Riders of the Silver Lands

Argentina, Land of Silver. The reason the Spanish came all the way down here, the name derived from the Latin for Silver, Argentum, We rode, we rode, we rode….

Trivial fact, always in the back of my mind, sorry, that’s the sort of thing I remember.

Late Fall, Northern NJ: Slipping through the thinning summer, Rich and I start talking about how it will be when the snows set in, the holidays are all long past and the days are short.

“I know a place we can ride” says he, “where the days are long and warm, the steak is cheap, the wine is magnificent, the roads are empty, and; we can make millions while we sleep”. I was of course immediately interested. He now denies saying that last part.

Anyway, we made final arrangements for our trip down South. The plan was to meet the Colavita Professional team in San Luis, a small town in the province of San Luis, located roughly in the middle of Argentina. They would be there for the week before the Tour De San Luis, a local event held for the 5th year and one that has been drawing in solid two wheel talent from across South America and Europe each season.

The 2008 team, carefully forged by a brand new Director Sportif, our own racer turned team manager Sebastian Alexandre (aka Seba), combines North American and Argentine talent in a carefully balanced formula, a formidable mix of talents across the disciplines of this sport including Climbers, Sprinters, Time-Trialists and all round hard workers, the backbone “Domestiques” of every pro team.

We would check into the hotel in San Luis on Saturday and ride a few hours, eat, rest and prepare to spend the rest of the week riding with the team ahead of the first stage of the Tour on Tuesday the following week. That was the idea anyway…

Diary entries follow; mostly verbatim. Enjoy

Sunday Jan 13, 08

The 3:10 to San Luis
Seem to have been traveling forever.

Last minute Friday, Aerolineas cancels our flight. Rich calls. “We ride the Pampas No Matter What Happens” is the rally. He rises at 4 am and with some long distance persuasion of only the sort a lawyer can dish, gets us on a series of alternate connecting flights through JFK, Atlanta, Beunos Aires, Mendoza and then a bus to San Luis.

Friday the whole (altered) plan kicks into gear, I pick up Rich, we meet Andy from the team who will travel with us, we ride to JFK and prepare to put the whole show in the air, 5 oversize bike boxes included to make the logistics just that bit more tricky.

After missing a passport, interminable flight delays, holdups, security checks and rechecks but amazingly; no lost luggage, we all meet up in Mendoza at the local airport just outside the town around midday Saturday. It is incredibly hot. We are 30 miles from the mighty Andes and can see them looming clearly in the distance. Everyone is in good spirits as we board the bus. I finally get to meet some of the superstars of our sport in person.

Now is a moment, ensconced comfortably in shorts (I just had to change) and basking in the breeze of an open window, that we are bussed at a steady 100 km/h East through groves of Olives flanked by tall Poplars, open acres of grapes, and tiny roadside hamlets. We leave behind the Vineyards of Argentina headed up to the Chaparral of San Luis and thence to an 11 pm steak dinner. I think of Napoleon and the orderly French roads Poplar’d, the gallic taint inescapable here, the Spanish littoral translated.

I sit across from Seba trading odd connections we share about this vast open country. The Perones, the sea battle and sinking of the “Admiral Graff Spee” after a dogged pursuit by British warships so carefully and triumphantly described in Churchill, the local politics and the provincial governor, Bruce Chatwin’s classic travel companion "In Patagonia", and, more close to home, my memory of Seba two years ago when, as Team Colavita’s star rider he laps the whole field inside the first 15 in the tour of Maplewood and takes the race home.

This land spawns exceptional riders, they train on the same busy and windy highways we are streaming down now and, they all seem very friendly, down to earth and remarkably likable, a refreshing change from some of the roadies I have come across.
For some idle moments in Mendoza’s quiet little airport I had logged onto the trickling Wireless Internet service and tried to locate us on Google Maps.

Answer came there none. We are thus in the middle of nowhere, so much so the Maps shows the whole area as a non-descript grayness defined only by the margin of the Alps on the left and ocean to the right. When Google comes up empty-handed, an immutable law of modern nature is violated. Clearly we have moved beyond the pale, and this is what it looks like.

If I wanted a place to pull me briefly clear of the everyday, this has so far exceeded all expectations on that score, there is nothing else to do but ride, ride and eat.

