The 2015 World Championships Were Seriously Amazing
In the run-up to the 2015 UCI Road World Championships, our hearts had been hungry for the crackle of a pallet fire burning in the belly of an empty barrel. We (Randy Skidmore and I) had made loose yard-camping arrangements, and we’d imagined all manner of cycle-nuts gathered around the fire’s glow, exchanging tales and enjoying freshly poured beverages. Everyone we knew, it seemed, was headed to Richmond, Virginia, for the races. The problem was that it had been raining buckets in the event’s host city.
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Watch the video below for taste of what made the World's a once-in-a-lifetime experience for cycling fans.
A favor was called in, and the Super Fans, as Randy and I sometimes call ourselves, were offered a place to sleep indoors, with modern plumbing and doors that lock. Our oddly groomed and savagely tanned knees would enjoy comforts known, normally, only by those who do the thing called “planning.”
“I can hardly keep my teeth in my mouth, I’m so stoked,” Randy said.
You, German: We saw you. You were talking to an Ethiopian. You were talking at the top of the Governor Street climb in Richmond, Virginia. You were one of us, a Super Fan; we could tell. The way you swam in the drape of a small t-shirt said, “This thing they are doing on the course right now? I do it, too. See?”
We came for those like you. We wanted to be with people who cared like we do, to stand with those wearing cycling-specific trousers and cradling helmets equipped to notify significant others if their wearers passed out in the crowded pit from too much excitement as the racers flew by.
“I can’t get with that,” said the one.
“What, the OCLV?” replied the other.
“No, the OCLV with Priest bars on it. He needs to take this more seriously.”
Super Fans where everywhere.
The hugging on the streets of Richmond was burly. Handshakes went beyond the palm. Folks who don’t see each other much stood between laps, grins stretching the wind-worn cheeks of mid-pack finishers, mechanics, mothers, punks, geezers, Eritreans, and more. We didn’t see enough of some, and we saw too much of others. (Thank you, Norwegian dudes.)
Folks who’d never met in person—only through the currents of social media—came across each other in this fray of elation. And for all our stupid socks, unintelligible cycle-speak, otherwise-inexcusable abuse of the appropriateness of wearing a Cap? instead of a Hat?, and uncomfortably fatless legs, Richmond embraced us all.
“Finally, I can smell you,” one said to another.
Margarita’s on 18th was dimly lit, but brightly painted. Its drink and food selection suited the Italians, the British, and two young Iowans draped in the national flag of their favorite racers—he, Colombia; she, Kazakhstan—giddy and smiling, nibbling patiently in anticipation of the next passing of the field.
When that moment came, signaled first by a car with a huge watch on top, all of us filed dutifully to the curb to behold. The cacophony of cheers and cowbells would go silent in the draft of the passing peloton; we stood in awe of the riders’ pain, of their chances at glory. We could see it. We could feel it.
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As dutifully as we emerged, we went back inside where the uninitiated locals erupted with roughly calibrated reactions to breakaways, gaps, and laps remaining. They were into this race.
“You want to get everyone in the joint a drink just for coming out and giving a shit,” Randy said.
Overheard in Libby Hill Park, aka the Pit:
“Agggggh! The Human Condition! Suffer for more!”
“That chick (minutes behind the field) is 10 times stronger than me.”
“Race souvenirs, one dollar.”
“I can’t cheer for you just because you’re from the US. I don’t even know who you voted for.”
“If you’re ever in Texas, you’ve gotta stop at Buc-ee’s.”
“Seriously, what am I doing with my life?”
Randy and I wandered, guided by wonder, gall, and sounds. We felt the embrace of Richmond, Virginia, on almost every corner, through every door, and from every smile. Every stoop we passed was a special one, extending iteself to the curb so that people could see, meet, and experience cycling. Maybe it was clingy, but nonetheless: At the 2015 Worlds, Richmond would not stop hugging us.
“I feel like I really paid for this. Really,” Randy said. “But it wasn’t that much.”
A Graphic Take on Richmond Worlds
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