Rolling thunder, A CYCLING TALE, “finis”
Following is the end of “rolling thunder” — a cycling novel
Subject to copyright.
ROLLING THUNDER (cont’d)
Chapter 25
Raleigh Spriggs was the seventy six year old Chairman of the Board of Continental Tire, which was a fifty four year old company with annual revenues of over twenty billion Euros. When Shamus scanned further articles Google suggested best matched his inquiry, he learned the man was a tycoon of the Rockefeller sort, worth billions, and made his fortune in dealings with India and Pakistan where he’d been stationed half a century ago as a young soldier in Her Majesty’s armed forces. He read further and found Spriggs had gotten his first name from a “Raleigh” three generations preceding him who happened to have founded the eponymous Raleigh bicycle company. That person man was Sprigg’s grandfather, may he rest in peace.
The more he read, the more tips he determined the old iceberg had, but never did he read enough to feel he’d begun mapping all of them. The man was a virtual conglomerate of interests spanning the globe. And he and Shamus were now to chat hourly like best mates.
Now that was absurd, Shamus thought.
He looked at the clock on his Mac and it read twenty till nine. He had to leave.
Shamus walked out of the hotel and made his way down the block to the Eurotel, where the meeting was to take place. The streets of Bruges were still active, though the racers were of course missing; most of them tucking in for the night to get ready for a hard day’s ride tomorrow, while a few others were slinking off to places unknown to hide from their own weaknesses and indiscretions they had no interest in the world finding out about.
As he walked to the Eurotel, Shamus wished to himself for the simple life of a fan/reveler, following the show and caring very little about all the politics and evil that swirled about it at present. How he would have liked to sit with Eve at one of the little sidewalk tables outside some pub and share a bottle of wine and have absolutely no plans for the following day, other than perhaps trolling the shops and, at some time, sticking his head up above the crowds just long enough the watch the racers pass by.
He entered the hotel and asked at the front desk for directions and was instructed as to the appropriate floor and meeting room.
He didn’t know what he expected to find when he got there - armed guards, perhaps, or at least bouncers to keep out the riff raff – but there was only a door, and when he pulled on it, it opened, and he went inside and took a seat, all but unnoticed.
The room wasn’t configured for a meeting or anything else particularly, and people scurried about with concerned looks on their faces, and as the minutes ticked by more people arrived and Shamus recognized only the ones who had made it to roles of general management on various cycling teams by way of spending copious years on bicycle seats.
Thus he determined this was the right place, and time would tell whether it was the right place for him.
Everybody seemed engaged in conversations. Everybody seemed to know one another. Except Shamus, who was left by himself and still felt vaguely at odds with his own person.
A quarter hour passed this way, until finally a man in a suit moved toward the head of the room, and spoke.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he said. “This is a chaotic time, as I’m sure you’re all aware, and there is a lot of business to cover tonight, so let us begin.”
With that, people found seats and gave their attention to the front of the room. The man introduced himself as an attorney with Glenboe Stolkey in Amsterdam, representing the UCI on behalf of the Tour de France.
“Thank you again for coming on short notice, but there are matters that will affect the running of this year’s Tour, and every team involved in it, so your participation tonight is critical. If you don’t mind, I would like to take roll and determine which teams are represented, and who is here on their behalf. Please forgive me if I do not recognize you.”
They went around the room and each person said their name and the organization or team they were representing. When Shamus did similarly, he expected a squadron of armed police would come in and haul him away, but actually few heads bothered to turn his way, and the process continued.
“Okay, good,” the attorney picked up again. “Looks like we have a quorum of teams represented and no media have snuck in, so perhaps we can have a successful meeting after all,” he said, causing nervous titters around the room.
“I’ll come straight to the point. We have twenty one teams signed up for the Tour, as you well know, but in light of the news that swept over us all today, and in light of changes in testing procedures in the race that mandated that all riders be tested after certain stages, including today’s prologue, we’re aware that four teams no longer have the appropriate management in attendance to answer questions necessary for their team’s continued participation. This affects a total of thirty-six riders, and leaves us therefore with seventeen teams still potentially in.
