Biker's and their buses in Nevada City
Getting The Money Shot
By Jeff Ackerman
I didn't have a press pass, and my bicycle was shedding dove feathers as I walked it up Broad Street Sunday, searching for a good place to catch a glimpse of Lance Armstrong. Using some Ackerman logic, I decided to throw my son's bike into the back of my hybrid, drive it to The Union parking lot and ride the bike from there to Nevada City, so I wouldn't have to worry about parking. Most everyone I spoke with in advance thought that was a splendid idea. They probably assumed I'd been on a bicycle in the last 40 years and that riding one from the Glenbrook Basin to Broad Street would be … splendid. …
By way of background, doves live in my garage. We thought it would be cute to have a couple of doves, and they have had 2,000 or so baby doves since we got them. As a result, the garage has dove feathers all over it, and when I pulled the bike out to load it into the car, it was covered with feathers.
By way of further background, I don't ride bikes very much. I don't have a butt, and you need one to ride a bike. You need a butt and a helmet. I began my own Tour of Nevada City from the newspaper parking lot and headed up Old Tunnel Road, looking to cross the freeway at the top and then drop down into Nevada City by way of the old Nevada City Highway.
My man purse draped over my shoulders, I peddled maybe 200 yards up Old Tunnel Road and decided that my plan wasn't really that splendid. I had the bike in the lowest gear possible, and I was peddling fast and not moving. So I got off and started pushing. I may not have a butt, but I do have splendid legs and can push a bike much faster than I can ride one. Especially up hill.
The last half was downhill, and I was able to coast the final leg of the First Stage of my own personal tour. As I walked past a few professional bike vans, I started to feel a little self-conscious about my wheels. White, fluffy feathers were still clinging to the spokes, and they were catching the attention of a few experts.
“Where did you get that piece of crap?” I heard from behind me. It was my friend Rick Gunn, who bicycled around the world and knows a thing or two about bikes. “Remind me to buy you a new bike, if I ever get my book published,” he added. “Hey! A feather just flew off your bike!” another onlooker said. I kept walking, hoping others might think he was referring to someone else who had feathers on his bike.
I decided to park the bike out in front of Friar Tucks in hope that someone might steal it. My son is also missing a butt and hardly ever rides his bike, so it's not like he'd notice it was no longer sitting under the bird cages.
The sidewalks were packed, and Nevada City was just glistening in the spotlight that was actually starting to get quite warm. A friend from the hospital handed me a paddled fan with GO LANCE! written on one side. I gave it to a volunteer who actually looked like she could use a fan and went to look for Lance. I know as much about professional cycling as you'd expect from a guy with no butt. I know Lance Armstrong and some guy named Levi, but that's it. I couldn't name a third cyclist if he rode over my foot.
Someone said Lance was hiding out in the Radio Shack bus that was parked by itself in some lot surrounded by lots of security. When you are bald and old with no butt, you hardly draw any attention (I can stand at a bar for 30 minutes without getting a drink), so I was able to just kind of stroll close enough to the bus to get a decent view.
I saw Ralph Joiner, who was in charge of all the volunteers, and he let me into the “inner circle” without a press pass. We had Ralph on page one the day before, and the fame hadn't yet gone to his head. I pulled out my iPhone and waited for the money shot of Lance, as he made his way to the starting line. There was only one way out, and Lance had to go right past me.
The crowd started clapping and through a sudden parting emerged Lance Armstrong. He smiled just as I clicked my iPhone camera and ... bingo ... I nailed it. (Right)
Before he even left Nevada City, I had posted Lance all over Facebook, interrupting hundreds of Farmville workers in the process.
My work for the day completed, I walked back to my feathery bike and rode it out of town, stopping every 100 yards or so to walk. I probably got back to Grass Valley at around the same time Lance rolled into Sacramento.
Cycling is great for Nevada City, but what's left of my butt would just as soon walk to the next bike race.Jeff Ackerman is the publisher of The Union. His column appears on Tuesdays. Contact him at 477-4299, jeffa@theunion.com, or 464 Sutton Way, Grass Valley 95945.
(I couldn't resist Jeff's story. Not only is he very funny, but I've always wondered why modern bicycle manufacturers put such terrible seats on the bikes. No wonder riders have to wear padded trunks....Not only that, but shifting into low gear to go uphill? legs pumping like mad... is another torture. Don't even think about it if you have bad knees.)