Late that night we get into town. Dinner is actually at 12:30am, the town is still vibrant at this time, even now, Sunday night !!! Then a quick run into the darkness to drop Rich and I. We are staying at the Hotel Protrero de Los Funes about 25 minutes out of town. We check in and crash, each in a rather comfortable room.

Monday Jan 14, 08
Flat, False Flat?

When I finally get out of bed in the late am, the view is startling. The hotel is built on a Swiss lake framed by the mountains of Arizona, a combination I have not seen before; a lake in what looks a like a desert. Then I recall all the Poplars and Willows we saw the day before, there is obviously a lot of water here, just not all the time.

A lazy buffet breakfast follows with miniature sticky-sweet Croissants, baked biscuits, fruit salad and of course, the very good local coffee. Afterwards, Rich and I ride East and out towards Trepiche. The road climbs steadily for the first 15K, not steep but not much relief either. When we reach the upper plain the wind is slightly in our favor, the flat looks sweet but is a liar.

We probably go a bit harder than needed. On the turn around we see a flash of red and green go into the roundabout and suddenly we are in the middle of the whole team and busily pedaling away back home with our new-found buddies. We are going easy but then a long roller comes up with a strong cross wind. No one stops talking, neither does anyone slow down but I am silent and now suddenly uncomfortable watching my HR inexorably climb upward. Within 5 mins I hit 177 and the hill was not quitting so Rich and I did.

The guys just kept rolling along as we fell off. It seemed so effortless to them and yet we were over our limit. They ride 35 hours a week in peak season.

Tuesday Jan 15, 08
Mirador

This was to be a long day and it was hot as we got out late.

We rode 62 miles, mostly slow climbs at 2-4% but then we hit the "Mirador" at 50 miles. This is a 5K climb up though a mountain pass at 10% with some sections maybe 12%. Not as steep as some of the climbs we have in NJ but way longer. I had been eating and drinking regularly as I went (it was about 90F and very dry) and I popped a Gu at the foot of the climb and then eased into the first mile or so gradually working the legs to that state of equilibrium where the pain goes away, the heart stabilizes and the power is consistent. This is that moment in a long climb when others usually take off a little harder and then have to ease off as they over do it. I always ease in to find my rhythm and then slowly raise my tempo to the ceiling. The boys were somewhere behind us and after the first mile I started to get very comfortable pulling a steady 260w.

Using a power meter is so helpful in these cases because I now know what is sustainable work and what is not. I can hold 260 for an hour and as long as the HR stays low I can go a bit higher. This climb pitches from grade to grade so you need to change output as you go to try and hold a steady cadence and speed, the whole climb being done in 1st gear. Concentrating on form, keeping an eye on the meter to stay inside 300w and watching the HR, I was soon starting to actually enjoy myself and the incredible views as I inched up the road at 8.6 mph.HR at 174, 9 beats off maximum.

Breathing regularly, nothing but the stinging of sweat in my eyes to bother me, I peek down the switch backs and see the boys coming up a quarter mile back. They are moving fast and I raise my tempo to try hold them off a while longer. The support van passes me with a honk and three minutes later the boys come by me at a fast walking speed, probably 11 mph as a group.

They are riding cleanly but not talking. If was to ride at that speed I would last for about a minute and then explode. They must be working too. At the front is Anthony Colby, he won the first-ever Green Mountain Prolog that I competed in by posting an amazing 29:47 minutes to climb the Appalachian gap. I did it in 36. What other sport allows you to play with the Pros? In the last 300M I get out of the saddle and push it. HR passes 180 but I arrive at the top in style.

At the top we regroup, the view is spectacular and goes on for miles across the plain of the West. We get water, snacks and a few minutes to recover before heading down. The descent is amazing and roads are great. We will do this one again.

In the Lobby the sign advising of Massage services had caught my eye a few times, indeed the name of the masseuse had struck me as interesting, Carina Levin, clearly a Russian removed. It took just a quick phone call to engage her for an hour and have the soreness gently ease out of the quads while I lay back and dreamt of climbs I might do, could do and should do. Then I thought about how much faster I would be after this massage…one can only dream.

