult’ that no one heard about. I don’t remember the event having any affiliation with the actual Olympics.” 

Like many pre-teens of that era, Crawford limited his riding to social time with friends. His first big adventure was riding up Old La Honda in 1951, a 3.5-mile serpentine lung-buster with a 7.3 percent average grade on a 35-pound machine. Crawford also got the notion to ride to Montana to visit his grandmother, who approved of the young lad’s pie-in-the-sky ambition. 

Crawford, however, never mustered up the courage to enlarge his world by bike beyond the peninsula, though. He stuck to riding to school; he also began working at 13 before his family moved to Pennsylvania when he was 15. Sadly, the bike didn’t accompany him. After returning to Redwood City a year later, the lanky Crawford joined the cross country team like his older brother, and got his driver’s license. The bike took a back seat for 12 years.

Learning to Fly

Following a four-year stint in the Coast Guard, Crawford entered aviation school. At 24 he got his pilot’s license.

“I always liked to work with my hands and read; I took meteorology and aeronautics in school, but I dropped out to work for United Airlines,” he explained. “I worked for United on the luggage loading ramp, because they had just laid off 28 pilots. There was a hiring boom afterwards, and knowing the long-term career effects of seniority, I immediately put in an application to fly and was accepted.”

The impetus for Crawford’s reattachment to cycling at age 28 was a combination of his feeling the need to add some sort of physical activity to his life and, subconsciously, the need to do something where his personal efforts would be the basis for success or failure of his chosen activity. While Crawford understood bicycle racing to be a team sport, he learned quickly that it was the individual who puts in the dedication to hard mental and physical training.

Two years after marrying Estelle Mascarin in December 1963, Crawford started flying for United. By 1969 he felt his life was stable enough to branch out with a healthy diversion from work.

“I recalled how much I enjoyed riding a bike in the early `50s,” he added. “My son Chris was born in April 1969, and I bought a cheap Peugeot UO-8 bicycle in Menlo Park, and carried Chris on my back in a special carrier when I rode. I started documenting my mileage with a front-hub mounted odometer just to keep track. I started with 20 miles a day.

“I recall riding to Santa Cruz and back from Redwood City; I encountered an older gentleman riding up Highway 84; I was wearing a t-shirt, and he told me the importance of keeping my kidneys warm by wearing a proper jersey. I also enjoyed riding near my father’s house in Lake Tahoe, when I met Dan Brown from Reno, a junior racer at the time. I was wearing swim trunks and a t-shirt, and he told me about a criterium in Redwood City that he was taking part in, which was half a mile from my duplex. I watched the race, and was impressed by the speed.”

Crawford upgraded to a Peugeot PX-10, then a custom Cinelli (which took a year to receive). He attended a Western Wheelers bicycle club meeting, not realizing there was a racing club in nearby Belmont. His eyes were opened to the local riding scene, and he met Prosper Bijl, a young guy from the East Coast who wanted to start a racing club. After the meeting, Crawford asked Bijl if 30 was too old to start racing.

“I quickly got my first racing license, and my first event was a New Year’s Day race from San Francisco to the Santa Cruz County line,” Crawford said. “One of my teammates was Scott Campbell, the Danish Olympics women’s swim coach. We crossed the line first with our hands joined like Greg LeMond and Bernard Hinault at the Alpe d’Huez stage in the 1986 Tour. I qualified and raced for the 1970 national championships at Central Park in New York. The winner had also trained with his son on his back.”

Crawford moved up the ranks quickly, winning a race or two along the way. Once, he took home a 13-inch Sears black and white TV for winning a race, then stepped up to the big leagues.

Tour of California

In 1971, Peter Rich, who owned a bike shop in Berkeley, asked Crawford to be on Velo Club Berkeley, his team for the first Tour of California (1971 was also the year Lance Armstrong, Chris Horner and Jens Voigt were born; all three raced the 2010 Tour de France at age 38, and all have raced the Amgen Tour of California ~ editor). Fully engaged as a racer, Crawford was racing on the track, on the road, and in time trials all around northern and southern California. 

“In late June I was riding on the track, sprinting for first with one of the other riders, and with 30 meters from the line he hooked me and took me down, giving me a fractured skull and other broken bones,” Crawford explained. He has a picture where he’s totally horizontal before touching the ground, bike and all. “I was in the hospital for a while, and out of work for six weeks. The Tour of California was coming up in two months, so I had to train on the rollers to recover. I also trained on all the major climbs of the Tour to prepare.”

Crawford raced as a domestique for Dave Brink, winner of the famous Nevada City Classic and one of the best riders in the US at the time. Seventy-nine international racers started the 8-day, 10-stage, 685-mile event on August 28 at the Bear Valley Resort near Lake Tahoe. Crawford finished the race in fortieth place, helping Brink take fifth overall; all this only 18 months after getting his first racing license. 

Crawford continued racing throughout California, bypassing the 1972 Olympics due to career and family. He trained 15,000 – 16,000 miles a year, including time spent on the rollers in the garage at three in the morning before work most days. He blew out plenty of sew-up tires during that period, and trained in the dark a lot, putting in the miles between work and family.

The titans of American road racing, John Howard, John Allis, George Mount, Mike Neel and Jonathan Boyer, were grabbing victories both home and abroad, establishing a foothold for future American stars like LeMond, Andy Hampsten, and Armstrong. Crawford was leading a balanced life, flying planes for a paycheck, and spending several hundred grounded miles a week on his bike around the Santa Cruz mountains near his home.

Meeting LeMond

In 1975 the California-Nevada district road race was held near Carson City, Nevada, home to the LeMonds, an avid outdoorsy family. Legend has it father Bob and son Greg were out riding, saw the race, and caught the same bug Crawford had six years prior. 

Over time, Crawford befriended the LeMonds, who both took out a racing license and found themselves in similar circles. The LeMonds connected with Roland Della Santa, a former racer who quit racing in 1971 or so to begin building frames. According to Crawford, Della Santa had hard-to-find European bike racing magazines that the 16-year-old Greg would devour in his shop, drinking in all the tactics and learning how bike racing was done at the highest level.

Like Crawford, Bob LeMond was a late bloomer (the two are just 11 months apart) and a tough competitor. The LeMonds traveled all around the northern Californian race circuit in their camper, and would stay at Crawford’s Woodside home when they came to the area for racing, but always outside in their camper. Crawford eventually competed against the Reno Rocket, as Greg became known, beating the reigning junior world champion at the 1980 Benicia road race.

The Letter

By this time, Crawford had 10 years of racing in his legs, against some of the best in America. He routinely did 60 – 80 races annually, on the road and track, sometimes four in a weekend. Training solo into the fierce headwinds of the northern California coast between Santa Cruz and Half Moon Bay strengthened his resolve and fortified his muscles, bringing him to what he calls his ‘invincible years’. 

Then the letter arrived.

Dated March 23, 1981, on letterhead from United States Cycling Federation president Mike Fraysse, the letter explained that the organizers of the Tour de France were requesting an all American team compete in that year’s event, beginning June 25 in Nice. Crawford was among the nine being asked to race in the Super Bowl of bike races.

The other professional American cyclists, LeMond and Boyer, were committed to other trade teams (LeMond wouldn’t race his first Tour until 1984 as reigning world champion). At 40 years old, it seemed odd to Crawford, but he knew what Fraysse was looking for: finishers in Paris, not stage winners. Crawford isn’t a natural athlete, but he was born with the tools to be a great cyclist, and lends his tenacity to his Scottish heritage.

“My plan was to take two months off work, take out a professional race license, race the Tour, then retire,” Crawford explained 30 years later. “When I opened the letter, it felt like I got the yellow jersey! My riding overnight improved dramatically. In 1974, during the Tour of Marin, I got the leader’s jersey and it strengthened me to a whole new level, so those same feelings came back times 10 when I received the letter from Mike.”

Recently retired American racer Mike Neel was asked to manage the team, and advised Crawford to ride all the climbs in Nice for two weeks to prepare. 

“Five weeks before the Tour began, I got a call letting me know we weren’t racing the Tour,” Crawford said, a hint of frustration on his face. “No real explanation. I quit riding the bike instantly; it ruined me mentally. I felt like the rug was pulled right out from under me. I went from euphoric to depressed in one phone call.”

Boyer finished 32nd overall in Paris that year, helping his Renault-Elf team leader Bernard Hinault win his third Tour. 

“I always fantasized about racing the Tour de France, Milan San Remo, Paris-Roubaix, and Bordeaux-Paris, but my career as a pilot and my young family kept me grounded in California,” Crawford added. “A couple of months later, I got back on the bike when a friend had plans to race the Butterfly Criterium in April 1982. We spent time together socially, so I decided to ride 100 miles to Monterey where the race was held. That’s all it took to get me racing again.”

A freak collision with a mountain biker on the Golden Gate Bridge in the summer of 1982 thwarted Crawford’s plans to race the master’s world championships in Austria that September. Out of work for six weeks, Crawford decided to retire from racing, but continue to ride for pleasure. Other endurance sports followed, including cross country skiing, inline skating (including a 138 mile race in California’s central valley), and backpacking. 

LeMond won his first Tour in 1986. That year, the 7-Eleven Cycling Team made its Tour debut, with Canadian Alex Stieda wearing yellow after the second day. Americans Davis Phinney, Bob Roll, Ron Kiefel, Doug Shapiro, Jeff Pierce, Chris Carmichael, Alexi Grewal, Eric Heiden rounded out the (nearly) all-American roster, with Mexico’s Raul Alcala brought on for the mountains. The bike was still part of Crawford’s life, but a chance meeting with an old racing friend opened another chapter of his life: riding in Europe.

Across the Pond

“I was running north on Skyline Boulevard near my house, when my old racing buddy and friend Bill Robertson was riding towards me,” Crawford said. “We stopped to chat about riding in Europe together the following summer. So we trained together, riding hard miles. Bill had long climber’s legs and knew how to make me suffer. We planned our route; a giant figure eight loop throughout the Alps for three weeks, 100 miles a day, 10,000 feet of climbing a day, with no time off. We were self-supported in every way, riding more miles than the guys doing the Tour at the time, finding accommodations every day and washing our clothes in the hotel sink every night.”

They did it again in 1989, and in 1991, when Crawford turned 50. His son Chris graduated from college in 1994, and wanted to join him on a European trip. Estelle convinced Crawford to take Chris. 

“I told him we were leaving July 5 for a three-week bike tour in Europe, and he needed to prepare,” Crawford said. “He didn’t have a bike, so I loaned him a 50-year old Schwinn Paramount track bike with a 63-inch gear to train on. He went out and bought a custom Serotta for the trip. The track bike got him ready; we rode 75 miles a day, and I told him to hold my wheel and not go to the front. We had fun; I was riding 8,000 – 9,000 miles a year at that time.” 

L’Etape du Tour

In 2001, riding with Robertson on the popular Cañada Road adjacent to Highway 280, Crawford connected with an old competitor named George Dyer, now living in France and designing bikes for Cyfac. The two exchanged email addresses, and a few months later Crawford received an email inviting him to do the L’Etape du Tour, which he had barely heard about. Crawford wasn’t a century rider, but said yes; it was his first trip to Europe since 1994.

“George designed a road and time trial bike for me, which I used to do some local races prior to my trip to France,” Crawford explained. “I didn’t know the roads in France, or anything about the event. I flew into Geneva to meet George and his wife. Due to a baggage handlers strike, my bike was held up. I got my bike the night before the event, five days later, staying up until midnight getting ready. George kept referring to L’Etape as a race, and had confidence in my ability to make the podium out of 6,000 people!

“Because my start number was 5665, it took me 14 minutes to cross the start line once the gun went off; I had no idea what to expect. The course included three category 1 climbs and one category 2 climb; no flats, just up and down; I passed 5,000 riders.” The 61-year-old’s time met the gold standard for the 18-29 year olds, finishing sixth in his age group. Dario Frigo won the Tour de France stage that year, and Crawford stayed in Europe for a few weeks to ride.

The old competitive spark was back, and Crawford trained seriously for the 2003 L’Etape du Tour. Because he placed so high, they invited him back. This time, 7,000 toed the start line in the race from Pau to Bayonne. 

“I rode it like a race that year, enjoying the professionalism of the event, which was run just like a stage of the Tour, adding to the glamor of having motorcycles with cameramen, closed roads, and helicopters filming everything,” he said. “It felt great riding out front; it was exciting beyond belief.” American Tyler Hamilton won the stage during the Tour that year, with a broken collar bone. 

Yellow Jersey

Crawford won his age category that year, and finished in the top 200. He wasn’t sure what to do after the finish line, so he asked someone near the media trailer and podium, and they directed him to a lounge with couches, like a green room for television. Someone explained what they were going to do, and Crawford was called out in front of thousands of people to receive his official yellow jersey and Crédit Lyonnais lion and flowers, plus kisses on the cheeks from the podium girls. 

“That day felt like I raced a stage in the Tour de France, which made up for what happened in 1981,” Crawford said with a slight hint of emotion in his normal stoic demeanor. “I’ve never ridden a bike for fitness; I do it because I like it, and the people I’ve met. I’m a shy and retiring type, and bicycling brought me out of my shell a bit. 

“I’m addicted to hard work, and cycling has provided the means of ‘suffering’ for me. My fitness has stayed quite steady over the years.”

Crawford continues to put in 20-plus hours in the saddle each week, mostly on one of two custom Della Santas. He saves the Cyfac for racing only, and uses his early `70s orange De Rosa fixed-gear for refining his spin. He works out in a Redwood City gym three times a week in the winter. His favorite ride is one he’s done ‘at least 5,000 times’, which includes stretches covered by the recent Tour of California peloton: riding out to La Honda, on the old Tour Del Mar route on Pescadero Road. He usually takes Hwy 84 to San Gregorio, then south on Stage Road. He climbs Tunitas Creek Road two or three times a week, something he wouldn’t do as much in the past. 

