Secret Society of Old Bad-Ass Racers (SOBAR)

I rolled up to Nikola Farat’s house in Santa Rosa, less than an hour after Belgium’s Philippe Gilbert earned the rainbow jersey with a fabulous Walloonian display of strength and panache on the final climb of the Cauberg in Valkenburg on September 23, 2012.

“Congratulations on Gilbert’s big win today, Rich!” I said to Team BMC’s mechanic Rich Sangalli, who was kitted head to toe in the familiar red and black of chief operating officer Gavin Chilcott’s team, coincidentally based in Santa Rosa.

“He won?” Rich asked.

“Uh, yeah, four seconds ahead of Boasson Hagan,” I muttered, embarrassed for not respectfully asking Rich if he already heard the result from the Netherlands that morning. Chilcott, also clad in full BMC kit in Nik’s driveway, nodded knowingly in my direction. I couldn’t contain my excitement for Gilbert, the first Walloonian since Claude Criquielion to win the worlds in 1984. At least I was in the right place: among 68 former road and track racers from the `60s, `70s and early `80s, gathered at the Barb’s house for the annual Dino Ride.

At 46, I was one of the youngest riders among the Dinos. Sterling Guy, the 15-year-old son of former road racer and mountain bike pioneer Otis, took the honor. Although I technically don’t qualify to ride in this invitation-only event, organizer Tom Hardy has invited me as an ‘embedded’ journalist every year since 2009, when I was U.S. editor for BikeRadar.com.

Time flies
Hardy, a talented San Francisco architect, retired from racing in 1977 to pursue his college degree, but never retired from riding. Ten years later, he organized the first Dino Ride, a reunion event to corral as many friends as possible from the good old days.

Some of those friends, like George Mount and Mike Neel, raced in the Olympics and world championships; others, like Jonathan Boyer and Greg LeMond, raced in the Tour de France as well. Neel was director sportif of the 7-Eleven Team from 1985-89, racking up spells in the yellow and pink jerseys with Alex Stieda and Andy Hampsten, in addition to watching his boys in green and red win several stages of the Tour and Giro d’Italia.

Last year, the stars literally aligned, bringing LeMond, Boyer, and Mount together for the 24th Dino Ride. It was a magical day in the saddle for everyone, and the 25th anniversary ride in Sonoma County shaped up to be another doozy.

Hydration first
Thirty or so Dinos and friends gathered at the Rapha Cycle Club SF for our Hydration Event Saturday night, where $25 got you a custom Italian tri-color “Shut Up Legs” wristband and unlimited wood-fired pizza and beer. I caught up with Brett Horton, bicycle collector extraordinaire, who, despite his ‘table muscle’, told stories of racing in the `80s, as Nevada City Classic winner Matt Smith joined the conversation. After the clock struck 9pm, I drove down Lombard Street, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and into Sonoma County, where I spent the night at the Petaluma home of Levi’s GranFondo ambassador Yuri Hauswald.

Despite my faux pas with Sangali, who smiled and gave me a pass, Sunday shaped up to be memorable: with a forecast in the high 70s, our ride to the coast through Occidental would take us near the Russian River and up the sublime dirt road called Willow Creek.

A newbie
Joining Hardy’s peloton for the first time was Bay Area native Gary Fisher, better known for his hand in bringing mountain biking to the masses in the late `70s. Fisher started racing as a 12-year-old in the early 1960s, before taking it seriously in the late `70s, angling for a spot on the ill-fated 1980 Moscow Olympic team. The coach thought Fisher had potential, but at 29 was too old; a local teenager named LeMond was a better all-rounder, so Fisher acquiesced and launched a mountain bike company with former road racer Charlie Kelly.

Unfortunately for Fisher, he also had the dubious misfortune to be the first Dino rider to crash AND roll a tubular in 25 years. The man with the waxed handlebar moustache took a tumble descending at high speed, tearing up his hand and shaving off weight the hard way with some road rash. Fellow mountain bike pioneer Otis Guy, who sliced a sidewall riding up Willow Creek Road, gave Fisher a helping hand remounting his tire. Fisher, it turned out, got a flat a few days prior during a 147-mile ride to Monterey, and neglected to glue his replacement. Battered but not beaten, Fisher rejoined our speeding peloton after gingerly descending toward Highway 116.

“Man, what a pack!” Fisher told me the following day. “There were some savvy bike riders doing what I remember so well. And the roads; that was NorCal pride… wicked! The kind of craziness that would make a Midwesterner cry, as we Cali riders in the day delighted in. I’m better than fine after my crash; I’m delighted…”

Framebuilders and industry folk on parade
Former junior road racer Tom Ritchey and his wife Martha rode a Ritchey fillet-brazed steel tandem, chatting among the riders as the road rose skyward. Local Rapha ambassador and Ibis Cycles founder Scot Nicol proved helpful with identifying unseen bumps and gravel on the curvy descents, while another Santa Rosa resident, Royce Goodwin, brother of Hutchinson USA creative director and former roadie Richard, provided interesting local commentary as the miles ticked by. Nicol, who apprenticed under Joe Breeze, was one of several frame builders enjoying saddle time, including Albert Eisentraut, Peter Johnson, Craig Elliott, Ritchey, and Guy.

Going soft
Fisher and Guy weren’t the only riders suffering flats, unfortunately. A half dozen other unlucky souls raised their hands to signal their predicament throughout the day, but unlike the old days of racing, groups would slow or stop to help. The vineyards and ocean views of Sonoma County may be some of the best in the world, but the roads leave something to be desired. Busted and uneven patches of asphalt kept everyone on alert, and even though we tried our best to keep our large peloton strung out single file on the climbs and straightaways, some local drivers couldn’t tolerate our presence on their roads. We cheerfully coexisted, showing restraint to the handful of one-finger salutes we received.

Despite our ebb and flow, the pace was quick and enjoyable. Not everyone is ripping fit, and just a handful continue to race, although the bike handling skills of everyone was lovely. The Barb is 80 years old, and Lindsay Crawford turned 72 recently. Most Dinos are in their late 50s, early 60s, but the conversational pace of the day was a great equalizer. We covered a lot of ground, and after leaving the Barb’s place around 10:30am, returned to his house around 2pm to share a meal.

“I don’t have a cyclometer so I have no idea how far we rode, but my guess is about 65 miles,” Hardy said (close; it was 62.1 miles ~ ed.). “Tim Nicholson produced a map, but Nik said it wasn’t entirely accurate so we didn’t print any for fear it would steer people the wrong way. So I was desperately hanging on to wheels, hoping to stay with either Nik or Gavin since I knew they’d know how to get back. Luckily it worked.”

With a big smile and a full belly, I said my farewells and drove south to my home on the peninsula, comfortable in the knowledge I just shared saddle time with some of the best riders in the world. Six days later, I’d be sharing the same roads with a few thousand other riders — mere mortals — during the Levi’s GranFondo.