“In what will certainly be news to you, and perhaps shocking at that, that we have preliminary lab results back on the samples taken from the athletes today, and there have been twenty seven confirmed positive ‘A samples.’ In addition, twelve riders chose for whatever reason not to ride in the prologue today, so that raises the total to thirty nine riders who would be ineligible, or would at least face serious problems should they desire to continue in this year’s Tour.”
Shamus gasped at the incredible number of riders whose initial lab results turned up positive after the day’s stage. He had no idea what effort had been made to get almost two hundred rider samples tested and turned around in a matter of hours, but that was a question to ponder another day. Heads turned and people shared words of astonishment with whomever happened to be seated nearby, in a similar state of dismay as Shamus was about the bombshell the attorney had just dropped in the room.
“Those two affected groups of riders, the thirty-six and the thirty nine, actually do not add up to seventy five riders out of the Tour, because there are some overlaps between the groups. In other words, some of the individuals disqualified for their positive A-samples or who didn’t bother to ride in the Prologue today, are on the four teams now deemed ineligible.
“You will receive detailed information momentarily about which riders and teams are no longer eligible to race, in the view of race organizers. But, we had one hundred and eighty nine racers registered in total and based on the math I mentioned, a total of fifty four individuals appear to be disqualified from further racing, so appear to we have one hundred and thirty four still eligible.”
The attorney took pause, clearly aware of how easy it would be to overwhelm the room with too much information offered too quickly. He spooned it out carefully, so as to allow the attendees to digest it, and to keep the meeting moving forward.
“At this point, there is no plan to cancel the Tour, notwithstanding what half of the European newspapers are speculating. Quite simply, the legal and financial repercussions of canceling this event would be disastrous. It all comes down to money, doesn’t it?” He asked rhetorically. “What we propose to do, is continue the event with requirement for absolute purity among the riders and the staff. We will err on the side of disqualifying any person or team that appears even remotely involved in activities that cast a cloud over this event. Let those people sue us – that we can handle.”
“So there should be no real controversy there. Yes, tomorrow morning will find mayhem when we announce that a noticeable contingent of the Tour has been disqualified, and the number of racers has shrunk by more than a quarter. To that all I can say is, ‘brace yourselves.’
“However, there is one large question looming, and that has to do with what will happen to the racers, both the ones that are allowed to continue riding in the Tour, and those who aren’t. It occurs to the UCI that such a large number of disqualifications will cast a very dark shadow on the sport, and if these riders receive the standard two-year penalty, the total size of the professional talent pool will shrink and take years to rebuild. This sport has a problem, but the reaction might not need to be a nuclear one, if you follow. However, there is a substantial debate about what should be offered to those angels among us who sport broken wings, speaking metaphorically. That is the topic we would like to bring to the table tonight for resolution, and ask that we all commit to remain here until such a resolution is found. You see, tomorrow morning, there will be many questions asked, and the fate of so many tainted cyclists is one question we cannot ignore,” he finished.
With that, the attorney sat down at the table and waited to see who would bring the first suggestions forward.
Within ten minutes, virtually all team representatives present had made proposals, and virtually each such proposal had received condemnation or at least a strong lack of support voiced by the majority of these same representatives.
After an hour had passed, all these same points had been made again, said more loudly, and talked down more fervently.
Going into the second hour, Shamus sensed the chances of reaching any consensus were dissipating fast. The room was actually becoming quieter as the energy level ebbed and people began to give up hope such a satisfactory compromise existed.
“And you?”
“Me?” Shamus asked.
“Yes, Mister McDonough, with the Continental Tire team, is that right?” Asked the attorney who had commanded the meeting thus far, but had seemingly removed himself from the debate among the team reps over what to do with the rogue athletes.
“It is. I mean, I am.”
“We haven’t heard from you yet.”
“I’m here because our General Manager is unavailable tonight.”
“Right, said the attorney. Well, you’re here and he’s not. Have you got anything to say about all this? You’re the only person in the room who actually is a racer presently, aren’t you? So I would think you could speak for your colleagues better than the rest of us. What do you think would be the best approach for dealing with this tonight?”
Shamus felt he’d been put on the spot royally, as all faces turned to him to see whether in fact he had anything meritorious to add. It appeared anything but a friendly jury.