Now 70, Crawford has completed 17 European sportives since 2002, and plans to compete in the two-stage 2011 L’Etape. His yellow jersey and lion rest comfortably in his office among other memorabilia, with an autographed framed poster of Eddy Merckx looking over his shoulder, providing inspiration.

Meet Joe Parkin

Joe Parkin sitting outside the train depot in Mountain View, CA on October 29, 2009. Image: Kenneth Conley/Procycling Magazine via Getty Images

Joe Parkin came into my purview more than 30 years ago. We first crossed paths when he won the 1992 Chequamegon 40 mountain bike race (I was waaaaay off the back in the sea of 2,400 participants), then at the Chicago Area Bicycle Dealers Association (CABDA) Show a few years later. We became friends over the years, when he moved to Santa Cruz, CA in 2008 and we saw each other regularly. I interviewed Joe for some magazines a few times, and in turn he hired me to contribute to Paved and BIKE Magazines when he became editor a year or so later.

He married Elayna Caldwell, whose subsequent job took them to Chicago, then Germany, before landing in Colorado. Joe and I haven’t seen each other in a few years, but as kindred spirits over many things, we text and talk on the phone as frequently as the days allow. We’ve led somewhat parallel lives, and I’d be remiss not to do a proper interview with Pal Joe to share his story. 

Your son Nico is turning 12 this month. What advice would the 56-year-old Joe Parkin give his 12-year-old self, with the benefit of hindsight and experience?

I would tell Nico to enjoy every minute of it — every minute of 12 and every minute of the rest of his life. I mean, enjoy it to the best of his ability. Stay true to himself. Stay curious. Be kind to people. And never ever get bogged down with what people say he should do. 

There are times when I wish I would have done things differently, but perhaps if I had I would be poor in experience. I’ve told him that already. 

Give me a detailed rundown of the jobs you’ve had.

Jobs? I have had quite a few and they’ve pretty much run the gamut. I got a paper route when I was 11. I worked two-three hours a day, six days a week, and pocketed roughly 30 bucks a month for the effort. But I loved it. 

When I turned 16, I worked at The Athlete’s Foot in the Burnsville Center in Burnsville, Minnesota. I kept that job through high school. I graduated early — one trimester — and moved with my family from Minnesota to Danville, California, in the East Bay. There I worked three jobs — Burger King, a frozen yogurt place called Yogurt Time, and I assembled cheap Peugeot 10-speeds at the California Pedaler bike shop. 

I wanted to be a pro bike racer, so I moved to Belgium just after my 19th birthday. I signed my first pro contract on July 4th of 1987, just a few months after my 20th birthday. And that’s what I did for a living until I was 31. I can’t remember exactly when I decided to hang up the cleats, but it was midseason, more or less, and it was uneventful. 

I guess you could say that my first real job was at Castelli USA, the North American arm of the iconic Italian cycling clothing brand. Castelli was the first cycling clothing company to use Lycra, and it continues to be, in my opinion, the most innovative clothing brand in the world. I answered phones there, and packed boxes, and developed many of the systems they still use, and designed a fair amount of the stuff we sold. 

I left the company suddenly, and did a short stint as a barista for my friend Gene Oberpriller’s coffee shop/bike shop until going to work for Shock Doctor, where I helped launch their motorsports product line. 

I loved that job. Though I don’t think I accomplished what the company wanted. But I loved being at the track every week. Race car drivers are the most switched-on human beings I have ever met. And it put me back into a competitive atmosphere. 

The housing-market crash of 2008 killed the job, though. 

Parkin sizing me up during an interview on the second floor of Red Rock Coffee in October 2009. Image: Kenneth Conley/Procycling Magazine via Getty Images

I wrote my first book, A Dog in a Hat, during my motorsports job, and it brought me to the Editor-in-Chief chair at Bike and Paved magazines. I learned a lot during that short four-year stretch, and went on to write seemingly endless amounts of product copy for cycling industry companies like Fox Factory, SRAM, RockShox and Troy Lee Designs. Parts of that work were rewarding, but much of it was utterly soul sucking. 

In 2018, my friend Simon Stewart and I decided it would be a great idea to strike out on our own, and buy a bike shop in the Central Colorado mountain town of Buena Vista. The plan was to establish a cool shop with sort of an all-inclusive mountain bike culture, and to add a coffee shop and bar to the mix.

The Reader’s Digest version is that we overestimated the town’s potential for such things, and then COVID-19 drove a nail in the coffin. We hung on, though, got the bar up and running, and kept pushing beer, booze and bikes uphill until working for free still didn’t cover the bills. Our lease ran out this past September, so we closed the doors. 

Currently, I’m driving a brown truck for UPS and loving every second of it. Every day is a race of sorts. And every week feels a little like a stage race. December is UPS’s Tour de France, and it feels just like that: Every morning I feel just a little apprehensive; by noon I am feeling the rhythm; and the last 20-30 stops feel like the finishing sprint. I love it. 

Who was your best boss and why?

Every boss I have had has taught me something special. I’m still really close to Michael Herbert, who was my boss both at Castelli and Shock Doctor. But José DeCauwer, my sport director at ADR and Tulip was — and is — nothing short of genius in my opinion. He has an otherworldly understanding of the sport of cycling, for sure, but he also has this savant-level ability to read people, and to motivate them — even if they don’t know it. 

These days José is a cycling commentator for Belgian television. To put it in terms Americans can understand: The man is a lot like John Madden. 

You currently live in Buena Vista, Colorado. Give me a rundown list of the places you’ve lived, and where you picture you and the family living next.

Like Johnny Cash sang, I’ve been everywhere. I was born in Pontiac, Michigan and moved to Johnson City, Tennessee when I was 12 days old. From there it was Charlotte, NC, Jacksonville, FL, Memphis, TN, Thousand Oaks, CA, Rochester, MI, Burnsville, MN, Danville, CA, Ursel, Belgium, Minneapolis, MN, Santa Cruz, CA, San Clemente, CA, Chicago, IL, Schweinfurt, Germany, Colorado Springs, CO and Buena Vista, CO. 

I have no idea what’s next. Right at this minute, we think we might move down the road to Salida, CO, at some point. But give me a few days and I’ll probably have a different answer. 

California and Belgium still feel most like home to me. 

Pensive Parkin in the alley behind Red Rock Coffee in October 2009. Kenneth Conley/Procycling magazine via Getty Images

You and I have lived through probably one of the most varied five decades in music. Who’s getting extra play in your ears these days? Your top five songs?

My top five right now are (in no particular order):

  1. Black Sabbath. I never get tired of Black Sabbath. 

  2. Motorhead. Because, Lemmy. 

  3. Brian Jonestown Massacre.

  4. Queens of the Stone Age. I am a sucker for slack-tuned guitars. 

  5. Red Fang. Their video for “Wires” is quite possibly the best music video of all time. And they are absolutely stellar live. 

I’ve also been giving Buscemi a fair amount of listening time these days. Which is strange because it is not my go-to genre. 

Let’s break down a few of your career and hobby compartments. First, as a former pro bicycle racer, which race stands out as the most memorable? Which bike do you regret parting with and why?

It’s an easy question: Paris-Roubaix. I’ll take the Classics every day of the week over the Tour de France and twice or three times on Sunday. And Paris-Roubaix is the most epic of all of them, the Classics. The only way I can explain it is that it is magical, mythical. It is so brutal. And talent, while obviously important in pro cycling, has less to do with winning than gut-level desire to win Paris-Roubaix.

Strangely, the bike I wish I still had was the Della Santa I bought second hand before going to Belgium when I was 19. I guess I’m just not all that nostalgic about my race bikes and stuff, and I don’t sit around thinking about how great it would be to ride any of them. 

I always thought that someday I’d have Roland build me a bike. I envisioned it white with red, like the old Eddy Merckx paint scheme — like my DS was. And, well, since Roland isn’t with us anymore, it’s not going to happen. 

I’ve owned aluminum, carbon, and titanium bikes, but always come back to lightweight steel. What are the pros and cons of this current electric bicycle phase? Do you vote acoustic or electric?

I think I differ from many of my friends when I say I like electric bikes. I think most of the arguments against them are mostly bullshit. Foremost among them is the whole earn-your-turns thing. What a load of fucking horseshit. I’ve never met an earn-your-turns disciple with any talent for anything athletic. And I hope that statement pisses people off. 

Do I think it’s sad that some young people will never get to experience the complete joy of pedaling a bike to the top of a mountain under their own power? Yes. Do I wish the bike industry would just fuck right off with its rabid zeal to sell more units at any cost? Yes. Do I get tired of the constant tribalism of acoustic vs electric? Absolutely. 

But I’m pretty certain that most people reading this have never driven a horse and buggy to get groceries while holding the argument that people who drive cars or ride motorcycles are somehow lesser-than. 

Don’t like e-bikes? Don’t get one. 

Were I still racing World Cup XC mountain bikes, I would be training on an e-bike three or four days per week. And I’d be earning more money and making more watts — acoustic and assisted — than most of the wankers droning on about earning turns. 

Second, as a writer and former magazine editor, how hard is it to compose your thoughts these days? Blogs are different beasts compared to book and magazine deadlines, eh?

Ya know, I’m pretty happy just writing for myself these days. And I’m happy I don’t have to make you want to buy things with the words I write. 

I do miss the care that we used to put into print media. But shit changes. 

Speaking of social media, does the broadening of our craft into the fingers of the Great Unwashed hinder or hurt your view of humanity and its effect on you specifically?

Social media is such a mixed bag of amazing art and complete shite. And I guess I can take the good with the bad. The only thing I wish is that the complete falsehoods could be silenced. But how do you even start to do that? I have fun with most of it. 

Third, as a business owner, what were your biggest challenges and highlights? What gratification did you get from being a bartender? Not everyone understands the nuances of running a bicycle shop…

Bob Roll once told me that you can’t sell what you truly love. I fucking hated working in the bike shop. I absolutely love what bicycles and motorcycles can do. Love, love, love. But not a day went by without some jackass spoiling that feeling in some way. The hardest thing for me to deal with is that most bicyclists don’t love actually riding bikes; they just like buying the shit and talking about it. 

And that is okay to a point. Like, I would love to own all of the guitars. And I suck at guitars. But I think they are beautiful. If I had a whole roomful of guitars I would play them every once in a while. And perhaps I would know their history. But that is where I would draw the line at my expertise — I wouldn’t dare go into the guitar store and tell the person working there that the reason I don’t sound like some guitar god is because of the guitar itself. Nor would I argue with a professional musician about their craft. 

And maybe this goes back to the speed and amateur nature of media these days. I don’t know. 

“Brand X brakes suck.” How about rephrasing that? “I like the feel of Brand Z better than Brand X.” Because neither of those brands suck. Full stop. 

Perhaps it’s obvious that I was better suited for bartending. I never had to argue with anyone about beer or booze not doing beer or booze things. Don’t like it? Okay, I will get you another flavor. No one ever tried to tell me that this 40-proof whiskey worked while that 40-proof whiskey didn’t. 

What’s your favorite cocktail to make? Fave cocktail to drink?

I love making martinis. There’s something about them. They’re classy and sexy as hell. And there’s just something about making one with all the love and care you can muster, and serving it up right in front of the person you’re making it for. The martini is truly about the simplest drink you can make, but, if you do it with real care, the person will taste the difference. You’ll give them an experience they’ll remember even if they have too many of them. 

I gave up the sauce when Nico was five years old. But I always thought a proper Sazerac was pretty amazing. These days I like some 0.0 Corona. 

I overdid it on the bourbon while watching Mannix with Jean the other night; maybe I should stick to root beer like Ola. You and I talk about motorcycles from time to time. Tell me about the bikes you’ve owned, the ones that got away, and the one you plan to get before your body gives out as Nico waits in the wings.

BMW airheads, man. I guess I have a soft spot for them. I hope to keep my R 90 till I’m too old to throw a leg over it. It is rich in the patina department. 

I’ve had too many dirt bikes to count, and don’t hate me, but they’re just tools for me. Ride them hard. Take care of them. Move on. I have no attachment to them at all. 

Grom shenanigans with Nico at Greg Herbold’s place. Image: Joe Parkin

I’d like to get a new trials bike sometime soon. I plan to own a brand-new two-stroke woods bike within the next year or so. It’ll most likely be the last brand-new dirt bike I own. There will be nothing much left of me or the bike when I get done with it. 

Last question: Elayna comes home and sez ‘Joe, I bought you that dream car you’ve been blathering about since we met.’ Which car would be parked in the driveway, and would you let me drive it?

Easy. My dream car is and always has been a Volkswagen Beetle. The old kind, of course. Far from showroom quality. Worn-out paint. Interior that is not completely gross. I really don’t care what year. The kind of car that you don’t hesitate to drive on the weekends but you wouldn’t exactly count on to get you to an important meeting. The kind of car that needs just the right kind of coaxing to start sometimes. This car would have the best stories.  

And yes, I’ll let you drive it when you come visit.

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Meet Grant Petersen

john bennett, grant petersen and gary boulanger on mt diablo. Summer 2007. Image: grant petersen

This article originally appeared on BikeRadar.com in July 2007.

There's no stopping the technological advancement of the bicycle. Yet no one seems to have reminded Rivendell Bicycle Works founder and president Grant Petersen of this fact, and apparently that suits him just fine. Petersen clings to his beliefs like a mother to her infant child. Like Rapha, Petersen believes strongly in what the cycling days of old conjure up, not only in the mind, but in the simplicity and beauty of a curved, cast lug. His passion goes beyond the aesthetic, though. At Rivendell, there's a focus on practicality beyond anything in our ragtag industry, and this has been enough to keep the company afloat since 1994, the year Petersen started it in the back office of his home in Walnut Creek, California.

