firerescuefin
06-07-2012, 01:22 PM
http://www.cyclingnews.com/features/olympic-moments-2000-nothstein-the-last-great-american-sprinter
I am going to purchase and read it...I think it may have been Ghost written by Viper though.
Excerpt from The Price of Gold:
Rousseau is a prodigy who fulfilled his promise and then some. He owns 10 Olympic and world championship medals, including a gold medal from these Games in the team sprint. In a country that's synonymous with cycling, Rousseau ranks as one of the most accomplished racers of all time.
And in the match sprint, Rousseau is a silent assassin. He isn't known for his tactical prowess or deft bike handling. He doesn't play games. He isn't an aggressor. I'm told he hates racing me because he doesn't like getting physical. Rousseau wins by riding faster over the last lap of a match sprint than anyone else in the world. To beat Rousseau, I must ride the fastest final 200 meters of my life - twice.
Many sprinters perform exaggerated mental preparations on the start line. With a series of heaving breaths and snorts, they transform themselves from mere competitors, into predators. Rousseau's routine is recognized worldwide. His porcelain-smooth skin draws tight across his face as he flares his nostrils and widens his eyes. He clenches his teeth as if he's ripping into a tough steak. Over a series of inhalations, Rousseau's eyes grow wider and wider, until they're nearly bulging from his skull.
Me, I look as if I couldn't care less. During the '99 season I completely changed my start line routine, a mental preparation similar to a pitcher's wind up, or a basketball player's movements on the free throw line. I don't strut and prance like a fighting cock thrown into a pit. I'm ready to throw down whenever, wherever. As Rousseau performs his interpretive dance on the start line, I sit stoically on my bike, a look of sincere boredom on my face. I take a handful of deep breaths, roll my shoulders, and stare off into space. I always make sure I'm the last rider to grab my handlebars.
I wait for Rousseau to reach down for his drops. Then I count backward for 10 seconds, 10, 9, 8,...before grabbing my own handlebars. I look over at Rousseau and stare him directly in the eye. Let's ****ing race, I think. Rousseau grabs his handlebars. The official blows the whistle. You first, I think.
Rousseau rolls into the lead.
He rides at a measured pace at the bottom of the track. No games. No tricks. We'll just ride as fast as we can ride. I sit behind Rousseau, a bike length off his back wheel. One lap goes by, then two. The bell clangs. Rousseau rises from the saddle. I stand on my pedals. He's going now, and I'm coming.
I'm at Rousseau's wheel by the start of the second turn. I'm in his draft. One, two, three pedal strokes and I'm beside him. One, two, three pedal strokes and I'm a half-wheel in front of him. We enter the third turn, our thick arms braced against our bars, our legs firing with every muscle fiber we can muster.
We're riding for Olympic gold. I'm riding for my life.
I am going to purchase and read it...I think it may have been Ghost written by Viper though.
Excerpt from The Price of Gold:
Rousseau is a prodigy who fulfilled his promise and then some. He owns 10 Olympic and world championship medals, including a gold medal from these Games in the team sprint. In a country that's synonymous with cycling, Rousseau ranks as one of the most accomplished racers of all time.
And in the match sprint, Rousseau is a silent assassin. He isn't known for his tactical prowess or deft bike handling. He doesn't play games. He isn't an aggressor. I'm told he hates racing me because he doesn't like getting physical. Rousseau wins by riding faster over the last lap of a match sprint than anyone else in the world. To beat Rousseau, I must ride the fastest final 200 meters of my life - twice.
Many sprinters perform exaggerated mental preparations on the start line. With a series of heaving breaths and snorts, they transform themselves from mere competitors, into predators. Rousseau's routine is recognized worldwide. His porcelain-smooth skin draws tight across his face as he flares his nostrils and widens his eyes. He clenches his teeth as if he's ripping into a tough steak. Over a series of inhalations, Rousseau's eyes grow wider and wider, until they're nearly bulging from his skull.
Me, I look as if I couldn't care less. During the '99 season I completely changed my start line routine, a mental preparation similar to a pitcher's wind up, or a basketball player's movements on the free throw line. I don't strut and prance like a fighting cock thrown into a pit. I'm ready to throw down whenever, wherever. As Rousseau performs his interpretive dance on the start line, I sit stoically on my bike, a look of sincere boredom on my face. I take a handful of deep breaths, roll my shoulders, and stare off into space. I always make sure I'm the last rider to grab my handlebars.
I wait for Rousseau to reach down for his drops. Then I count backward for 10 seconds, 10, 9, 8,...before grabbing my own handlebars. I look over at Rousseau and stare him directly in the eye. Let's ****ing race, I think. Rousseau grabs his handlebars. The official blows the whistle. You first, I think.
Rousseau rolls into the lead.
He rides at a measured pace at the bottom of the track. No games. No tricks. We'll just ride as fast as we can ride. I sit behind Rousseau, a bike length off his back wheel. One lap goes by, then two. The bell clangs. Rousseau rises from the saddle. I stand on my pedals. He's going now, and I'm coming.
I'm at Rousseau's wheel by the start of the second turn. I'm in his draft. One, two, three pedal strokes and I'm beside him. One, two, three pedal strokes and I'm a half-wheel in front of him. We enter the third turn, our thick arms braced against our bars, our legs firing with every muscle fiber we can muster.
We're riding for Olympic gold. I'm riding for my life.