Red, White and Blue Cruzer
The Cascade Classic Criterion Bike Race is by far my favorite event in my town of Bend, Oregon. I like this better than the Draft Horse Show, than the 4th of July Pet Parade, than all of the musical events, including the Lyle Lovet concert, than the Duck Race, the Swan Pageant, all of the arts and crafts events, and even better than the Wednesday Farmers Markets. Yes, this is my favorite.
It’s hard to say why I like this race so much. Obviously, it’s wonderful to have 200 mainly male professional and semi-professional cyclist invading Bend. But, beyond that, I can’t say I even know much about the sport. Like most non-racing fans, I can only name one racer: Lance Armstrong. And, quite frankly, I am not even sure how many Tour De Frances he has won … enough to piss off every Frenchmen so I assume that means more than two. But there’s absolutely nothing better in my hometown than the “crit”… the stage of the race that just laps around the downtown area in the evening, about the time when the sun has stopped baking us all and a cool breeze sweeps across the torched land.
So this year, just a few hours before the big race, I was playing ball with my dog Zoe at the park across th
e street from my house. It’s a never-ending game. I toss the ball as far out in the pond as I can possibly throw and she swims out and gets it. I don’t mind the game really, but I enjoy it far more if I can find some little animal-loving kid who wants to do my work for me. And, on race day, I found just that …
She was a beautiful tanned girl who was not shy about asking if she could pet Zoe or telling me every detail of her life. She told me that she was from Long Beach and today was her 8th birthday. Her dog’s name was Cruiser but he was at home. She sure could toss the ball a far way, so I kept on asking her questions. Her parents were spread out on a blanket in the shade tree and they seemed more than happy that I was keeping her entertained for the moment. Dad looked dead asleep. And mom was busy fussing with a tiny baby.
“So I hope you get to go to the bike race tonight,” I said to her, “because it’s really a whole lot of fun.”
She looked at me and twirled her hair in the way that kids do when adults are saying things that are stupid. “My dad is IN the bike race.”
She went on to tell me that dad came in 5th that day or maybe 6th and that he traveled to lots of places to race.
“Well, he must be very good then?” I said to her.
“I don’t know. I can beat him.” She said and tossed the ball in the water.
I noticed that her parents were now alert and that dad was smiling over her last comment. I said to the girl, “So what is your last name, so I can cheer for your dad tonight?”
“Cruise,” she said.
I started to laugh. “Cruise? Why that’s a terrific name. I love that name.” She twirled her hair some more and waited for my dog to swim back with the ball so she could toss it again.
I talked to her dad for a bit. And when he mentioned that he wasn’t racing as part of a team, well, I figured he probably wasn’t that good. Obviously, his sponsor couldn’t afford a whole team so they just sent one guy, the best one.
“Well, what are your colors then? I will cheer for you tonight.” I asked.
“Red, white and blue,” he answered never telling me the team name.
When my dog was looking adequately exercised, I said goodbye and the girl and her parents both thanked me for my time. As I was leaving, I just felt as if they were the nicest people. Like those types of people that you just pray pull in with a UHaul trailer and introduce themselves as your new neighbor (even with kids, tons of bikes, and a dog named Cruiser).
A bit later, I told my friend Kevin (a guru on bike racing) about my meeting Cruise. He started laughing. He said, “Oh, you mean Antonio Cruze? He rides for the Postal Service, the same team as Lance Armstrong.”
…..
As the race started, the downtown streets were lined with people, stretching and straining to get a peak at the racers, and there was no doubt exactly who was in charge of the corner. She wore an outfit that was a pink that only a girlie girl could wear with a huge whistle around her neck. She looked a young seventy something, had beautiful gray hair that was short and crisp, and wore perfect pink lipstick. She was not there to keep the tourists coming back; she was there to keep them all in line. To keep every dog, kid, and weekend-warrior cyclist out of the streets on the sharpest corner in the race.
I was sure that this was not her first, or even her second race. It took real experience to work that corner and she was clearly not a newbie to the world of volunteerism. She watched the corner carefully. She screamed well ahead of time, “Biker up! Get off the road!” And when people didn’t obey, she blasted them with her whistle.
I walked into her territory and leaned out around corner, so far it felt like the bikes were going to just crash into me. The buzz was amazing; a pack of 140 cyclists buzzing toward me at 30 mph, with the clacking of cleats scraping the ground to make the tight turn. I felt like I could just reach out and touch them. But just as I got out far enough, I heard the lady in pink blowing her whistle, “Bikers! Bikers! Stay back from the street!”
I was glad this was not her first or second race. After all, I didn’t want to see the red, white and blue go sliding down the street in a whirling crash of metal and flesh. Not that night, not the 8th birthday of the little girl with the long dark hair who could have played ball with my dog all day. A girl whose dad was racing alone, not because his sponsor couldn’t afford a whole team, but because the rest of the team was busy dominating the Tour de France.