As the product and marketing manager for now-defunct Bridgestone Cycles USA, Petersen and crew took on the big boys by providing a range of bikes that, as he said when news broke of the closing of the US division in early 1994, "we and our friends would ride. You can't go to war with the giants of the industry and use the same weapons." In the same issue of VeloNews, where Petersen was quoted, an editorial was written that summed up the impact Bridgestone had on the industry and consumers alike:

"Bridgestone stubbornly swam against the current, following its better judgment, its more human, more seasoned-bikie judgment. It never tried to sell you that first giddy week with your new "super-bike." They offered bikes you would live with for years, bikes that'd work and work with you, making you perhaps a better, happier, more adventurous bike rider." Petersen developed Rivendell Bicycle Works to be a continuation of that vibe, without the pressures of answering to a rather large parent company.

I had the privilege of working with Petersen when Rivendell was 12 months old, and I was one of three employees. My job was production coordinator at the former Schwinn Paramount factory in Waterford, Wisconsin, run by former Schwinn execs Richard Schwinn and his business partner Marc Muller, who called their fledgling company Waterford Precision Cycles. I learned plenty about lugged steel frame and fork production during my two years, and Petersen's steadfast focus on providing a sound product is alive and well nearly 12 years later.

Rivendell Bicycle Works, likes its founder and spiritual leader, is focused on one thing: making the bicycling experience both organic and memorable. Trouble is, the company's ways are unconventional in comparison to our Silicon Valley-esque industry of fashion and progressive innovation. Co-moulded or monocoque carbon frames? Nope, lugged steel, bub. Lycra technical wear? Merino wool, brother. Razor-thin carbon and foam saddles? Leather and copper, my friend. Bikes for time trialing, criteriums or circuit racing? Brevets, cross-country touring or camping is more the pace, mister.

This makes entering the world of Rivendell Bicycle Works either an unforgettable journey or an exercise in futility, depending on whose opinion you seek.

We sought Grant Petersen's opinion on this and other matter, because this is his company, and, well, he always stirs the pot and makes for a memorable interview. His reputation for approaching things differently rose from his 10 years as product and marketing manager for Bridgestone USA, and his unconventional ways, much like Patagonia's Yvon Chouinard, have made him something of a celebrity with Rivendell, which makes him uncomfortable but brings a steady mix of customers to the fold.

Rivendell is in its 13th year. Is everything with the company where you thought or hoped it would be at this point back in 1994?

Petersen: I know what this answer will sound like: a veiled pat-on-my-own back for having lasted, but I can't help how it sounds. The answer is: If I'd known what the work would entail and how hard it would be, I'd have known it would never work, no doubt about it. Now, that sounds like I'm saying I've done something really hard for 13 years, and the logical next thought is that I must be smart or good at business or something like that.And, if I say I'm neither, it sounds like I'm bragging about my humbleness, If you want people to say you're good, you go around claiming you're bad, and that kind of thing. But somewhere in there is a simple question, and there ought to be simple answer, and going back to the "where you thought or hoped it would be?" part, I'd have to say I was naïve then and it's where I'd hoped it would be, but I had no right to hope that, given how little I knew about what was ahead.

I recall reading complimentary letters from two Big Bike Companies, sent to you after Bridgestone USA closed in the fall of 1994. Bridgestone certainly carved a deep niche in the marketplace; do you miss those freewheeling days?

They weren't as freewheeling as they may have seemed from the outside. They were fun in the sense that I had a good relationship with the parent company in Japan, and they trusted me and liked me, and pretty much supported things I thought were a good idea. Most of the Bridgestone USA presidents (always Japanese guys) were great, too. The only bad guy was the one who hired me and gave me lots of responsibility and a long leash and let me learn without the harsh consequences for major foul-ups, and for that I'm grateful. He was mean though. Anyway, the good parts were designing bikes, visiting the parts makers and Bridgestone's own factory and learning how things were made. Seeing bins of SunTour Superbe left crank arms in the Dia-Compe factory, seeing pedal bearings packed with fish oil in the SR factory, and seeing hooks hung with Kleins, Cannondales, and Alans, all cut apart to investigate the joinery at Bridgestone, and watching how Nitto tests handlebars.

It was dreamy and perfect for me, as it would be for anybody who liked bikes and was curious about them, and who liked being treated nicely. That describes almost everybody I know, come to think of it.

Over the years as Bridgestone USA grew and my influence grew within it, it got to the point where I was too quirky for the company that many of the sales reps and some of the staff thought we ought to become. The Xo-1 and Moustache Handlebars, and wool jerseys with tagua nut buttons, and the recycled paper catalogues on bland paper sort of bothered some of the slicksters, and I didn't lash out in defence, because I can't do that. So I just sort of internalized it like a sea anemone being poked, and at that point there was the public me and the private me, and I don't miss that part.

You're a consistent person. There were several things you wrote about wanting to do in the 1993 and 1994 Bridgestone catalogues and Bridgestone Owner's Bunch (BOB) gazettes that have come to fruition through Rivendell. Will there be more in the next year or two?

I hope so. There are some things I want to do, and one thing in particular that I want to do that will be terribly misunderstood by just about everybody with an internet connection and a smattering of bike knowledge and historical perspective. Compared to anything Rivendell has "done" in the past, it's way, way out there and sounds, or might sound, inconsistent and off the deep end.

But most of the things I want to do, I think I will do, because they're not that hard. I can't discover new isotopes or play the piano, or even program a heart-rate monitor, but I CAN design bikes and arrange for somebody to make them to our specifications. It is low-level human accomplishments like that that I can do, and so I try to do those things, if that makes sense.

Your main stomping grounds have been Mount Diablo near your home and office in Walnut Creek, CA your entire life. Aren't there other places you'd like to be?

It's a good area, and even though I haven't travelled much, I would BET that the riding here is as good as it is anywhere in the world. When I'm riding in the hills here in March when it's all green, and for a minute I pretend I'm in Scotland -- a place I'd really like to go to when it's not bug season -- then I think "this is as good as it can be." Then I go back to it not actually being Scotland, and I just feel lucky.

I wouldn't mind the ocean being closer, though. Point Reyes, which is about 40 miles from here, might be the only place I'd sort of rather be, sometimes. But the last time I was there I saw too many people wearing brand-new, old-looking leather cowboy hats, and that took it down a notch.

What are the biggest challenges and the greatest joys at Rivendell Bicycle Works?

The biggest challenges are bicycle production and delivery and planning, and how that affects cash flow and customer satisfaction and internal stress and frustration. It's a never ending cycling of sticking our necks way out there with high minimum frame orders that take five to six months to get -- so we have to order bikes before we need them, and that' hard. And then having to pay for them in ten days, just whopping bills of $40K to $100K, or else we pay tons in interest.

In the Bridgestone days it was different, because we had lots of dealers who'd commit to the frames, and a parent company who'd give us six months to pay for them.

The joys are seeing the frames (and bags, and wool) go from an idea to a real thing that people like. Our big mission is getting people comfortable on bikes and in a frame of mind that's comfortable, happy, and not even defensive about not racing.

You have a propensity to stick to your principles in everything you do. Where does that come from?

It's not an internal strength or drive or anything like that, and as far as sticking to principles goes, it's easier to do the things you like and believe in than the other option. The other option isn't a real option, in other words.

Do you remember your first bicycle? How about your first bicycle race? Spoken with Norm Alvis lately?

My first bicycle was a blue, metal-saddled, solid-rubber tired fixed gear bike that would be illegal these days, since it had two wheels and there was no way to stop it. I'm surprised whoever made it made it, but they did. Bushes were the brakes.

My first race was a 19-miler, a Category 4 early season race, and I won it -- and then thought "this racing is going to be easy!" I won a few other races in the next 6 years (from ages 22 to 28 or so), but I never enjoyed it, and even after quitting racing, it took years to get it out of my system. By that I mean, I'd still ride as though I were training, and dressed like a racer -- although a slovenly one. Mentally, I just couldn't see the point in going out and not going hard. Riding was a chore, and the fun part was being fit and having the day's ride over with.

Oh yes, Norm Alvis. You know about that. In an 11-mile race up Mt. Diablo in 1982, I passed him in the last tenth of a mile and beat him by thirty feet, and I have a picture to prove it. Back then and in later years he was famous, so that was the apex of my career. Does my telling you about it mean I still don't actually have racing out of my system? I DO.

Tell us about your transcontinental bicycle trip in 1976.

Me and my then-girlfriend Jan rode it and had a great time. My bike was too small, hers was too big, and we holed up in Kearny, Nebraska for a week to rest and watch the Olympics. I started out on sew-ups and switched to clinchers in Jackson. Wyoming. I think mostly tourists and brochures call it "Jackson Hole," but it's the same place. We and everybody I saw that year -- the year of Bikecentennial -- rode with a huge handlebar bag and huge rear panniers. These days that's considered the worst possible way to load a bike, but it worked fine, and it's probably one of the reasons I don't always trust conventional wisdom.

If you were living in California in the 1890s, what do you think you'd be doing for a living?

Give me a stout pair of boots and a shovel and some gloves, and tell me where to dig the ditch. I don't know. What would you do?

How can the bicycle community (not the bike industry) set an example for the rest of the world regarding environmental stewardship?

I don't know that the rest of the world is looking this way. I don't think the lipstick-wearing, cigarette-smoking Parisians are looking our way, or the warmongers and oil-spillers, or even fans of "American Idol."

But the question is good and the topic can be interesting. There's a notion in the bike world that I don't totally buy in to, and that's the idea that if we "make a better commuting bike," people will start commuting by bike. Folks who believe this point to Amsterdam as an example. Clunky commuter bikes, lots of commuters. But Amsterdamers have short commutes and the infrastructure supports bikes by offering safe roads and giving bikes priority over cars in the intersections; and then really high gas prices and car taxes. You'd almost have to be insane or unable to pedal a bike to not ride a bike in that world.

Here we complain about gas prices even though they're the lowest in the world outside of that town in Venezuela where gas is something like $0.12 a gallon. Every now and then a reporter gets a bike commuter to say high gas prices drove him to it, but I'm sceptical. I think most people, shot full of truth serum, would agree that even $5 per gallon is a bargain for independent travel up to at least 60 miles, with all you can fit into a car, from delicate flowers and chandeliers to infants and elderly folks. Try doing that on a bike or on public transportation.

And that's why gas prices won't affect things much. Let me say, please, because I don't want to get in trouble with somebody who misunderstands what I'm saying. I'm for bike commuting, and in more than 35 years of working I have driven a car to work fewer than twenty times, even when my commute was 16 to 27 hilly miles one way, which it was for 20 years. But I wasn't doing that to be green, I was doing it because I've never liked driving and I wanted to stay fit. Those are personal payoffs, not philanthropic or far-seeing green ones, and I think that's the same for anybody.

A deferred consequence (like global warming) is a weak consequence and a bad motivator. To get people out of cars and onto bikes -- which I think is the best goal around -- takes more than cheerleading and $4 gallon cheap gas.

If you were 30 years old in 2007, intent on starting a company, what would it be?

There are two ways to succeed, or two approaches that have a chance of it, anyway. You can be big or you can be small, and your size dictates what you do. If you're big you have to serve everybody, you have to be a generalist. Specialized started out small, sourcing and distributing truly specialized products that were hard to come by in the U.S., like Regina, Cinelli, and I think Campy was in there, too. But Specialized came of age at a time when the market was expanding so fast, and they went along with it and got big. They didn't get bad, they just got big. It's still a good company, but Generalized is a more accurate name than Specialized. They make "special" things in the sense that all bicycle things are "special."

But when you have your name on everything from après-bike sneakers to water bottles to clothing to bikes, tools, and accessories -- and one in five bike shops sells most of it, then that's not specialized in the dictionary definition any more. When you're that big, you can't afford to be. It would be like Safeway selling only organically grown food, or only vegan stuff, or only locally grown produce. If you're small, you can be specialized, and in the bicycle market in 2007, that's your only chance of surviving. You have to pick out something to sell, something to offer, that either can't be copied by people who have more money than you do, or is just not appealing to them -- maybe because they don't see a market for it, or because the only way they could promote it would be to position it against their bread-and-butter, which they aren't going to do.

For example, Trek could easily build lugged steel bicycles. They have before and could do it again. Not only that, but they could tie up all of our supplier's resources, so we couldn't get lugs anymore. Trek could hire any frame builders and run a loss-leading micro business with superfine handmade lugged steel bicycles for ten percent less than it costs to make them. But that's unlikely to happen, because what would it say about their other bikes? And they already have a Big Giant reputation, and people who like arcane bike stuff would rather buy from the hermit in the woods. It's part of the experience, and it's important.

Anyway, if I were 30 and starting out and for some reason had to have my own bike company, I'd pick something that was unattractive to big companies, and something that small companies who want to get big wouldn't copy or pay attention to. I'd pick something that most people thought was dumb, or didn't understand, and I'd sign in blood an oath to may family to never veer from that, to not be tempted by bigness or growth to do anything else. It would be one KIND of product. It might be more than one product, but it would be one KIND of product, and I'll even tell you what it would be: It would be a new wheels size, halfway between 650B and 700C. Right off the bat big companies have no interest, and small companies likewise just go, "huh?"

I don't use that as an example of something really dumb that nobody wants to do, and therefore it's somehow smart. No, I really believe in the size and I understand it, and if I were 30 (and my wife worked!) I'd focus my energies on explaining why it makes sense, and slowly cultivating some customers. I might do that, anyway, even now, but in some ways it'll be distracting from the other things we're doing, and if I were the floundering 30-year-old, it would be nice to have something like that to believe in and to focus on. When you're starting out, and maybe even always, you have to believe that what you're doing matters, because that's what gets you through the negative cash flow months and the hard times. If you're sitting around selling normal stuff that anybody can make and sell and sell it for less than you do, and nobody pretty much cares if you evaporate and are never heard from again, then it's hard to stick it out in tough financial times. So you need a mission that you believe in, and if you have that, it may not be a lot, but it's a small, powerful, black-hole of a thing, and that's what you want.

There are lots of opportunities out there, but not many people can get it together to commit and stick with it. How about a really nice frame pump that weighs 6oz and lasts a lifetime? It could cost $150. It could be made. Topeak can't sell $150 frame pumps, and neither can Zefal or Park or anybody else. But if all you made was ONE pump, in one colour, and it was metal and didn't have anything cheesy on it, and worked only with Presta valves, and used the best materials and was easy for the user to service, and came with a few small parts and good instructions and a lifetime registration card, and it complemented the look of nice bikes, then you could sell lots of them.