“I suppose I do have some thoughts, yeah,” Shamus said. “I can’t say I’ve cleared them with the sponsor at this point, so I don’t know if they’d fly, but…”
“The evening’s getting late, with all due respect,” the attorney interjected, “So no apologies or equivocations are necessary, please.”
“Right,” Shamus said, now even less confident than before. Thoughtfully, he began, “Okay, so we’ve got a mess that needs to be fixed, and people need to believe we’re really fixing it – not just painting over it another time. And we have a responsibility to this sport that feeds us all, and happens to be an inherently healthy activity when we don’t all work so hard to make it otherwise. The sport is popular and people want continue to like it, but we have to quit giving them reasons not to, and then the negative press will quickly move on to football or what have you.”
Shamus paused as constrained laughter echoed about the room. No lynch mob materialized, so he picked up where he’d left off.
“Lastly, we’ve got a generation of riders who were raised from youngsters to do what they’re told, including starving themselves and riding these torturous races and ingesting whatever they’re told. The only promise in return is that so long as they win, they’re not out on the street. If they should caught in the cross-fire of changing rules and expectations, we collectively hang them unceremoniously in the press. That’s shameful.”
The UCI attorney could contain himself no further, and shot back, “the night is getting late, Mister McDonough…” and Shamus appropriately skipped further preambles.
“So,” Shamus began his close, “I would propose that we first address this lost generation with a one-time offer. It’s not amnesty, nor would it be self-immolation.”
He paused momentarily and hoped for some nods of ascent; seeing at least a few, he picked up again.
“I suggest we should invite them to come forward and confess everything, including most importantly how and when they cheated and who helped them do it, and then forgive them, provided they agree also to zero tolerance going forward, including biological passports. Certainly, take back any honors, medals or trophies they won ‘under the influence,’ so all the record books get set right with the names of people who won cleanly. Then stop there. No going after the salaries they were paid – it’s been spent anyway.
“Now before anyone says that’s letting them off easy, keep in mind that by the time this all washes out, there will be fewer teams, and dozens of riders will fail to find jobs, and their careers will be ended. Most of these ‘confessors’ will face special difficulty finding their next riding job, but we should give them the chance to do so. Their confessions will help law enforcement get to the root of the problem and shut down this doping racket that affects not only our sport, but also many others. This will also show how cycling is disciplining riders, and even more so will be creating a divide between the athletes and the industry that prospers from getting them to buy this stuff.
There was silence in the room. Shamus hadn’t drawn any great amount of opposition to his suggestions, but nor were there any rallying cries to take up the actions he proposed. The loudest noise in the room was the vague humm of the fluorescent lighting. He soldiered on.
“If we adopt this approach we can show moral integrity that will encourage sponsors to stay with the sport, and keep investing their marketing dollars. We’ve got the consumer demographics they want, and we have a younger generation of ‘organic’ riders coming up to compete at the top levels without any of these poisons in their bodies. We just need to keep this glued together while the sport sheds its bad habits.
“If this succeeds - and there are certainly plenty of ways it could fail - we will need strong representation for the riders in these discussions, so that it isn’t limited to talk between the race organizers and team management, both of whom have their own issues to address.
The room remained still; the collective body language suggested he’d spoken right past them.
Finally he excused himself. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ask you to pardon me while I make a phone call. My team’s sponsor is waiting for an update, as I’m sure many of yours are also,” he said, then left the room to find a quiet place to call Raleigh Spriggs.
The man answered on the first ring and listened attentively as Shamus described the meeting and what he’d learned.
“Good news that they’re not calling the whole thing off,” Spriggs said. “Sounds like calmer heads are prevailing, but you’re right there will be a whole host of questions from the press tomorrow morning, and ‘we don’t know yet’ isn’t going to fly. It’ll be a shambles unless we have good clear answers, and I like what you’ve proposed. Sounds like a page out of Nelson Mandela’s ‘Truth and Reconciliation’ approach to resolving historical crimes under apartheid in South Africa. Wonderfully successful, that turned out.”
“I’m not sure we decided to do anything in there, though.”
“That’s alright, Shamus. Rarely are good ideas embraced on first hearing. You have to sell them, you have to find out what kinds of concerns others have, especially the ones they don’t want to air in front of the whole room, and you have to mold your ideas until they can provide the others with adequate options to resolve their own issues. Good ideas are a nickel apiece; it’s the selling of them that creates value. Young man, you’ve simply got to go back in there and get to work. And remember, time is on your side.”
