A Veteran's Guide to the Big Race

(Written by the back half of a tandem in last year's Harvard-Wellesley Bike Race.)

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon here outside Soliders Field. Tension is mounting as the starting time for this twenty-year old classic drawns near. The forty racers are getting excited, but I'm calm. Yes sir, like a rock from conditioning. All muscles and guts. Staying power. That's me.

Three minutes more till post time.

I'm limbering up my magnificent legs. We're sure to win this year, even though competition is stiff. Our tandem is equipped with rags, flags, oil water, soda, and scotch. And pills. We're both wearing white Bermuda shorts and pale blue sweaters. Our socks are crimson.

We've just been informed that we have a handicap of minus fifteen. I don't know what this means yet so I'll keep limbering up.

Great thunder I'm shot! I'm wounded! ...I'm sorry. They were testing the starting gun. Sneaky little beggars, these outing club boys. So hairy, too.

Woops! There it goes again. The first division, the American balloon tire, no gear, bikes just left. My stomach feels tight, but I'm calm. I'll limber up.

Ha! I didn't jump that time. Those were the touring bikes. Just lots of those three gear jobs. All clean and wholesome looking.

Now, there go the racers. Those are the boys to watch. Goggles, pedal straps, backs bent, fifteen gears.

My word, what happened to us. Just a minute. It seems that out handicap meant we start fifteen minutes after the rest. Absurd. We're good, but not that good.

Ralphie is ready (he's my front half). I've just pinned the road map on his back. I shout directions and encouragement as we go. The bike is a sturdy Schwinn. We're ready. Just one more limbering up. My, that feels good.

I hope the little hairy man won't hold the gun too close to me. Beastly little creature. He's looking at us--woops, we're off.

Away, away we're bound for Wellesley. It's so much fun. What's that Ralph? Of course, I had forgotten to pedal. Silly of me.

People waving, screaming, "Go get em!" We will, sonny, don't you worry. Stupid girl, pointing at my knees. My word, I think I'm beginning to perspire. Vulgar.

Racing down Boylston Street. Most cars are stopped, but some...look out you crazy idiot. I need a pill.

Just passed a racer. Yo ho, look at us roll. What did he say, Ralph? He lost a wheel? Those are the breaks.

On Western Avenue heading into Market Street. Making good time. Thirty or so I'd imagine. Can't really look down. Feet are holding up pretty well. Wind good.

Coming to Commonwealth Avenue Fewer people are cheering us. More laughing. Just wait till the straightaway comes. We're saving our energy.

Here's Commonwealth. Look at the trolley tracks. Ralph, look at them. For crying out loud, look at time! Get the wheel out of the tracks, you idiot!

At last. Ralph is usually reliable. Just a little slow reacting. Now climbing Chestnut Hill. Feet get tired but we stand up and work together. We'll make it. Don't you worry. Pretty homes, not many cars, women crying "Don't feel badly boys!"

Aha! There's Route 9. Less than twelve miles to go. Here's where we make time. Yo ho! Look at us roll down hill. There's a jeep alongside of us. What did they say? Forty miles an hour. My word, this is dangerous. Ralph, don't try to pass the truck. Ralph, he dragging us. I can't watch.

We're slowing down, praised be. Haven't seen any of the other racers. Passed a few check points (they don't trust us) and seems they're not far ahead. Funny about those check points. Seems a few years ago some guy peddled for half a mile, then dropped back, dragged the bike into a drove to half a mile from the finish point, dragged bike out, finished race twelfth. Can't figure where he missed. His driver must have missed a turn.

That reminds me, we must turn soon. My legs are going fast. What's that Ralph? A big hill? We'll never make it. I am peddling as hard as I can, Ralph. Bike is slowing down, not moving at all. We walk to the top.

Can't imagine how that John Hart used to do it. Won three years running on a balloon tired bike. Senior year he won the bike race and then rowed a scull four miles in record time later in the afternoon. Just staggering.

The top. Now watch us roll. There's the clover-leaf. Now on Weston Road barrelling down to Wellesley. Two miles to go. Imagine those waiting arms of the Wellesley Outing Club. Free food, too.

It was back at that clover leaf when the leader of last year's race began to coast because the rest of the field was far behind. It was too late when he realized that the rest were not only far behind, but on another highway. Pity.

Ralph, you are clever grabbing hold of that truck. Much easier this way. Maybe we'll win the prize--$140 racer. Bike Exchange gives it. Real sports. Wellesley gives free food. My feet are killing me.

There's the gate up ahead.

Hurrah for out tandem! Good old Ralph.

Say, where's the committee? gone to the picnic. Impossible. Sad day. Next year will be better.

There's the Club. Laugh fools, laugh. An hour and ten minutes? Winning time was 46 minutes 28 seconds. Oh well.

Food not much worse than House, but that doesn't say much. Girls better than Radcliffe but some holds true.

Now to get back. My word, I forgot about that. Getting dark. Awfully tired. Will limber up. Ralph will too. Good old Ralph will carry the load. Won't you? Cramp you say? Hideous creature.

My future is in sports car racing.