But people don't know where to start, and they worry about competition, and they're too tempted to cheapen it to get the price lower. It can't have laser-etching or silk screening. It can't have a lousy big logo. It can't have any plastic parts that are plastic because wood or cork or metal was too expensive. It doesn't have to pump to 120 psi faster than any other. It just has to look great, be made without compromises, weigh 6oz (maybe 7oz -- still two and a half ounces less than a Topeak or Zefal), and it has to work halfway decently. It has to be reliable and easy enough for most bicycle riders to use. Not 80-year old grannies, but 50-year-old weak guys.

Somebody could make a company doing that. There are at least ten other things I can think of, too.

Most people want to start a company, then sell out to a bigger company or license their things and rake in money on royalties. They don't want to actually work. They want to be "idea people," but everybody has ideas. People want other people to develop the ideas and do the real work, yet they want to be compensated for it. Ideas are cheap and everybody has them, but real work is hard and most people don't want to do it. That's what I tend to think, anyway.

The Bike Whisperer

mike neel in fort jones, ca. June 2012. Image: brian vernor

This article originally appeared in Procycling Magazine - November 2012.

Old enough to drive but not old enough to vote, the high school dropout ran away from his Oakland, California home with a friend and lived a hippie’s life in Mexico, where in 1968 $1 bought 8 pesos, enough to live on for a week. The drugs were cheap, and the teens spirited across the country on freight trains, their long hair flowing in the breeze without a care in the world. The dropout’s friend would later get hooked on heroin, and after seeing several friends die from overdoses or drug deals gone horribly wrong, the tall son of a self-made concrete millionaire left the seedy life of Haight-Ashbury and became a bike racer.

Mike Neel’s life story is full of supreme highs and gut-wrenching lows, a rollercoaster ride of emotion, heartache and success. He was destined to be a famous, pioneering American bike racer, but his personal light flamed out quickly after the 1976 world pro road race championship, weeks after turning professional for the Italian Magniflex team.

The 179-mile race, the longest since 1964, was held in Ostuni, Italy on September 5. On the last lap, on the backside of a big hill, the great Italian Felice Gimondi had two teammates pushing him. Neel rode alongside them, red faced from the effort. He didn’t get dropped, and after the downhill was working hard to get to the front. He intuitively followed the wheel of the Belgian Frans Verbeeck, as they raced toward the finish on the boulevard.

“I was making my way to the front of the chase group, trying to get on Eddy Merckx’s wheel,” Neel described in his northern California dining room nearly 36 years later. “Gimondi decided he wanted that wheel instead, and shoved me aside right before the sprint started. Verbeeck was leading Merckx, and I was out in the wind on the left, where the sea was, and where the wind was coming from. Suddenly a small figure comes sprinting by me, and it’s Bernard Hinault! I’m like ‘shit...’

“I’m out in the wind, no wheel to grab onto, passed by Hinault with 200 meters to go, and Jan Raas passes me,” Neel continues. “There were four up the road in the breakaway, so we were sprinting for fifth place. I finished fourth in the sprint, 10th in the Worlds. I was pissed because I thought I could’ve finished fifth if I’d gotten on Merckx’s wheel. I didn’t have the experience to know better.”

Neel has replayed that situation in his head hundreds of times since, winning the sprint. Neel’s Magniflex teammate Tino Conti finished third, behind Francesco Moser and Freddy Maertens, who earned the rainbow jersey with a winning time of 7:06:10, for an average speed of 25.19 mph. Merckx won the field sprint for fifth, 26 seconds back, ahead of Hinault, Gimondi, Raas, and Australian Donald John Allan. Among those Neel beat in Ostuni were Walter Godefroot, Hennie Kuiper, Raymond Poulidor, Walter Planckaert and Bernard Thévenet. Seventy-seven started the race, with 53 finishing.

“I kept my mouth shut about my two Gimondi experiences, because in Italy, you want to get invited to the criteriums, where the real money’s to be made. If I would’ve squawked about Gimondi, I wouldn’t have been invited to anything after the World’s. All the criteriums were orchestrated. I played along.”

This race sums up Mike Neel’s character: strong and gifted enough to duke it out with some of the greatest road racers in the history of sport, but naïve enough to let another racer push him off the all-important wheel during a crucial time in one of the biggest events on the calendar. His decision to not play along so easily from that day forward would provide both agony and ecstasy for the riders he would eventually direct in the Giro d’Italia and Tour de France.

Self-sufficient runaway

Neel’s path to the Grand Tours began as a horse groom in Golden Gate Park, where he worked and lived after running away from home at 16 after getting kicked out of high school. Neel started off taking the horses on cool-down walks after their workouts.

“I took care of ten horses, and got $100 a month each,” the now 61-year-old explained. “I was a rich teenager! I never fit in with school; I wasn’t planning my future, especially during the San Francisco scene in the late `60s. There was turmoil and politics, so I did what I could: working the Oakland shipyards.”

By 1969, Neel, 18, was attending Laney Junior College in Oakland, a predominantly black school. The death of friends after his Mexico experience set him straight, and he was restarting his life. Someone left a note on his beat-up Schwinn road bike asking if he’d like to ride. Neel wore Levi’s shorts and tall basketball socks with tennis shoes, riding around Lake Chabot with the experienced group of riders.

Never much of an athlete as a child, the naturally gifted Neel dropped everyone on the ride, and they encouraged him to race.

“About a week after that first ride, I saw a Raleigh International bike with Campagnolo components and Weinmann brakes in the window of Velo-Sport Bicycle Shop in Berkeley,” Neel said. “The bike was $95. The owner, Peter Rich, said I could take the bike and pay him later. I paid him half, then rode it to Mendocino, about 170 miles up the coast. I broke into a cabin on the beach, and stayed the night. It was 2-1/2 days of adventure; I was a hippie without a care in the world at that point.”

Two weeks later Rich mentioned a handicap race around Lake Merced, with the novices going first. Neel took fourth, the same place he’d take against stiffer competition around the state capitol in Sacramento a few weeks later.

Neel’s winning ways were expanding, including victory in the 1971 Mt. Hamilton Classic, which included a 20-mile climb to the top of the 4,500-foot peak near San Jose. Monterey, California native Jonathan Boyer won the junior edition. Boyer would eventually race under Neel at 7-Eleven, after becoming the first American to race the Tour de France and working for Bernard Hinault in 1981.

“In the `70s we all had to fend for ourselves and had to be driven by our internal drives and our own determination,” Boyer explained from his base in Rwanda, where he’s coaching the national team. “It was never easy being the only ones from America in a foreign country; Mike was able to overcome incredible hardships and still perform as a top cyclist.”

Tour of California

Rich organized the first Tour of California in 1971, and included Neel on his Velo-Sport Berkeley team, which helped their leader finish fifth overall during the 10-stage race. Neel’s trajectory from hippie to bike racer was rising fast, and he moved to Europe. After politics with the American governing body for bike racing kept Neel off the 1972 Olympic team in Munich, he continued on his own.

Meeting Merckx, aiming for Montreal

In 1972, after quitting the Tour of Mexico, Neel and some fellow racers caught a bus to Mexico City to watch Eddy Merckx set the hour record on October 25, after he had raced a full road season winning the Tour, Giro and four classics. Merckx covered 49.431 km at high altitude in Mexico City. Neel witnessed the clinical preparation by Merckx and his team of mechanics and coaches, and was impressed. He also saw how excruciating the effort was for Merckx, and the suffering needed to break the record.

Neel made a meager living working in French bike shops, racing as much as possible, before moving to Chicago in 1973, where the American racing scene was strongest, and the money was better.

With the 1976 Olympics in his sights, Neel showed up at future 7-Eleven rider Tom Schuler’s parent’s house in Cadillac, Michigan, driving his customized 1965 El Camino. It was 1975, and they drove East to Florida, Mississippi, and New York State for the Olympic trials, winning races along the way. Neel’s clubmate George Mount also made the team, as did John Howard, a two-time Olympic participant. Schuler was an alternate.

The Olympics were held in Montreal on July 26. Neel was team captain, and told Mount when to make his move on the backside of the course, bridging up to the breakaway. Howard tried chasing down his compatriot, and Neel had to literally grab him to hold him back. Mount finished an incredible sixth, and credited Neel with helping him. The team captain crashed in the rain on the slick road right before the field sprint, after a rider in front of him slid out. Neel became a pro with Magniflex, and moved to Italy to prepare for worlds.

Neel’s professional stint lasted a year. Short-sighted directors, excessive doping and abysmal living conditions made the decision easy for Neel, who worked in the Magniflex mattress factory to make ends meet, barely keeping his finances above the poverty level.

Taking a leadership role

He returned to the States in 1978, and got an offer to coach at the national level, working with Mount again. He also started a bicycle distribution company with Lee Katz, whose Turin Bike Shop sponsored him in the early `70s. Life was good, and better than what Neel experienced as a short-term pro in Europe. In 1979 he was in charge of the four-man kilo team, when Polish immigrant Eddy Borysewicz led the U.S. national cycling program. Eddy B. started from nothing, opening an office in Squaw Valley, California in 1978.

In July 1979, Neel’s American team won the Pan Am Games time trial without Howard. One of Eddy B.’s first decisions was to focus on team effort, dispensing with Howard. Neel and Eddy B. subsequently bumped heads, prompting Neel -- then 28 -- to return to racing in 1980. Neel raced with Boyer, who won the Coors Classic and a few stages with the Grab-On team before finishing fifth at the world pro road race championship in Salanches, France, behind Hinault.

“I still had my Neel & Katz company, but my relationship with Lee wasn’t healthy, and neither was my behavior in Reno, Nevada. In 1981 we were selling Mercier bikes. I was planning on racing with the Miko-Mercier team, so I went to Europe with my young wife and stayed with LeMond and his in Brittany. I did one race for the team, and overdid my role as team helper, subsequently getting dropped after working hard for my leader. This didn’t sit well with my coach, who didn’t take me to the next race. So, I quit. I did some races in the States, worked at my business, then started coaching again. I coached the G.S. Mengoni team at the 1983 Coors Classic, which was Alexi Grewal’s coming-out race, where he finished third overall.” Grewal won the 1984 Olympic road race in Los Angeles.

7-Eleven comes calling

Neel lost his business after having a blowout with Katz, got out of coaching, and suffered through a real down time in his life, in early 1983. A fortuitous call came from Neel’s former Turin cycles teammate Jim Ochowicz after the `84 Los Angeles Olympics.

“I got an offer to run the 7-Eleven junior team, so I took it,” Neel said. “We won everything imaginable; I then got a call from Och, asking me if I’d consider going to Europe to direct the men’s team in 1985. I said yes; my first race directing was the Tour of Baja, which we won, then we went to the Giro d’Italia.

“I told the riders they could finish the stage and all go buy a plane ticket home, because I was so pissed at their performance early in the race. Ron Kiefel took it to heart, and got in a break on stage 15 with Gerrie Knetemann, a former world champion and multiple Tour stage winner. There was an uphill finish, which was Ron’s specialty.” Kiefel never looked back, becoming the first American to win a stage in a Grand Tour.

“What Mike brought to the table was his understanding of the American racer psyche; we thought differently, certainly not like the Europeans,” Kiefel told me from his bike shop in Wheat Ridge, Colorado. “We didn’t always take Mike’s advice to heart right away, and he knew that, so he worked to play up our strengths and get the best out of us. It’s hard to find a modern director to compare to Mike.”

This set the stage for another Neel victory on stage 20 with Andy Hampsten, on loan from the Levi’s-Raleigh domestic American team.

“I drove the course with Andy before the stage in Gran Paradiso,” Neel explained. “We talked about where he should attack on the short stage, which was steep. I told him to attack as hard as he could, with no looking back. He didn’t have enough confidence in himself, but he was always finishing in the lead group.” Hinault was in pink, and his teammate LeMond was working hard. Hampsten flew up the hill like a man possessed, winning the stage. 

“Andy went from being a $10,000-a-year rider to a $200,000-a-year rider almost overnight,” Neel added. The North Dakota native impressed Hinault so much that the Frenchman offered Hampsten a spot on his La Vie Claire team in 1986, snatching Neel’s protégé. Combined with Ochowicz’s business dealings and Neel’s European connections with race organizers, the young 7-Eleven cowboys were invited to race their first Tour de France the following June.

1986 Tour shocker

Team 7-Eleven’s 1986 Tour de France debut was auspicious. Clad in a then-unthinkable skinsuit for the first of a double-day stage race on July 5, Canadian Alex Stieda treated the 53-mile road race as a criterium, shooting off the front and staying out long enough to take every Tour jersey imaginable, including the leader’s yellow. He was the first North American to wear yellow, but it was fleeting. The day’s second stage, a team time trial, proved disastrous, where multiple crashes and flats, coupled with Stieda’s empty tank, returned the yellow jersey to prologue winner Thierry Marie. Regardless, Neel’s boys had taken France by storm, and got plenty of valued television exposure for their sponsors. 

Muscular sprinter Davis Phinney more than made up for 7-Eleven’s heart-breaking TTT by winning the next day’s stage, a 214km gallop from Levallois-Perret to Liévin. LeMond took over the lead after stage 16, and held off his overzealous teammate Hinault to win in Paris by 3:10. Hampsten finished an astounding fourth, 18:44 behind teammate LeMond. 

Neel’s team won three more stages of the Tour in 1987, with Phinney (stage 12), Dag Otto Lauritzen (stage 14) and Jeff Pierce, who took the final stage on the Champs-Élysées. Hampsten struggled to finish 16th, while his teammate Raúl Alcalá finished 9th, winning the white young rider’s jersey and placing 3rd in the final mountain climber’s classification, one place above 1988 Tour winner Pedro Delgado. 

