In the early '90s I was living in Pittsburgh, the home of the greatest professional one-day bicycle race the U.S. has ever seen, the Thrift Drug Classic. I never missed a day and wondered how I could get involved.
One day in early February, 1994, my daughter got a piece of junk mail from the race asking for volunteers, especially volunteers with motorcycles. That was me! I had just bought my first adult motorcycle, temporarily satisfying my middle-age angst with a Candy-Apple Red Suzuki Intruder 800, probably the most beautiful but inappropriate motorcycle for bicycle race support ever made.
With my Godson, Ian, on that old beauty (note MARSHAL stickers).
One day in early February, 1994, my daughter got a piece of junk mail from the race asking for volunteers, especially volunteers with motorcycles. That was me! I had just bought my first adult motorcycle, temporarily satisfying my middle-age angst with a Candy-Apple Red Suzuki Intruder 800, probably the most beautiful but inappropriate motorcycle for bicycle race support ever made.
With my Godson, Ian, on that old beauty (note MARSHAL stickers).
I filled out the enclosed form and hand-delivered it to the fellow in charge of collecting the forms and waited ... and waited ... and waited. The day before the 1994 race I read in the paper that volunteers were to meet at Station Square. Well, no point in waiting at home, I'd better get there since clearly my invitation had been lost in the mail.
I jumped on my bike and was there 45 minutes before the meeting began, but there were no motorcycles anywhere. I saw Bud Harris, one of the race organizers, whom I recognized from his pictures in the paper, walked over and asked if this was the place for the motorcycle volunteers. Nice as could be, he told me that the motors were meeting at the Greentree Marriott (places and names will mean something to Pittsburghers - apologies to the rest of you) in 30 minutes.
I got there in 20. I walked into the meeting just as they were doing the roll call.
"Anybody whose name was not called?"
I put my hand up.
"Who are you?"
"Tom Balaban."
"Who sent you?"
"Bud Harris."
The groan was clear. "OK, we'll find something for you to do."
I was a rear marshal which meant riding in front of racers who had fallen off the back and providing security for them as they struggled up Sycamore St. (the Burma Road to locals) and over the rest of the nine-lap 11 mile circuit.
I was hooked. I wanted to ride with this group that was leaving the next morning for the West Viginia K-Mart Classic Stage Race but my work calendar was full, I hadn't been invited and Bud Harris, my unwitting sponsor, had nothing to do with that race.
(To be continued)
I jumped on my bike and was there 45 minutes before the meeting began, but there were no motorcycles anywhere. I saw Bud Harris, one of the race organizers, whom I recognized from his pictures in the paper, walked over and asked if this was the place for the motorcycle volunteers. Nice as could be, he told me that the motors were meeting at the Greentree Marriott (places and names will mean something to Pittsburghers - apologies to the rest of you) in 30 minutes.
I got there in 20. I walked into the meeting just as they were doing the roll call.
"Anybody whose name was not called?"
I put my hand up.
"Who are you?"
"Tom Balaban."
"Who sent you?"
"Bud Harris."
The groan was clear. "OK, we'll find something for you to do."
I was a rear marshal which meant riding in front of racers who had fallen off the back and providing security for them as they struggled up Sycamore St. (the Burma Road to locals) and over the rest of the nine-lap 11 mile circuit.
I was hooked. I wanted to ride with this group that was leaving the next morning for the West Viginia K-Mart Classic Stage Race but my work calendar was full, I hadn't been invited and Bud Harris, my unwitting sponsor, had nothing to do with that race.
(To be continued)
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