“How could that possibly be, we haven’t much of it left,” Shamus quipped.
“Precisely. If you had enormous quantities of time, nobody would need to get this resolved, so more meetings would be planned, and maybe some studies and focus groups and even a subcommittee might be appointed, all to fill the remaining time. But nobody in that room has the luxury. Each and every one of you will be facing athletes, the press, and sponsors by the time the sun rises tomorrow, and none of you wants to do unequipped, right? They’ll eat your lunch. You’ll lose respect people have placed in you, and so will the others, and they know this. It sounds like they need someone to lead the march and you’ve stepped to the front of the parade — and they’ve left you there. Pick up the baton, man, and show them how to march! And call me later and let me know how it’s going, will you? That’s a good lad. Cheers.”
With that, Spriggs hung up and Shamus headed back to the conference room to do as he was told.
The sun rose over Belgium at five minutes before six in the morning and the streets were still wore their Sunday morning quietness. Shamus had left the Eurotel minutes earlier and was walking back to the team hotel after a sleepless night of fevered discussions and negotiations. Mentally he was fatigued, but the Spring-like air had swept in overnight on the back of a mild cool front now invigorated him better than the cappuccinos that had powered him through the early morning hours. Leaves blew then rested on invisible curlicues of wind, dancing around his feet as he walked. His eyes felt heavy and burned with an exhaustion he’d not felt before; coming entirely without substantial physical effort, but from the hard task of leadership that was earned not with the overwhelming power of one’s muscles, but through the one’s ability to listen, adapt, and find compromise.
Shamus was deeply saddened by the fore knowledge that the sleep he’d missed would play no part in his performance on the bike as the Tour embarked on its first official stage some six hours hence. It wouldn’t hinder him, because he and his teammates would not be rolling out at all.
Shamus found out during the course of the evening from the UCI attorney that one of the four teams that had been disqualified had been his own, directly as a result of the arrest earlier that evening of Monsieur Trusseau, on a series of charges. This news, he was told, was to be made public by the French police later that morning. Trusseau had managed a taxi ride to a train station, which took him to Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, where Interpol had patiently awaited his arrival. He left the passenger facility in tears, and in handcuffs, headed for a long stint in a drafty concrete hotel.
Eve had relayed this news to Shamus, who, in turn, discussed this with Raleigh Spriggs, who had responded surprisingly philosophically.
Shamus had expected a litany of harsh responses and legal threats from the sponsor. He’d also expected Spriggs to tell him that the team was being scuttled, forthwith. Instead, Spriggs said he’d seen worse calamities in his day, and faulted himself for having been too distant from business matters pertaining to the team — and this was the price he had to pay for such absence. Spriggs reassured Shamus that the team would recover, and that Spriggs’ company would not only continue its sponsorship, but if proper resolution could be ensured to the matters the teams faced during the night, his company would announce that it intended to extend its guaranteed period of sponsorship for the team, and that all of the team’s riders be cleared by the UCI under whatever new rules were adopted — would find their contracts honored.
They’d spoken several times during the night as discussions inside the room had evolved. Spriggs had counseled Shamus on how to keep working through the process, and as the group neared resolution on the major issues, Spriggs had told Shamus that he’d changed his mind about engaging an attorney to step in and represent the company — and he would continue to count on Shamus to speak on the behalf of the team and its primary sponsor over coming days.
While Shamus felt the night had been a continual uphill battle, Spriggs remarked in one of their early morning conversations that he hadn’t had so much fun in years. Shamus couldn’t understand why, exactly, but reckoned this was Sprigg’s equivalent of taming the famed climb up the Alpe d’ Huez, which left cyclists exhausted but euphoric.
Shamus returned to the team hotel and went to Phillip’s room first, and described to him what had transpired throughout the night.
He told Phillip the Tour was over, at least as far as their team was concerned, and that after they made the announcement to the team at breakfast Phillip should organize all the team’s gear and arrange transportation back to Girona where they would all regroup and see what chances remained for the rest of the season.
Phillip seemed to jump at the opportunity to manage these tasks. Shamus trusted the arrangements would all come together smoothly.