“I remember the `87 Giro del Trentino, when the stage finished at Francesco Moser's home town of Predazzo,” Alcalá told me from his home in Mexico. “We had to climb 5km to the top with another 5km to the finish. Mike advised us to be prepared because Moser was the race favorite. I stuck with the Italian, and won the stage.

“Mike was a visionary, one that believed in me and gave me the chance to be a professional,” Alcalá added. “I consider him the man who taught me to be a smart racer, and most of all I consider him my friend.” Alcalá won the `87 Coors International Cycling Classic, plus two stages of the Tour de France, making history for Mexico.

The ascent: 1988 Giro d’Italia

Hampsten regrouped for the 1988 season, and like several of his 7-Eleven teammates who lived in Colorado in the off season, relied on Neel’s workhorse crossing training for conditioning, which pay off large dividends the following May and June in the Giro d’Italia.

“I’d write them out a training regimen to hang on their refrigerator,” Neel explained. “This included four hours of snowshoeing, three hours of cross-country skiing, two hours mountain biking, an hour of hiking, things like that; plenty of activity in the snow. We didn’t have the nice indoor trainers like they have today, so we improvised.”

Hampsten raced the `88 Giro with gusto, winning the hilly stage 12 before flexing his muscles during the historic stage 14 between Chiesa in Valmalenco and Bormio, which included the famous snow-swept Gavia Pass. Neel took notice of the weather forecast and took action.

“We had a pep talk before the stage, where I told the guys this was our big chance to get the leader’s jersey and win the race,” he explained. “All we have to do is prepare for the weather. I had all the guys rubbed down with vaseline, like English Channel swimmers did, to retain the body’s heat. We bought ski gloves and caps the night before. I handed Andy a wool hat early in the stage to stay warm.

“I made Andy put his raincoat on at the top of the Gavia Pass, and as soon as he did that, Panasonic’s Erik Breukink attacked, subsequently winning the stage ahead of Andy.” Breukink won the battle, but Hampsten won the war, taking the leader’s pink jersey with eight stages remaining. 

Hampsten won the stage 18 uphill time trial. Neel controlled the race beautifully through the end in Vittorio Veneto, where Hampsten beat Breukink by 1:43 overall, also taking the mountain climber’s classification jersey. He would win the 1992 Alpe d’Huez stage of the Tour, finishing fourth to equal his Tour debut in 1986.

“I joined 7-Eleven in 1987,” Hampsten explained from his home in Tuscany. “I negotiated my joining the team to include Mike being the director. I made sure he would be directing the team because Mike knew European racing and American racers. 

“He treated his racers like thoroughbred horses. Mike would tell us how to rest and eat well so our overly tired bodies would recuperate from the riding. He explained what we could expect at the races we went to, and after we would be trounced he told us how to train for them. Of course he told us about that before the poor racing periods, but he knew we were going to listen better after poor results.”

The descent: car accident in France

Neel’s tenure with Ochowicz was tenuous at best. Their relationship unraveled in 1989.

“We started in 1985 with a group of Americans, and got results,” Neel said “Then there was the European factor, with Dag-Otto Lauritzen and Sean Yates, who weren’t always on my side. I caught a lot of flak for not controlling Andy after he won the `88 Giro; he was invited to several dinners and parties, and wasn’t able to properly recover enough for the Tour. I caught flak after we didn’t get results that year. I never really got along with corporate folks; that was always Och’s strength.

“My relationship with Och was slowly deteriorating, but we had good results in early 1989, and results made a difference with Och and I. At that point he was working to keep the team in the black, and I was handling things in Europe. Paris-Roubaix was a day and a half after the Tour of the Basque Country, where we did well with Andy winning a stage.

“We were in Biarritz, and Jeff Pierce forgot his plane ticket, so I gave him mine and decided to sleep in the back of the team car heading for Paris. A team director never does this, but I thought it was the right thing to do at the time.”

Team mechanic Michael Haney fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a truck, severely injuring himself and Neel, who was in a coma for several days. Neel doesn’t think he had the best advice on proper recovery afterwards, and his relationship with Ochowicz came to an end. He lost his job with 7-Eleven, and doesn’t think he’s been the same since.

Neel’s successes with 7-Eleven were noticed by Team Spago, and the 39-year-old took a job directing the young squad, beating 7-Eleven like he did with Och’s boys in 1985.

“Och offered me a job directing his Motorola team in 1991,” Neel said. “I turned it down, because I wouldn’t have done well with a more corporate set-up that was in place. I was better at directing American racers, so when 7-Eleven/Motorola morphed into a more European squad, it was time for me to move on. I never thought money could buy the strongest team; there’s more to it than that.” 

At peace

Today, Neel lives in Fort Jones, California, an hour south of the Oregon border, elevation 2,762 feet. Twice married and divorced, he works odd contracting jobs, living on little. He’s a popular resident of this town of just 839, which he’s called home for 40 years. He lives in a renovated schoolhouse purchased for $50 on auction 10 years ago, on 10 acres he bought when he was making nearly six figures with 7-Eleven in 1989. He rides a 7-year-old Ridley carbon Damacles road bike with worn Shimano Dura-Ace components every day. Several old trucks and other neglected vehicles dot his property.

“Looking back, my life would’ve been different if I would’ve flown to Paris in April 1989,” Neel said, looking down at the floor of his dining room. His frustration with the events of his life were apparent throughout our two days together, and he sometimes was quick to blame others. I point out that maybe his racing DNA, mixed with a healthy dose of naïveté and disdain for corporate direction, undercut his ability to stay employed. After a long pause, he agrees, quickly pointing out the one train wreck he adroitly avoided in 2008:  declining a fat contract to direct the ill-fated Rock Racing team of Michael Ball.

“Working with riders was similar to working with horses, but there are no politics working with horses,” he told me after a long pause as we walked along a new singletrack he carved a week before my visit. “I’m riding more, and would like to lose a few pounds like any other rider.”

It seems the runaway teenager from 1968 has found his true calling once again.

Solitary Perfection

anthony mangieri in san francisco, ca. november 2011. image: brian vernor

This article appeared in Bike Magazine - Winter 2012.

 “A man who works with his hands is a laborer; a man who works with his hands and his brain is a craftsman; but, a man who works with his hands and his brain and his heart is an artist.” 

~ Louis Nizer

On an unseasonably warm and sunny Sunday afternoon in March, several of the world’s best bicycle framebuilders gathered in a crowded pizzeria in the SoMa District of San Francisco. The event was billed as “Ruota Libera 2011”, the brainchild of New Jersey native Anthony Mangieri and Soulcraft’s Sean Walling. A veritable who’s who were in attendance: Steve Potts, Bruce Gordon, Paul Sadoff (Rock Lobster), Brent Steelman, Jeremy Sycip, Steve Rex and others, lining the walls with some of the best two-wheeled eye-candy under one roof. 

San Diego surf-jazz twins The Mattson 2 lit up the place with their unique sound, as patrons milled around the pizzeria with the esteemed bicycle craftsmen, all enjoying wood-fired Neapolitan pizza made by Mangieri.  

Mangieri is a wiry guy with the whispering dialect of Alec Baldwin and the heavily tattooed veneer of a skateboarding, punk-rock bassist. He’s also the proprietor of Una Pizza Napoletana at 11th & Howard, kitty corner to California Chopper, and walking distance from the DNA Lounge, a popular music venue that’s hosted Metallica, Prince and Green Day. Prick Mangieri’s finger Monday, and he’ll bleed bicycle chain lube. Prick his finger Wednesday, and he’ll bleed buffalo mozzarella cheese. For such a colorful character, his world is purely black and white, which suits him fine. As you can imagine, he has his share of fans and detractors.  

The 39-year-old moved his pizzeria from the East Village of New York City to San Francisco in 2010, opening in mid September. An avid cyclist who owns nine custom bikes made in the Bay Area since 2003, Mangieri decided his passion for riding and the outdoors was greater than his quest for riches in the Big Apple, so he closed his doors, took a year off, got married, packed it all up, and headed west.  

Baking’s in his blood 

At 15, Mangieri began to bake. A trip to Naples began to shape his perspective on life, and his Italian roots began burrowing deep.   

“The lifestyle over there is slower than America because most Italians, in my view, don’t have hobbies like we do,” he said with a grin and sideways glance at his Italian wife Ilaria on a recent Saturday morning. “They don’t really exercise: they work, and they hang out, drink coffee and talk. The men go to cafes and clubs to talk, drink, smoke and be part of that community. Even if you’re in a village, there’s a tight-knit sense of community. Everything is shared. Everyone’s involved in each other’s world. In some ways it’s beautiful, but as I’ve gotten older, I feel the pull to live in a cabin in the woods with a gun! Maybe it’s because I work with so many people every day.”  At the moment, he has the pizzeria to himself. Mangieri pauses for a minute, looking around at the empty tables in the vaulted industrial space he rents. 

“The challenge I have with running the pizzeria is dealing with the spectrum of people and their needs. I need to hit the reset button all the time. I do all the work, and that’s the way I prefer things. I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but everything I do is for my satisfaction only, not others.”   

Naturally leavened

Though he didn’t realize it at the time, the influence of his family would lead him to the birthplace of the mountain bike, Mt. Tamalpais, via Naples and its famous delicacy: wood-fired pizza. After graduating high school in 1989, he worked for the union unloading trucks, detesting every minute. He worked for the post office, hating it, and decided his entrepreneurial leanings had taken over. He opened a bakery near the house he shared with his grandmother in New Jersey.  

“After I got into food retail, I felt proud of my grandfather’s focus on details when he had his candy and gelato shop,” Mangieri said. “My grandma, whom I lived with for eight years, told me how much I reminded her of him. My father was handy, very talented, able to build anything. He wasn’t afraid of anything, even heights. He was an electrician, and I worked with him when I was a kid. I got shocked a few times. He had his own jobs on the side on his days off, and I loved going with him. All I thought about was where we were going to eat lunch, and which pizza place we’d visit.”  

Stable of bikes

Mangieri’s first custom bike was a Soulcraft Plowboy 26-inch rigid steel singlespeed, built by Walling in 2003. He had a stock Gunnar before that. He commutes twice a week across the Golden Gate Bridge from his house in Sausalito on a pink Soulcraft singlespeed road bike with a matching pink-striped Fi’zi:k saddle. His stable includes an Independent Fabrication XS road bike; a Steve Potts titanium singlespeed 29er with a baby blue Type II steel fork, saved for spiritual Sunday rides after Mass; a Kish 26” titanium singlespeed with steel Igleheart fork; two Rock Lobsters (a 26-inch rigid and 29er rigid singlespeed; one black with no logos). He bought a stock IF geared MTB that never fit right, so now Ilaria rides it.  

“I had a PK Ripper BMX bike in grade school with camo pads,” he added. “I had an early Ross MTB with a shoulder strap under the top tube. I did a race from the top to bottom of New Jersey on it when I was 15, when everyone else was on road bikes. My mother, bless her soul, rode with me on a Sears three speed! Because I was into BMX racing, I’d use the toe straps to jump everything on that Ross.” Like many East Coast kids, Mangieri wanted a Fat Chance, but had no money. He had IF’s early catalog, with a photo of a guy riding a flame-painted singlespeed, which spoke to his adventurous side. He recently talked to Steelman about getting one with flames.

“Once I made a little money, I bought a stock IF from a local bike shop,” he said. “I quit riding about 10 years ago because where I lived in New Jersey didn’t have much of a MTB scene, and I grew tired of riding the same trails by myself. I lost interest because it felt like a job to ride. I was traveling a lot, to Guatemala, Thailand, plus hiking and running. Back then I didn’t have the money to get a travel bike. In 2000 or so I rented a bike on an island in Thailand, all on fire roads, which inspired me to get back on the bike.”

Coincidentally, San Francisco was Mangieri’s original choice to open his pizzeria in 1996. To him, the city by the Bay is the only cosmopolitan city, an international city with opera, music, a MTB scene, healthy tourism, access to Mt. Tam and China Camp.  He chose Brooklyn instead, leaving the convenient and comfortable confines of his New Jersey neighborhood. His rent was $5,000 a month, and he needed to hire people, manage people, and run things like a bigger business that he was prepared for. He commuted for the first two years from his place an hour away in New Jersey, and slept in a rest-stop on the way home. He wouldn’t get out of the pizzeria until 2 am, and he’d be out of his mind with lack of peace. It made him a different person, he says, someone he’s still trying to find.   

“I went from knowing 30 people in New Jersey to having lines wrapping around the block in NYC,” he explained, his hands shaping his narrative. “Without any effort, I was being interviewed every week, getting on TV, in newspapers, magazines…I felt motivated and empowered, but it slowly destroyed me. I thought it was a dream come true at first, but it ate away at me. Our NYC place was tiny, jammed. The challenges in NYC included having the outdoorsy lifestyle I wanted.”  

His first trip to San Francisco wasn’t until 2001, and he went there to ride. He rented a car, and rode China Camp and the Marin Headlands by himself, just as he does today. It’s always been hard to sync his riding with everyone’s schedule, even on his days off. 

For Mangieri, making pizza is like riding his mountain bike: an eternal quest for the ultimate flow of everything coming together just right. When it happens, it’s like a miracle, but when it’s not quite right, he works hard to get back on track.  

“I don’t hide the truth or simplicity of real Neapolitan pizza by heaping any crap on it.”  

The numbers 

Based on his work schedule of Wednesday through Saturday nights, Mangieri estimates he makes about 500 pizzas a week, about 2,000 in a month. His beehive-shaped Stefano Ferrara oven with “A.D. 2010” on the side, made in Naples, has small tiles and a mouth belching fire, sliding out 12-inch pizzas with ease.  