So, stars and stripes forever. And yes, I hope Lance wins his third, or fourth, or fifth Tour de France, more than enough to piss off every Frenchmen. (Well, until the next World Cup.) But oh, let’s not forget pink. Yes, the lady in pink who mans the corner in the most feminine of all outfits.
It’s hard to say why I like this race so much. Obviously, it’s wonderful to have 200 mainly male professional and semi-professional cyclist invading Bend. But, beyond that, I can’t say I even know much about the sport. Like most non-racing fans, I can only name one racer: Lance Armstrong. And, quite frankly, I am not even sure how many Tour De Frances he has won … enough to piss off every Frenchmen so I assume that means more than two. But there’s absolutely nothing better in my hometown than the “crit”… the stage of the race that just laps around the downtown area in the evening, about the time when the sun has stopped baking us all and a cool breeze sweeps across the torched land.
So this year, just a few hours before the big race, I was playing ball with my dog Zoe at the park across th
e street from my house. It’s a never-ending game. I toss the ball as far out in the pond as I can possibly throw and she swims out and gets it. I don’t mind the game really, but I enjoy it far more if I can find some little animal-loving kid who wants to do my work for me. And, on race day, I found just that …She was a beautiful tanned girl who was not shy about asking if she could pet Zoe or telling me every detail of her life. She told me that she was from Long Beach and today was her 8th birthday. Her dog’s name was Cruiser but he was at home. She sure could toss the ball a far way, so I kept on asking her questions. Her parents were spread out on a blanket in the shade tree and they seemed more than happy that I was keeping her entertained for the moment. Dad looked dead asleep. And mom was busy fussing with a tiny baby.
“So I hope you get to go to the bike race tonight,” I said to her, “because it’s really a whole lot of fun.”
She looked at me and twirled her hair in the way that kids do when adults are saying things that are stupid. “My dad is IN the bike race.”
She went on to tell me that dad came in 5th that day or maybe 6th and that he traveled to lots of places to race.
“Well, he must be very good then?” I said to her.
“I don’t know. I can beat him.” She said and tossed the ball in the water.
I noticed that her parents were now alert and that dad was smiling over her last comment. I said to the girl, “So what is your last name, so I can cheer for your dad tonight?”
“Cruise,” she said.
I started to laugh. “Cruise? Why that’s a terrific name. I love that name.” She twirled her hair some more and waited for my dog to swim back with the ball so she could toss it again.
I talked to her dad for a bit. And when he mentioned that he wasn’t racing as part of a team, well, I figured he probably wasn’t that good. Obviously, his sponsor couldn’t afford a whole team so they just sent one guy, the best one.
“Well, what are your colors then? I will cheer for you tonight.” I asked.
“Red, white and blue,” he answered never telling me the team name.
When my dog was looking adequately exercised, I said goodbye and the girl and her parents both thanked me for my time. As I was leaving, I just felt as if they were the nicest people. Like those types of people that you just pray pull in with a UHaul trailer and introduce themselves as your new neighbor (even with kids, tons of bikes, and a dog named Cruiser).
A bit later, I told my friend Kevin (a guru on bike racing) about my meeting Cruise. He started laughing. He said, “Oh, you mean Antonio Cruze? He rides for the Postal Service, the same team as Lance Armstrong.”
…..
As the race started, the downtown streets were lined with people, stretching and straining to get a peak at the racers, and there was no doubt exactly who was in charge of the corner. She wore an outfit that was a pink that only a girlie girl could wear with a huge whistle around her neck. She looked a young seventy something, had beautiful gray hair that was short and crisp, and wore perfect pink lipstick. She was not there to keep the tourists coming back; she was there to keep them all in line. To keep every dog, kid, and weekend-warrior cyclist out of the streets on the sharpest corner in the race.
I was sure that this was not her first, or even her second race. It took real experience to work that corner and she was clearly not a newbie to the world of volunteerism. She watched the corner carefully. She screamed well ahead of time, “Biker up! Get off the road!” And when people didn’t obey, she blasted them with her whistle.
I walked into her territory and leaned out around corner, so far it felt like the bikes were going to just crash into me. The buzz was amazing; a pack of 140 cyclists buzzing toward me at 30 mph, with the clacking of cleats scraping the ground to make the tight turn. I felt like I could just reach out and touch them. But just as I got out far enough, I heard the lady in pink blowing her whistle, “Bikers! Bikers! Stay back from the street!”
I was glad this was not her first or second race. After all, I didn’t want to see the red, white and blue go sliding down the street in a whirling crash of metal and flesh. Not that night, not the 8th birthday of the little girl with the long dark hair who could have played ball with my dog all day. A girl whose dad was racing alone, not because his sponsor couldn’t afford a whole team, but because the rest of the team was busy dominating the Tour de France.
So, stars and stripes forever. And yes, I hope Lance wins his third, or fourth, or fifth Tour de France, more than enough to piss off every Frenchmen. (Well, until the next World Cup.) But oh, let’s not forget pink. Yes, the lady in pink who mans the corner in the most feminine of all outfits.
By Linda English