During the team breakfast, guys sat slack in their sweat suits, eating unenergetically, waiting to hear the news one and all sensed would be bad; the continued unexplained absence of Trusseau confirming their fears that the bad things occurring in their sport were happening underneath their own roof as well.
Shamus appeared with Phillip, and when they entered, the room went quiet and faces turned up, knowing.
For the umpteenth time, it seems, Shamus explained what transpired throughout the night, and what would be happening on this day. He told them about the so-called Truth and Reconciliation process, which had been adopted during the night. He told them that the only path forward was to live clean, and the only way to get on that path was to confess if one had ever gotten off of it. Done right, and done willingly, it was a chance to continue riding and to learn from one’s mistakes, and put them in the past.
He explained that the team would be continuing, and the sponsor had agreed to extend its contract for five additional years, provided the riders embraced the use of biological passports, as other teams were already starting to do, to demonstrated at all times that their blood values and chemistry remained consistent in the future.
Shamus paused and let this information sink in. From somewhere in the back of the room, the sound of hands clapping echoed forth, slowly at first, then picking up speed, and soon others joined in, and more on top of that, until the entire room was engulfed in applause as riders realized they’d done far better than merely dodge a death sentence from the team sponsor.
When the applause dissipated, Shamus explained that the UCI and the team representatives had agreed that a permanent office would be established, funded by a one percent contribution of riders’ race winnings, and matched dollar for dollar by their team, for the purpose of advocating for the riders. Who would run this office was yet to be determined, but the role would necessarily be filled by a rider who had raced professionally, and would be selected by an advisory group that would consist of current racers, with one such ‘advisor’ being designated by each UCI team.
“And I have to share with you some news that you will inevitably be hearing throughout the day, in part because the stories would be sensational, and in part because we will all be in our hotel rooms watching CNN rather than riding in the Tour,” Shamus stated and then paused to ensure that his point hadn’t been lost on anybody – specifically the point about their team not participating in the day’s stage – or any following ones - of this year’s Tour de France.
He began by explaining that both Trusseau and Doc had been arrested attempting to catch flights abroad at Amsterdam Schiphol airport. This news would be on the wires sometime in the morning, having been embargoed by the authorities until after the newspaper deadlines because associates of the men were being still pursued. Shamus informed them that Trusseau would be charged with a list of complaints including money laundering, drug trafficking, tax evasion, and second degree murder in the death of Gerard Jouyet. He did not bother explaining what Eve had told him about the sworn statements Petre Patrovski had provided to implicate Trusseau, in order to lighten the list of charges Patrovski faced.
Shamus noted dismay and shock on the riders’ faces. He guessed it was more a response to the arrests than an epiphany that these men were participating in unsavory doings.
Shamus mentioned only generally, based on information he’d gotten from Eve, that they should watch for announcements over coming days about arrests of certain executives in high levels of various pharmaceutical companies. While he didn’t name names, he did say that he doubted the Tour of California would have the same corporate sponsor next year. He also told them to watch for arrests and announcements of sudden resignations of certain officials within the worldwide network of WADA labs, as the elements of politics and manipulation that infected some of these labs were being remedied.
Finally, he told them that they should all go home for a few weeks, long enough to watch the Tour anyway, and they should decide what role they wanted to have in the new sport of cycling, which would be dominated by the strongest riders who would live an organic life, transparent and uncorrupted by drugs and potions.
He left Phillip in charge, and told the team he would look forward to seeing them in Girona in August.
Chapter 26
His toes buried in warm white sand, sweat carving tracks down his newly browned skin under the hot summer sun with few breezes and these almost as moist as himself, heat climbing his back as the sun rose in the sky behind him, and out on the horizon the ocean rippled and shimmered, nearly placid but for the waves birthed from its loins onto the white linen beach, swaddled in white foam.
He’d come out of the water earlier in the morning, an hour after sunrise, and hour after he’d gone in.
During that preceding session, he’d sat on his board, waiting to be seduced by a passing wave — but not just any. A hundred and fifty yards offshore provided the best seat in the world, in his opinion anyway, to watch the earth spin him toward the sun, and the yellow-orange ball first appear over the horizon until moments later it dominated the sky and helped unveil the surf he’d paddled out to play in.