At $20 a pop over 15 years, that’s nearly $7.2 million. His menu, like his taste in rigid singlespeed bikes, is limited: naturally leavened dough, round pizzas, no slices, in five choices: Marinara (San Marzano tomatoes, oregano, garlic, basil, sea salt, extra-virgin olive oil and no cheese; Margherita (San Marzano tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella from Naples, extra-virgin olive oil, basil, sea salt); Bianca (buffalo mozzarella, extra-virgin olive oil, garlic, basil, sea salt; no tomatoes, just white); Filetti (fresh cherry tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, garlic, extra-virgin olive oil, basil, sea salt, fresh tomatoes, no sauce); and Ilaria, named after his wife (smoked mozzarella, fresh cherry tomatoes, arugula, extra-virgin olive oil, sea salt, fresh tomatoes, no sauce). His business hours? Wednesday through Saturday, 5pm until the dough runs out, which is 10 pm or so. 

Working the oven by himself, where he bakes three pizzas at a time, has sharpened his skills but dulled his penchant for eating pizza, due to a wheat allergy. 

“I can tell a good pizza from a bad one the minute I take it out of the oven; the customer can’t always tell, but I can,” he added with a knowing grin.  

With a limited menu and a trailblazing business model now mimicked all around the country, the outspoken Mangieri has developed thick skin from the criticism. Like Connecticut framebuilder Richard Sachs, Mangieri doesn’t necessarily make pizzas for others. His focus is on his craft.  

“I do all the work, and I’m not interested in selling out. I’m not egotistical, but on the other hand I have a huge ego that drives me to prove the naysayers wrong,” he said, arms flailing as his eyes widen. “When you come to Una Pizza, you get a piece of me with every pie, like it or not. I’m doing this for myself. Critics and armchair quarterbacks can’t take that away from me.  

“If I see someone totally committed to what they do and what they’re passionate about, I support their effort. I’m driven by the quality of every pizza coming out of my oven. If I feel I’ve had a bad night at the oven I’ll stay up at night to figure things out, how to get back on track. I understand my fame has attracted a bigger audience, so it’s normal to see more people have a love-hate relationship with me.”   

According to Soulcraft’s Walling, Mangieri is the real deal.  

“He showed up at our shop in Petaluma to order a Plowboy singlespeed in 2003,” Walling said. “I had no idea who he was. We asked him what he did for a living and he said he owned a pizzeria in NYC. I immediately had the stereotypical image of a bunch of jamokes in stained white aprons spinning dough. I later learned that was not the case and that we were dealing with a rock star.”

History lesson on a plate 

Despite many old wive’s tales and urban legends, pizza is not a recent revelation.  “Pizza goes back to Pompeii,” Mangieri said. “If you look at the ovens from 79 A.D., they’re the same as what I’m using today. I don’t mix my dough by hand anymore, but I did until two years before moving out here. The only thing that’s changed from Pompeii to now is electricity. Companies involved in the pizza industry are also supplying all the ingredients; it’s a huge business.” The U.S. pizza industry does $32 billion a year, compared to the bike industry’s approximately $6 billion. Mangieri realizes the economy of scale, and how big his industry has become.   

“Our Neapolitan concept is taking hold. My friend Gary in New Jersey asked recently: ‘who would’ve guessed this would’ve taken off as big as it has?’ I don’t want to sound like an ornery old man, but when I started my pizzeria 15 years ago, we were the only ones doing it this way in the country. Now it has taken root in the industry, and people are selling ovens like mine, ingredients like mine, sauce, tomatoes, you name it. What makes my pizza different boils down to the hands that make it each night and the details I pour into it; just like a handmade bicycle builder.”  

He went to the North American Handmade Bicycle Show in San Jose in 2007, and he was excited by what he saw, but thinks the event has outgrown the spirit of its original intent. He sees the hangers-on and imitators popping up, just like those opening Neapolitan pizzerias without any experience.   

“Every handmade bike is not a quality bike, just like every handmade pizza is not an artisan pizza,” he says with a laugh. “The oven is a tool. If I go buy the tools to clean people’s teeth, that doesn’t mean I’m automatically qualified to be a dentist! Similarly, just because I can buy titanium bicycle tubing doesn’t mean I can automatically build a frame anywhere near as good as Jim Kish, you know?”  

Rock Lobster’s Paul Sadoff has seen plenty over the years, and respects Mangieri’s singular focus on his craft.  

“Anthony's passion for food makes him spend many hours at his restaurant. His passion for riding made him move across the country, restaurant, wife and all,” Sadoff said. 

“Anthony showed up at a small frame builder show and bike swap on a Sunday in late June, his day off. It was great that he made the trip. I try to get up to San Francisco now and then to go to his restaurant. Maybe one day I can show him some of the singletrack here in Santa Cruz.”  

Fans and critics 

Mangieri doesn’t really care about the noise some make about him, but sometimes it gets to him when people squawk about the limited menu or the quality of his food, without getting to know the real pizzaiolo. 

“I work hard to pour myself into this business; I’ve passed up several opportunities to make serious money with offers to do reality TV shows and other things, but I choose to stay the course and do what provides me with satisfaction, and that’s making the best pizzas I know how.”  

Scratching the surface of the former straight-edge punk rocker leads to the inevitable: discussion about bloggers and use of social media.  “Yelp? They have the worst concept  ever!” he nearly shouts. “You can pay to advertise with them, and they’ll filter the negative reviews. But if you resist, all hell breaks loose and the negatives rise to the top. I don’t think some knucklehead who works for the man, who’s miserable with his life and can’t find his way out of a paper bag, should have a voice with weight that criticizes any business without a reference point. Same thing for the majority of bloggers out there: no credibility, just a platform to spout.”  

First impressions 

At first glance, Mangieri looks a bit intimidating. His thin frame is covered with tattoos, visible on his neck, and cascading down his arms and legs, including his knuckles, with the words HOPE and FEDE (Italian for ‘faith’). He was 18 when he got his first tattoo.  

“I got Jesus and Faith in Italian tattooed on my left shoulder because my thinking was my mother wouldn’t be heart-broken that I got this!” he said with a chuckle, rolling up his sleeve. “No idea how many tattoos I have now. My favorite artists are friends like Dave Shoemaker, Robert Ryan, Mike Schweigert, and Tom Yak, who work hard and are capable of being world famous, but choose to be the best at what they do.   

“I haven’t been tattooed in years. My first pizzeria was a block from their shop in New Jersey, and they’d come in for free pizza, and I’d go there for free tattoos. We were just trying to figure out our craft back then. Half my original clientele came from those guys. They’d come to my place and eat with fresh tattoos and bandages!  

“I was into the flash piece with thick lines and heavy shading. A few custom, but no real thread of a life story here. Most are religious tattoos,” he points out as Ilaria answers the phone.  “My wife and I had a religious upbringing: Catholic guilt and fear, all that. We still go to Mass every Sunday. It’s private to us. But we believe, and it’s part of our lives. It gives me and my family protection, and I feel good about that.”  

Walling knows it would be easy for many to base their first impression on Mangieri’s fiery focus.  

“Anthony is a pretty quiet, humble guy who isn't a social butterfly; he's also very giving,” Walling explained. “But that's not what many people see when they go to his place and watch him working. He looks kind of pissed off and some people go away with a completely wrong impression. Hanging out with him away from work is cool because I see the other side and I feel pretty fortunate to know someone that works so hard just to be able to keep doing what they want to do.   

“It's inspiring.”  

Seeking perfection 

Despite Mangieri’s handyman environment growing up, he doesn’t do his own bike maintenance.   

“I over-tighten everything! I don’t like going to shops where I need to make a three-week-in-advance appointment. My go-to mechanic is Mike Varley at Black Mountain Cycles in Point Reyes Station. It’s a far ride to his shop in a pinch, but he’s incredible. Awesome guy and a great shop.”  Like Mangieri, Varley runs a one-man shop, and agrees with his approach to his craft and the fulfillment it brings.   

“Anthony's and my approach to each of our businesses is very much the same,” Varley said. “The only way to really ensure consistency in your product, be it pizza or bikes, is to perform all tasks yourself. It’s a lot of work sometimes, but the end product is the reason people go to Anthony for pizza and why he and others come to me for bike work. I know each pizza he makes is going to be consistently good and that he has put his whole being into each pie.”    

Asked to describe the perfect pizza, Mangieri doesn’t pause or look up at the ceiling for inspiration.  

“Naturally leavened, no yeast,” he said with a toothy grin. “You can taste the wheat, sweetness, it’s a little puffy, has a touch of crispness that goes away quickly, some burn spots here and there and on the bottom, the cheese is melted but not lost its shape; oil is shiny. When I see it, I know it.”  

'Flandrien': Interview With Director Paul Willerton

Paul Willerton is someone I’ve known of since he burst onto the international road cycling scene in 1991, racing alongside three-time Tour de France winner and two-times world champion Greg LeMond on Team Z. We collaborated on Greg’s LeMond Bicycles relaunch in late 2013, and have stayed in touch.

His latest project is a documentary about the grit and determination of a Flandrien, a hardy soul who makes a living racing the cobbles in northwestern Belgium. The movie is aptly called Flandrien, and Paul was generous to answer my questions.

First, wonderful job on the film. Made me want to flog myself on the Flandrien cobbles and visit my ancestral Belgian grounds. How and when did the project begin?

I’m glad the film had that effect on you. Don’t punish yourself too much, Gary. I suppose the roots of this film go back to when I was a kid, barely double digits in age, and I started down the cycling rabbit hole. Coincidentally, this was also the exact time I became fascinated by cameras and shooting

I got hold of any cycling print publication I could. Most were not in English, but if they had color photos, I’d do anything to gain ownership. I traded my BB gun for three ragged issues of Mirror du Cyclisme. When Winning magazine came out in the early 80’s and we could finally put words to the images, it was ‘on’. That was when I started learning about Belgium and studying the different races and regions, including Flanders.

shane cooper (left) and Paul Willerton.

My partner at DeFeet, Shane Cooper, had always wanted to do a brand film in Belgium. We both wanted to ‘plant a flag’ in Belgium because we saw it as Ground Zero for the DeFeet brand. In the early 90’s I had hand carried DeFeet socks to Belgium, seeded the market and got them onto the feet of a lot of riders. We debated for years and eventually decided not to do a brand film but rather do a film, supported by DeFeet, that told the story of Flanders. We wanted to celebrate it through art that passed through our own hands. I directed the film, Shane became the producer, and we created this as a gift to Flanders for the world to see. It showcases the region in a production that was not available to me when I was a kid.

When was your first trip to Europe? I remember that you lived in Kortrijk at one point. How much time did you spend in Belgium as a racer and since then?

My first trip to Europe was when I was 1. My Mom emigrated from Switzerland when she was 20, so we spent time there on occasion. The first time I spent an extended period in Belgium was 1988. I was 19. I had raced with Belgians in other parts of Europe in earlier years and felt like I knew some fundamental things about them. As a bicycle racer you pick up certain things about people that, were you not competing with them on two wheels you may otherwise have no interest in. Their culture, physical attributes, tenacity, humor, tolerance of others, diet, and how they respond to things like weather conditions, terrain and road surfaces. 

When I turned professional in 1991, I made Kortrijk, Belgium my ‘home away from home’. This was mostly because Greg LeMond lived there. He brought me into the French ‘Z’ Team and he suggested Kortrijk would be a good fit for me because you can race there just about every day if you want. I kept an apartment there with an old BMW 3 series for some years. The late Miguel Arroyo was my roommate, along with the famous Mexican soigneur, Otto Jacome.

cooper, peiper and wilelrton.

Describe how you enlisted the on-screen talent to participate, including Allan Peiper, Thomas Ameye, Katrijn de Clercq, Laurenzo Lapage, Nicky Degrendele, Eefje Brandt, Eric De Clerq, Johan Museeuw, Erik Zabel, Stuart O’Grady, Mieke Docx, Victor Campenaerts, Tim Wellens, Frederik Backelandt, and Lotte Kopecky. That’s a mighty wallop of star power…

It is a powerful cast and they were very generous with their time and willingness to participate. DeFeet is a supporter of the Belgium-based Lotto team, and in addition to riders like Victor Campanaerts they have a strong women’s program we were able to include. Johan Museeuw has worn DeFeet since the mid-90’s, well before he became World Road Race Champion in 1996 in Lugano, Switzerland. Lotte Kopecky was easy to find mid-week during Classics season going 35 mph behind a derny at the Eddy Merckx velodrome in Ghent.

I’d be remiss not to mention Jaime Anderson and Bernard Moerman who own the Flandrien Hotel, which we used as a base of operations during filming. The image of Allan Peiper adorns an outside wall in the courtyard of the hotel, next to a similar rendering of the Belgian legend and indisputable, prototypical ‘Flandrien’, Briek Schotte. Jaime is an Australian and a mate of Peiper's. I spent plenty of days pinned against the gutter, often at the mercy of Museeuw, Peiper, Zabel and others in the film, but when I put on a filmmaker hat their story is all that matters. In the producer role, Shane did a great job lining folks up. 

You make a nice detour into beer and its regional characters. How did you find them?

Beer of course is a big part of the story in Belgium. DeFeet works with a lot of breweries in our custom shop, knitting branded socks for them. Cycling and beer go together quite well at times, so even if we are rude enough to show up unannounced, sometimes people are willing to pop some caps and oblige.

History lesson on war-torn Flanders was eye opening. You tied in its citizens’ grit nicely, especially with the 86-year-old farmer Roland Denauw. How did you find that gentlemanly gem?

We were told about Roland Denauw by Jaime and Bernard at the Hotel Flandrien. I really wanted to film Roland on his old Peugeot riding toward his fields, but he was nursing an injury at the time. So, one evening we just walked over to his house carrying our camera and sound equipment. He lives just a couple blocks away. I’m really glad we did that, and he was also willing, because to me he plays an important part of the story. He is a living testament and he alone tied together war time Belgium, the work ethic and mindset of a Flandrien and how and why that all meshed with the sport of cycling.

Sadly, I hadn’t heard of Briek Schotte. The two Rik Vans (Looy and Steenbergen) plus Merckx overshadowed him apparently. Peiper and Museeuw were in awe. How hard was it finding archival film footage?

Learning about someone like Briek Schotte is a passage into the deeper chapters in Belgian cycling. I’m glad to hear that, actually, because you know a lot about the sport and the country and you discovered something in the film. As a filmmaker, one of the things you aim for is to peel back new layers, uncover something that wasn’t necessarily known to everyone, already. That’s why we go back and forth through time so much in films, weaving and winding.

