World’s Best Cyclists Give South Valley Region a Real European
Feel
The artistic photograph to the right, taken by our chief photographer, Chris Riley, perfectly illustrates the kind of disposition of which I awoke on Wednesday in my Morgan Hill home by Chesbro Lake – it was all a blur.
When I went to bed on Tuesday night I knew that I’d be awaken to the sights of cyclists racing down Willow Springs Road. We had, in fact published the very Stage 3 map of the Tour of California in Wednesday morning’s Gilroy Dispatch so it was of no surprise to me that the Tour would be passing right by my driveway. In fact, when I returned home from the Dispatch office at 2am I was greeted with detour signs on the corner of Oak Glen and Willow Springs and three orange traffic cones in front of my mailbox.
“Wow, I thought to myself, this is going to be a pretty big deal.”
I had no idea at the time just how big.
Since I normally don’t find my way to bed before 4am – the normal crazy sleep schedule of someone in our business – I wasn’t exactly planning on waking up at the crack of dawn to wait on cyclists. So by the time I managed to stumble out of bed, let’s just say the 10am hour had come and gone.
My 15-year-old dog, which is half Labrador Retriever, had been barking periodically since about 8am and while I never got up to check why, I knew that something had to be going on outside, because she never barks, thankfully, unless there is good reason.
And yet even in my slumber I knew that what she was barking about wasn’t all that serious. You get to recognize the different tones of a bark after 15 years.
But when I finally did grab my morning coffee and found my way to the living room, I was astonished at what awaited me outside of my front door. My wife Judy had already opened up the blinds to our living room picture window, allowing me a sneak preview of what I was about to be in store for.
Willow Springs Road was packed with people both on foot and bicycles. Oak Glen had cars parked all along the Chesbro Lake Dam for as far as you could see. A family of six was picnicking on our front lawn!
And even my wife had parked two chairs at the end of our driveway, setting up her own spectator perch.
I’d retired to sleep six hours earlier in the quiet bedroom community of Morgan Hill surrounded by a magnificent view of the mountains and the lake and suddenly felt like I had been transformed to the South of France.
Police officers on motorcycles and in cars, sirens blaring and horns beeping signaled to the crowd that the festivities of the day were soon to begin. Every cyclist was accompanied by an officer on motorcycle and closely followed by a car with backup bicycles atop the roof.
I really was in a state of shock as to the events that were unfolding before my eyes.
The closest thing I’d ever witnessed to this before was in Colombia, South America, the native country of my wife. Every Sunday morning in Bogota there was a bike race.
But this wasn’t just a race.
This was some of the world’s best competing on Morgan Hill streets. Are you kidding me? Now the excitement was no less dulled by the fact that each rider was racing against the clock in time trials rather than in a pack against each other.
I was in a state of constant amazement as people cheered for the riders by name. “Vladimar (Gusev), Fabian (Cancellara), Nathan (O’Neill), George (Hincapie) Bobby (Julich), David (Zabriskie) Floyd (Landis).” One after another, spectators shouted their first names on cue. It was like they’d known them all their lives. Young men, racing their hearts out from countries as far away as Russia, Switzerland, Australia and New Zealand had instantly received celebrity status.
And make no mistake about it, these guys were soaking it all up, every single solitary minute of it. And so were the fans.
The closest thing to this kind of enthusiasm I’ve ever seen fans google over is qualifying at a NASCAR race.
I remember when my wife and I first moved to North Carolina and I stopped at a convenience store only to leave the store mouth ajar in a total state of disbelief. The store clerk was listening to the NASCAR time qualifying on the radio.
Now I’m a sports nut, a real junky, but even for me this was absolutely ridiculous. Of course at that time I also that a NASCAR race was about as boring as watching the grass grow. My friends from the Northeast will probably disown me when they realize that I’m now that store clerk.
A Friday doesn’t go by when I either listen or check qualifying results and on Sunday afternoon, well morning out here, the NASCAR race is on. That is if I’m not at the race.
That was the same kind of enthusiasm I witnessed yesterday morning, lined up and down the streets surrounding Chesbro Lake. Avid, rabid fans, screaming their lungs out as if they had a vested interest in a particular cyclists.
As the competition wore down, a San Jose Mercury News photographer approached us and asked if she could take our picture. It was kind of ironic being on the other end of the interview process. I’m sure our picture didn’t make today’s Mercury News, not with those adorable kids sitting on our front lawn stealing the show. But it was an interesting experience none-the-less.
As the Mercury-News photographer left she did, however, leave me one interesting bit of information of which to ponder.
“Hey, who knows, maybe this will be this side of the ocean’s answer to the Tour de France,” she said. “Think about the great view you’ll have year after year.”
By 3pm the festivities had concluded and Willow Springs Road was returning to normal. As I reentered the house, I did a quick check to make sure I was still in the bedroom community of Morgan Hill.
One pregnant cat – check.
One cat with two newly born kittens – check.
One 15-year-old dog that has found a place to nap – check.
My wife preparing lunch in the kitchen – check.
OK, it’s official I’m still here in Morgan Hill.
And of that there was at least one thing of which to be thankful.
No signs of any women with hairy armpits – whew!
It was an experience that brought me close enough to the South of France and kept me far enough away.
Then again, there also wasn’t any smell of a chocolate souffle emanating from the oven – oh well, one can dream.
Who knows, maybe next year.