Warm water flowed around his legs, which straddled the twin-fin he’d recovered from Pedro when he’d arrived back in Cabo, and Pedro had returned it gladly from his care. It looked no worse for his time away.
Now, as the temperature left the eighties and breached the low nineties, taking only a momentary respite before resuming its steady march toward a triple digit peak it would surmount later in the day, he watched the endless entertainment nature placed at his doorstep. To his right an ice bucket and partially submerged in that several beer bottles, one topless, and to his left, a small coffee table he’d commandeered from his rented hut to provide a resting place for his novel and his cell phone.
The phone rang, perhaps crying out from lack of attention.
“It’s for you.”
Oh yeah, opposite the coffee table was a beach chair matching his own. On it, reclined and languid, sat the love of his life doing her best to stare down the novel she was reading.
“Thanks. Hello,” he said to the phone.
Eve looked over at him, curious.
“Spriggs,” he mouthed to her. She went back to her novel, satisfied with the knowledge.
“Yeah, we’re fine. It’s hot down here this time of year, but we’re coping,” he said, and took a long drink from one of his coping mechanisms. “And you, Raleigh?”
“Uh huh,” he muttered, listening to his geriatric British friend. “Uh huh.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate the offer, and I don’t mean to be cocky, but I’m not all that surprised you called about it. I thought we worked together quite nicely also. It was a real privilege and I’d love to do it some more, but I’ve had another offer,” Shamus said, and paused to allow Spriggs to plead his case.
“No, it’s not about money,” Shamus countered. “I got a call from that attorney in Amsterdam who works with the UCI, what’s his name? Right. So he calls and says they’ve met with the teams and a name was put forward by the advisory board to serve as rider representative, and somehow mine was the one. I’m not sure what the role involves, nobody knows yet exactly, but I think it makes sense for me and I’d like to settle down for a couple years before I commit to managing a team and traveling so much. I’ve got a couple of projects I want to get underway, I’m sure you can understand.”
“Uh huh.”
“Right, of course you’ll be invited to the ceremony,” Shamus said, casting his eyes toward Eve, who’d heard every word so far, though she pretended otherwise. “Right, September timeframe.”
“Uh huh.”
“So I had an idea for you also, if you have another moment. Yeah, it’s about your search for a general manager for the team. I think I know just the man for the job. High energy, loves the business, great management skills and a killer C.V., and someone who can get people to perform above their own capabilities, in my experience. Sounds like the kind of chap you’re looking for, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“Yeah, well, I was thinking you ought to do it, actually.”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
“Uh huh.”
“Think of it, you just got the company to commit to stand behind the team for five more years, so you need to get it off to the right start. There are good riders and staff, but they need a seasoned hand to tighten things up and get them going in the right direction. You’ve got the Frenchman Phillip Olivier to run the day-to-day for you, and he’s the best I’ve worked with — but the man is absolutely uninterested in dealing with the press and sponsors and so forth. You can understand, I’m sure. He’s a former rider and just wants to manage the lads and the staff and get them from race to race.”
“Yeah, give it some thought; I think you’re itching for something more than sitting on boards, am I wrong?”
“Okay, let’s talk next week. I think you ought to be in Girona on the first of August though.”
Shamus hung up and set the phone on the table.
Eve set her book down for the moment and looked across at him. “So I am a ‘project’ of yours, is that what you called it?”
“One of them.”
“And the other?”
“Well, the other I’m going to need your help with,” he responded lustily, gazing at her with a look that said the world was too big for just the two of them.
***************************************************
Congratulations on finishing your journey with Shamus through the world of pro cycling and athletic doping. If it seems a little sinister, then maybe it captured some of the nastiness of the actual escapades some athletes are involved in to get that little something extra from their performances. The downside is that there are undoubtedly a great number of athletes doing it 100% clean, and it is certainly unfair to them that others aren’t. Perhaps their payback will be better health, a longer life, and the ability to look themselves in the mirror and be happy with the person they see. So this story is dedicated to all those athletes who do it on guts and sweat, and whose idea of ‘performance enhancement’ means riding more, racing more, and working with a great coach who emphasizes physical and mental techniques, not on chemical ones. If you’ve got any parting thoughts about the story, please leave them below.
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