Old footage is easier than ever to find. We didn’t obsess with the resolution of the older footage, but I did want it to be highly accurate. The Library of Congress is a treasure trove with regard to archival war material. Seeing that material, after we had filmed on location in Belgium, holy cow. Talk about stirring. Like, when you walk a cemetery and see the exact position where a German machine gun held the high ground for months, where hundreds of thousands of lives were lost and so many unrecovered remains were pressed into the soil you’re standing on, it really registers full circle when you see the footage. That is what the town of Ypres, Belgium honors every night of the year with the playing of The Last Note. That was an honor to film and something we had to ask permission for on-the-spot. 

Bar Gidon co-owner Else Penne was one of your diamonds in the cobbled rough, and the Flandrien Hotel looks inviting. Is this indicative of what visitors find?

Else was great. That was another one of those days where you pull out the camera, start shooting and one thing after another keeps unfolding. We didn’t use much footage of Else’s husband, Fredje. Fredje was actually a professional cyclist, himself. He’s cast from the generation of riders who opened a bar after they stopped racing, God bless him. He speaks in a combination of Flemish and English, which is interesting but it can be challenging for an edit. 

If you visit the Bar Gidon, make sure you have a pint or four of their own brewed and branded beer. I forget the name, but you can see Else holding one up in the film. It’s just fantastic. 

The Flandrien Hotel is a great spot to rest your head, particularly if your interests involve the sport of cycling. If there is an equivalent in the motorcycle world, I’d like to know about it. 

willerton’s expensive toy.

Tell me about the camera and sound equipment you chose.

Before traveling to Belgium I invested in a Black Magic Cinema 6K Pro. I had a bunch of old glass in my collection that fit on it. It could have easily turned out to be a really bad decision but it ended up working out great. The camera comes with a copy of Davinci Resolve editing software, and that’s what was used throughout the editing process. Sound collection was handled by Shane Cooper. He had a plethora of mics. We fought incessantly with each through each day of filming. If he was daydreaming during important moments, stuffing down a waffle or standing in my way while I was filming, it could get irritating. Some of the things I thought were a disaster actually turned out great, so I had to give myself some attitude adjustments in hindsight. 

Skillsets like cinematography and sound capture are not exactly part of our ‘day jobs’. This is something, to me anyway, that makes this project special. I am not aware of another feature film project, not about a brand, that was created by the executives at a company and has made the rounds and had success on the International film festival circuit. If there has been, I want to know about it. 

How long did the editing take, and how was the process securing soundtrack music?

This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but the whole thing took a lot longer than we imagined it would. It was quite a distraction. I have to give more props to Shane in a couple of important areas where he stepped up in the producer role. One, I had spent some months doing the editing myself. I had built out timelines, cut up interviews and had the building blocks of the story. Then I hit a wall. My wife was in film school herself at The Second City in Chicago and I was learning whatever I could through osmosis from what she was going through. I realized what was happening to me was common, particularly in documentary film making.

Because I had done so much of the shooting, I wasn’t able to leave enough on the cutting room floor, basically. I was too close, too attached. Shane and I talked about it, and we made the decision to onboard Joel Sandvos in North Carolina. It was a major turning point, just a really important audible. I am grateful to Shane for understanding, and I’m grateful to have been able to work with Joel. He has a very bright future in the film industry. The lesson for me, you don’t do something like this on your own. Put down the ego and back away, slowly.

The other area Shane punched well above his weight class was calling on musician friends who share a love of cycling to build out our soundtrack. Triggerfinger is a band from Belgium and they love cycling. So fitting for this film. Pendulum, super high level, also cyclists. Michael Ward is a cyclist with a long list of achievements in music. He came in with the School of Fish soundtrack, he played in that band. The music from these great artists really injected power into our imagery to become the celebration of cycling we had envisioned. 

What are the next steps for Flandrien?

Flandrien is currently being shown as part of the global Bicycle Film Festival virtual tour that runs through February 29th. Anyone who wants to view it can get a ticket here. Flandrien is also available in a double feature with one other film, I believe it’s Program 9. Tickets are on a sliding scale, I think $12 is the lowest price ticket. 

willerton in his happy place.

I’m not sure what’s next but I do love to make films. Shooting is very physical, similar to riding a bike. It is also totally engaging, requiring your full attention and participation, much like riding a motorcycle. You didn’t ask me about motorcycles, perhaps another time I will have a chance to wax poetic on that subject. In the meantime, I will just keep riding, writing and shooting my way through life.

Family Ties

Mike Barry in Toronto, Canada. Summer 2013. Image: Walter LAi

This article originally appeared in Paved Magazine - Autumn 2013.

Father and son sit in their car, huddled around an iPhone, watching the streaming pirate feed of the Tour of Flanders or Paris-Roubaix, as their families sit inside the church on a Sunday morning in Toronto.

In a scenario played out in similar circumstances in our modern age, where entertainment and sports are available on-demand, what was once only accessible through the pages of L’Equipe or Miroir du Cyclisme unfolds before one’s very eyes. Mike Barry and his son Michael haven’t lost their passion for cycling, despite the long road they’ve shared since the elder Barry immigrated to Toronto from his beloved England in 1964. The difference here is that Michael pinned hundreds of numbers to his jersey, and raced the hollowed roads of Europe as one of the more memorable domestiques of the modern era.

Landing at Pearson International airport in Toronto was somewhat anticlimactic on June 10. The fog was thick as broccoli soup, and the heavy rain delayed the driver of the blue Volkswagen Passat wagon by more than an hour. Having grown accustomed to the warm and dry climate of my northern California environment, the novelty of a somewhat humid and wet entry into Canada after 11 years away was enhanced by the appearance of a small British man commandeering said Passat wagon to the curb, whose tiny frame was kept warm by a dark blue and orange Mariposa wool jacket.

“Mike, it’s good to see you again,” I said, extending my hand to the 74-year-old man as we loaded my bags into his car. Our first and only meeting was at the 2007 North American Handmade Bicycle Show in San Jose, when Mike Barry was roaming the aisles with a former Rivendell Bicycle Works customer of mine, Douglas Brooks. Nine months later Barry retired from ‘active duty’, closing his Bicycle Specialties retail store in Toronto, and ceasing production of his limited edition Mariposa bicycle brand after nearly 40 years of production. He and his wife Clare wanted to take a breather from it all, and watch their grandsons grow up. Michael, their only child, was racing for T-Mobile at the time, and was based in Girona, Spain, like many of the North American professionals. 

This is their story, gleaned from several interviews and time spent in Toronto. We covered all the bases, from Mike’s fatherless upbringing in south London after World War II, to Michael’s doping confession in late 2012 after a 19-year career. I discovered what makes them tick, how the cycling ties that bind run deep in the Barry family, and the profound influence the elder Barry has had on the greater Toronto cycling community since landing there nearly 50 years ago. 

Christian Vande Velde, a former U.S. Postal teammate of Barry’s, was going through a rough patch in 2003-05, when his back was messed up after multiple crashes. He was always in pain, and didn't want to ride his bike. Based in Boulder, Colorado like the younger Barry, Vande Velde recalls Michael’s dedication and adventurous spirit.

“Michael would drag me out into 18-degree weather on the Peak-to-Peak highway, and there's absolutely no one up there with an inch of snow on the ground, and we're on our road bikes,” Vande Velde said from Westlake Village, California, where he was training with Garmin teammate Dave Zabriskie in mid February. “He would ask 'isn't this awesome?!' He'd goad me on for another 15 miles, then another, then another... I remember coming back completely destroyed, but stronger for it. He'd do that crazy shit in Toronto, when he and his friends would come home in the dark all the time when they were kids. His mom must have had a heart attack five days a week!  

“Michael has more miles on him than anyone under 40 in the world. He was riding the Galibier when he was 8 or something! He had this sick little custom bike that his dad built with 24-inch wheels and custom handlebars. He's been in pretty deep for a long time. I think he did a lot of riding by himself when he first arrived in France.”

Pretty deep is only the half of it.

‘Bicycle wheels in his eyes’

According to his father, since Michael was really young he knew he was to become a professional road racer. It was what he wanted to be, since he first opened books or cycling magazines. He was completely immersed in a cycling environment, whether it was at his father’s Bicyclesport shop in downtown Toronto or at home, where the Barrys had plenty of books and magazines. Riding bikes was always a big part of his family's life, beginning with time spent behind his parents in a trailer, then riding to school together, then riding solo. “I remember going out on group rides when I was 7, and everyone was welcoming and helpful, right up until the time I started going over to Europe,” he explained. “The local cycling community encouraged and helped me along.

“My dad organized the Toronto randonneur events, and when I was eight we did a 200km on the tandem together, Michael, 37, explained over tea and biscuits in Mike’s workshop on Cranfield Road in northeast Toronto. “One of the fondest memories of my childhood was going to France with my dad, uncle and aunt, the four of us on two tandems in 1983 or `84. I met my dad in Paris, who was already in Europe for the Cologne Bike Show. We rode from Grenoble to Marseilles, up Ventoux. I was going to a French school in Toronto, so my school let me take the time off as long as I was the one speaking for our traveling group of adults. I was always pushed to the front of the line to buy train tickets.”

The elder Barry chuckles.

“When Michael was at the French school, grade three or four, the teacher said 'Michael would do a lot better if he could get those bicycle wheels out of his eyes...'” It was a wonderful trip; one of the most terrific trips of my life. In those days most people rode tubulars, and there were several discarded along the Ventoux. Michael wanted to collect them all and repair them, so we decided to cut them up as souvenirs.”  

In addition to discarded tubulars, Michael collected everything related to cycling, including water bottles from international races, during an era when most boys collected rocks or beer cans. 

“We loaded up a van and drove to the 1986 world championships in Colorado Springs, interacting with the French cyclists Laurent Fignon and Charly Mottet,” Michael added. “At that time French cyclists were the best in the world. We read the French cycling magazines at the shop. You learn how human your heroes were as you get older.

“We'd call the Toronto Star and get a wire report results on the top ten finishers of a particular race in Europe; they usually didn't print them in the paper unless Steve Bauer got a good result. They'd always mispronounce the names of the riders.” Barry would eventually race alongside Bauer at the 1996 Atlanta Olympic road race, his first of four Olympics for Canada.

“In hindsight, I'm fortunate that there's always been an undercurrent love of riding and touring,” Barry said. “My parents kept me balanced, and school was important. I played other sports, and they tried to send me to the best schools they could. I'm glad I had those experiences, because it's too easy for kids to burn out on sport if they're pushed into it or forced to do it. Never once did my dad tell me that I had to get out and train if I wanted to race. I had fun on my bike, and that's how I am today; riding a bike doesn't feel like an obligation.

For Barry, the life of a professional racer got difficult when the time away started adding up, once he and his wife, former professional racer Dede Demet, had a young family. He was traveling 200 days a year, racing 80 to 100 times around the world. “My crash in the Tour of Flanders in 2006 opened my eyes. Dede raced even more than that when she was younger!

“The last couple years have been difficult being away from my parents since my mom got ill,” he added. “It was important that our kids are closer to family, which prompted our move to Toronto last December.” Barry retired in September after two seasons with Team Sky, riding in service to Bradley Wiggins and Chris Froome. He was a frequent teammate with Mark Cavendish, beginning with T-Mobile, and continuing with Highroad Sports before they reunited on Team Sky in 2012.

The Reasoned Decision

Was it cruel fate for his doping transgressions which dealt a pair of bone-breaking crashes to Barry in 2012? It appears to be the case for his former U.S. Postal teammates Zabriskie and Vande Velde who, like Barry and George Hincapie, were sanctioned with a 6-month ban from racing last fall, but chose to stay active, while Barry and Hincapie retired following USADA’s ‘Reasoned Decision’ on the doping practices of Lance Armstrong and several of his U.S. Postal teammates and directors. The Tour of California and Giro d’Italia summarily vanquished Zabriskie and Vande Velde to the rehab trainers in May, while Hincapie opened a world-class hotel and restaurant in his adopted hometown of Greenville, South Carolina. 

Barry is publishing another book in spring 2014. An accomplished writer, he’s been published before, once for documenting his time on the U.S. Postal bus, based on his columns for VeloNews, and another in a richly textured narrative with equally descriptive photography for Bloomsbury/Rouleur, now in its third printing. Writing may or may not provide him with enough income in retirement, though, and he’s at a career crossroads; his father closed Bicycle Specialties after nearly 40 years in business, and shuttered the Mariposa brand.

“My book will focus on the emotions of riding a bike and the extremes that we feel as athletes as a professional compared to those one feels as an amateur on a group ride,” Barry said. “Group rides, even for pros, are much different than races. There's really no comparison.

“The spiritual aspect of cycling involves a rhythm to the pedaling and the cleansing experience where there isn't much noise other than the chain going around the gears,” he explained in his clipped and measured Canadian lilt. “You can always notice the conversations with people are much different when you're riding compared to sitting in a cafe; people are far more open and relaxed on the bike.”

Going back to school is not an option for Barry, he added. “I made a good living as a professional cyclist toward the end. I also thought professionals made big money, but the reality was there are many in the peloton who barely scrape by. Our contracts are so short; too many crashes and one bad year makes for a short career. Dede and I had enough to buy a Toronto house; I knew I would have to work after retiring from racing. I have my Team Sky Pinarello, but I had to buy my cyclocross bike from management.”

Barry and I shared a three-hour ride during my visit. He provided an audio history of Toronto, including several bike path and dirt trail excursions only a native would be privy to. I rode his ‘cross bike, shod with fenders and light mounts for his wet rides. He and Dede take turns participating in the 5:40am Morning Glory Ride through Toronto, and both admit it’s been a great way to meet people. Several riders in their group have kids at the same school, and their social circle has enlarged quickly in a short period.

British roots

The elder Barry grew up the only child in a single parent home in south London. His father passed away when he was six months old. One of his earliest rides was out into the Surrey countryside, on his mother's single-gear BSA. Barry then graduated to a Raleigh. He was well on his way to becoming a cycling scholar...

“In 1950 I was 11, 12 years old, and I started getting Cycling Magazine, and religiously read everything published about cycling,” he said with a glint in his eye. “I devoured them like the bible each week. My biggest influence was hanging around Clubman's Cycles in a suburb of London, close to my school. I'd be there several days a week, and the owner would give me jobs to do; never got paid, but didn't care. I just wanted to be around bikes and riders.”

It was in this environment young Mike found his calling.

“We'd ride 150 miles or more on a Sunday with the club, eyeballs out sprinting for every town sign and hilltop, but they wouldn't allow us to race the 25-mile time trials if we were under 16 years old,” he said with a chuckle. “My first event was the Vintage Wheelers novice race, a bit of a March classic in south London at the time, and I managed to win it in a record time of 1:02.40. It started my racing career off quite well.”

By 1965, Barry was working for a U.S. company that made spectrometers. He moved first to Detroit, and then to Pittsburgh, and later to Buffalo, New York. In a 2003 interview, he said “There was very little cycling in the U.S. at that time, but my job took me all over the country. I would always look up the local cycling club in any town I was in. That way I made cycling friends in many towns. Although there were few cyclists, they were real enthusiasts. One had to be enthusiastic to put up with the ridicule one received.”

When Barry first arrived in Toronto there'd always be some idiot that would try to run him off the road. “It was bad, but as time went on there were more cyclists on the road, and many were real enthusiasts and keen racing types versus casual riders,” he said. “Almost all the riders were immigrants from Europe in the 1950s and `60s. The races were like international events, 'cause you'd have British, Italian, Croatian, German; everyone was talking in their own languages. Great atmosphere with lots of parties after the races.”  

It was in this newfound environment that Barry decided to practice what he learned in the London bike shops a decade or so prior.

“Most good bike shops in London either built frames themselves or had someone build for them with their name on the down tube,” he said between sips of tea. “I'd look over their shoulder, and wanted to do it. In 1964 I met John Palmer, who I remember racing against in England. We got to chatting, and talked about framebuilding. He mentioned having some Reynolds 531 tubing under his bed, and a shared interest in building frames as well. That cemented our relationship.

“We heard there was a sport shop on Mount Pleasant that had bought all the frame components from CCM when they closed down their manufacturing division, and we paid him a visit. We were able to buy 10 or 12 complete Reynolds tube sets, plus a whole lot of fork blades and lugs in old wooden boxes. I gave him $100 for the lot, humped into the back of my car, and brought it to my tiny bachelor apartment. John came over and we spent a few hours pouring over the rusted parts; shortly after we rented out a friend's basement at 410 Davisville for $100 a month, and became framebuilders.”

Barry was still working for the instrument company during the week, building frames on the weekends. He just met his future wife Clare, and she would join John's girlfriend Barbara in their little workshop and make tea.

Mariposa rises

There was a velodrome in a Belgian community about 150 miles from Toronto who ordered 10 bikes from Barry and Palmer. Many Americans would come up to ride the Six-Day events. The first frame they built was in January, so they test rode it in the snow. Barry was tired of the travel, and keen to plant roots in Toronto.

“I decided to open a retail store, and John wasn't interested in joining me; his father worked retail for years in England,” Barry explained. “Ian Brown, father of Garmin mechanic Geoff, put some money into my new venture and became a silent partner. Another limey arrived from England, Mike Brown, and became my business partner in the shop after working for me a year. He stayed with the business until he moved back to England in 1986. His daughters are the same age as Michael, so they grew up together in the shop.”

After Mike Brown left, Bicyclesport was stretched financially. Barry had some rough years keeping it afloat, and by 1989 he pulled the plug. 

“I would've been in the grave for sure, and vowed to open Bicycle Specialties as a sole proprietor, with maybe, MAYBE one other person. We had 15 employees with Bicyclesport in a big building in downtown Toronto. Our first location was in a rough area, but it was on King's Street a quarter of a mile from the city center. It worked well for a time. I know I'm not a good businessman or manager of people, which was my downfall. We had a good friend who owned property downtown who gave us a large space in exchange for nothing until we got on our feet financially; that helped get us going.

“I was on my own at first, and hired a former Bicyclesport customer named Tom Hinton, who stayed with me from 1990 until we closed for good in 2007. He made virtually all the Mariposa framesets during his time with us. He'd build the basic frames and I'd do all the finishing work. He worked hard and was a good guy; never saw him idle. He built Dede's 2002 World Cup-winning bike quickly; she still rides it. It was originally painted blue, now it's a creamy pink.” Barry reckons close to 1,500 Mariposa were built between 1972 and 2007; he admitted they were never all that good with keeping track of production.

 European training grounds

As the conversation shifted back to Michael’s racing career, I asked his father if he had any trepidation when Michael struck out to France to realize his dream.

“Not really; we encouraged it,” Barry said before coughing. “Looking back, I don't think we realized how lonely he was or how tough it was for him. Thankfully he spoke fluent French, but he didn't share any social time with any of his club mates. Fortunately the woman who owned the apartment treated him like a son and made him feel at home. The other Canadian he went over with originally lasted only two months, leaving Michael on his own. We also didn't realize how rife the drugs situation was; otherwise we might have encouraged him to come home. Michael has always got on well with others.” I discovered over lunch the root of the elder Barry’s chest-rattling cough: a nasty crash in Mexico in the mid 1980s, followed by a botched medical procedure which created scar tissue in his esophagus. I wasn’t sure if I should hand him a glass of water or call 911. It hasn’t stopped him from riding, though.

Barry and his wife would chat with their son once a week when he was in France. Michael didn't have a phone in France, so he'd call from a pay phone down the street from his apartment once a week. “We probably didn't communicate with Michael as much as we should have,” Barry added. “We watched Michael in Europe maybe once a year; I had the shop to run. Michael would spend the winters in Toronto, and he also suffered through some serious injuries during his career. Medical care in Europe is sub par; many times his injuries were so bad we'd pay for a first-class seat home so he could recline in comfort, more than once. It was a tough period. If he would've chosen another sport he wouldn't have seen as much of the world as he did. I believe it's made him a better person.”

I turned to Michael and asked who his most influential director sportif was during his 19-year career.

“The most knowledgeable was Christian Rumeau when I was an amateur in France,” he said after a few minutes' pause. “He had an incredible knack for knowing the courses; we didn't use race radios, and he could see things that most others couldn't. He was Sean Kelly's director for years. He started as a massage therapist for Freddy Maertens's Flandria team under Jean de Gribaldy. Eventually Christian became a director with Skil-Sem until Kelly rode for PDM. Christian retired after the RMO team fell apart. His wife suggested he come out of retirement and he became my director at Velo Club Annemasse in 1996, when I was 19.

“He was really good at checking in on me, knowing I was a foreigner,” he added. “Living in a small town in France could be pretty difficult. He learned from his experience with Jonathan Boyer and Kelly to recommend some time off the bike to clear my head, walking down to Geneva and getting a coffee while looking at the shops and the girls.”

Rumeau also knew how to gauge the wind, and would tell Barry how many hours to ride in which direction, and how hard to ride; Barry found the training and racing advice spot-on and valid. He taught Barry quite a bit, and took him under his wing. “Throughout my career he'd call just to see how I was doing; he'd call after watching me at Paris-Roubaix or the world championships, and ask me 'why I did this or didn't do that'!” Barry said with a laugh. “Most of the time he was right. A few times I got messages on my phone, reminding me to be at the front at a certain point in the race on a certain hill, because no one else expects it. Sure enough, he was right. It's different now with race radios, GPS, television in the team cars; his knowledge is sadly no longer needed, but missed. He was good, and I probably would have quit cycling during that period if he hadn't come alongside me the way he did.

“When I was a pro, there were certainly directors I enjoyed working with,” Barry added. “Brian Holm had a good intuition, and was able to get the most of the riders. He could be friendly and relaxed, but he was able to put his foot down and tell us when it was time to race. Sean Yates was good as well; on some level I got along well with them because they raced with the generation I grew up watching. Steve Bauer was never my director, but taught me quite a bit when we were on the national team together. He had a similar level  of knowledge as Rumeau.”

Glancing around the workshop, with its hundreds of bicycles on display, my eyes landed on several of Michael’s framed jerseys. He raced the Olympics, the world championships, the Vuelta, Giro d’Italia and the Tour de France. I ask which race held the most significance for him and why. His answer surprised me.

“Looking back, the races in Montreal and Quebec were the most memorable, especially in the last couple years,” he said. “It's ironic, because when I was younger I thought the races in Europe were the biggest. I grew up watching the Canadian races, and even though my performances in them weren't the greatest, they were the most meaningful. I realized that Canada is my home, and I only had a few opportunities to race here.

“The Tour de France was obvious, but the race itself wasn't remarkable to me in any way. Nearing the finish into Paris is a memory that will stay with me forever. Finishing Paris-Roubaix was great; Brian Holm would tell us beforehand, 'no matter what you do, finish this race; this is different from any other bike race'. He was right: coming into the velodrome was incredible.”

Changed future?

Our conversation shifted into hindsight mode, specifically asking the question how hard would it have been, at the time, to walk away from professional cycling after he doped the first time while with Johan Bruyneel’s U.S. Postal team? Not having been a professional myself, I can’t put myself in his shoes...

Without any hesitation, Barry junior answered first, followed by his father.

“I knew it was wrong; but it would've been tough,” he said, fidgeting with his iPhone. “That's why I kept going...”

“As we said before, Michael's had this ambition since he was four or younger,” his father added.

“I think that when I got to that point where the dream was so far from reality, there was this digression where it felt more like a job,” Michael explained. “I still had these goals and ambitions, and I had given up many relationships in high school because I was racing; I even missed my graduation. I attended half a year of university, then left for France to pursue my dream, where I raced for three years. At the time, it didn't feel like I had any options. I was surrounded by people, teammates, who were living in the same bubble I was, and throughout my career I received plenty of bad advice. 

“I don't want to blame it on anybody else, but I didn't take the time to step back and really think about it,” he added. “We were part of a generation where doping was so ingrained in our culture, that it became extremely toxic and pervasive. I didn't think one could compete without it; that's the point I came to. I had crashed badly in the 2002 Vuelta, and the speeds were tremendously, ridiculously high. I realized, ironically, that it wasn't good for my health to keep doing what I was doing without doping, and justified it to compete.

“I was part of a peloton where doping was accepted; I knew so few riders who weren't. That was the state of it back then.” 

I asked Michael if he found out who his real friends were in the pro peloton after the USADA Reasoned Decision last October? His answer was quick.

“I was expecting the worst, obviously; that's what scared me more than anything,” he said, first looking at me, then over the counter at his father. “Testifying was tough, but I was scared at how my parents and closest friends would react. People were understanding and supportive, especially those who knew me. The Toronto community has been supportive.

“Those I thought would be upset turned out to be supportive as well,” he added. “I called several people to let them know ahead of the Reasoned Decision, and they were understanding, which made it easier. It was difficult not having been honest with my parents -- especially my dad -- who I've always shared everything with since I was a kid...”

I asked Barry if he ever thought how his life might have played out if he never became a professional cyclist. What career path might he have taken?

“I have no clue!” he said. “We can make and regret certain decisions in life, but like a crash, we learn from them. As an athlete I learned to move forward. From every bad experience there is something good to be gained. Ultimately I think it matured me and made me realize what was important in my life, and what I enjoyed about racing and riding my bike. I lost some of that during that period.”

Barry the elder ran several youth racing series when Michael was young, and it was fun for the 25 or so kids, he said. Not many stuck with it, though, like Michael. Barry used to take a bunch of the kids to Holland to do a stage race every year. There were races for all ages. He had a Dutch guy riding with his Bicyclesport Mariposa club who told him about this event in Holland, and they'd bring 8 or 10 kids over there for 4 or 5 years when Michael was 10. 

“It was a great experience to mix in with Dutch and Belgian kids,” Barry said. “After their races we'd take them to post-Tour de France criteriums to watch the big names, even taking the kids on several of the cobbled courses in Belgium. Michael knew of these races from magazines, and wanted to experience them himself. We rode some of the same roads as the pros during the 1990 Tour, when Claudio Chiappucci and Greg LeMond duked it out for yellow.”

These days Barry’s community involvement is limited. For years he and Clare were involved with team management and logistics. They've fallen away from any official capacity, but Barry meets at the zoo with a group to ride quiet roads most Wednesdays. There are maybe 14 riders maximum, including two women. Most of them are older, but there is a young super-strong couple among the ranks. 

“I guess you can say I'm taking an active rest from the Toronto cycling community,” Barry said with a chuckle as we wrapped up our interview. “For 15 years I ran the Toronto Paris-Roubaix challenge, which ran on the worst roads and tracks from the zoo to Jackson's Point; about 80 kilometers of avoiding paved roads. In 1999 we ran a similar event in December called Hell of the North; it was frozen and miserable. I thought people would be after my blood, but they loved it. No insurance, just a few dollars toward prizes at the finish. We just wanted to put on a good event.”

Epilogue

While Barry senior enjoys retirement, Barry junior is busy raising funds for the Milton velodrome, currently under construction for the 2015 Pan Am and Para Pan Am Games. He ducked out early one evening to attend a private fundraiser in downtown Toronto while I tagged along to the Toronto International track meet with Mike and his grandson. Toronto has changed considerably in the nearly 50 years he’s called it home, and with more than 63 cranes busy adding real estate to the skies, has become one of the fastest-growing cities on the planet. Barry laments the strain it’s putting on the roads and highways, and is hopeful for safe roads to ride.

Five weeks after my Toronto trip, I emailed both Barrys to see how they were doing. I received an email from Mike in mid July to tell me he just rode 60km on the gravel in the Toronto heat, with an invitation to return to Toronto for a proper ride. He wasn’t feeling well in early June, and took a rain check when Michael and I toured Toronto, and experienced the cycling community built by his father.