Wednesday Jan 16, 08
There are many kinds of Steak.

Had a great Argentine Asado (BBQ) dinner last night.

Our team includes a chef skilled in the secrets of this ancient form of Pampas feasting. The hotel in town (The Aiello) were the team stays has agreed to lend us their BBQ for the evening. This is unique in that the cooking is done over wood embers regularly extracted from a small fire kept burning at one end of the flat grill surface and raked under the grilling racks while large and sumptuous cuts of steak, steak chiseled from a cow that never saw a corn cob in it’s life, are grilled to perfection in the fragrant heat.

We rode to town this morning from the Protrero. The driving is a bit erratic and god forbid you have an accident, I suspect the medical facilities......I am getting to like Siestas and dinners at 9 pm. I saw a guy and his wife and little kids up by the lake our hotel is on fishing at 1:30 am on Saturday, “Never in New Jersey” was all I could think.

The roads are filled with Ford Falcons, Renault 4, 6's and 12's, and old Fiat 127's (all of which I grew up with in Ireland in the 70’s so it was a little eerie) plus a few Fiat 600's. I was thinking that they basically drive a car until it dies here or, judging by the clouds of exhaust they all spew, a little after that.

I saw a Ford Falcon this morning that looked as though it had been retrieved from a wrecking yard. The town is a grid of streets and their intersections, most having no lights or right-of-way signage, just first come first served or, biggest wins. On a bike this is a little nerve wracking but we are getting used to it.

The Pro team are riding a mix of last years and this years Jamis bikes. The new Jamis in particular is a startling engineering achievement. I picked up the just-assembled model being ridden by Alexandro this morning.

At 12 lbs it is ridiculously light and stiffer than you can believe. I have this frame ordered as I get an astonishing deal through the team.

This evening I offered to go and do a little shopping to prepare for the Asado. I also thought it would be a good opportunity to pick up some stuff for the kids and see what a real store is like down here. I bummed a ride into town with Gustavo and his wife Marianna. They live in Buenos Aires and so are a little out of place here in their stylish black Golf with shaded windows. We drive across town and on the way chat about Gustavo’s Olympic days. He competed in two succesive Olympics as a national track champion and enjoyed it but the results were not so good. I can only imagine how much stress he must have been under.

We pull into the parking lot of a huge store, it was, you guessed it: Walmart! No wonder there was not a single store selling products that could be carried away in the town, everyone was now shopping here. Even those who could not afford cars as was clear from the line of Taxis by the front door.

Walmart, as ever, sold everything. From car tires to goat cheese. Local wines to digital cameras. Once, only the providence of retailers like Harrods of London or Macys NYC, the sale of everything from under one roof is now the defining trait of Walmart. I stocked up on a few items for home and found a surprisingly decent selection of cheeses and salamis, all good for the evenings feasting.

Pretty much every part of the cow came our way at some point during that evening. I have a memory of Anthony’s face after he tried one particularly flavorful organ, “It’s very gamey!” he says. We all burst out laughing. Gamey is not the half of it but most plates were cleaned off.

The talk was of racing and training. I spent much of it gathering tips from Kyle on good sprint training regimens. He also said “mistakes are good, you learn nothing without making mistakes” something I think I could learn by.

In 2007 Colavita had signed David Mcann, the top Irish rider of 2006 and three time holder of the Irish TT record. He had been racing with some of these same lads last year and although the team did not do too well in races overall, they had picked up a broad knowledge of Irish racing culture and also British comedy. This last as it seems that Mcann had been a great fan of downloaded UK TV shows, watched in the endless downtime of rest between races.

For the much of the evening, Andy who had memorized some classic skits, entertained us with merriment from "Bo' Selecta", a show whose UK comedic value seemed to have played very well to these young American athletes.

Friday Jan 18, 08
The Last Day of our Acquaintance.

So Friday was our last day of riding but we made it really count. It was, by way of the descriptive two wheel vernacular, a 'hard' day with a total of three ascents of the Mirador.

The first, my best ever, was completed in 19.5 minutes at 283 watts average. The remaining efforts were a little easier. At the top we were persons of great curiosity to the local day trippers, so much so that one family asked us to pose with their three tiny girls for a photo and then asked if we were in the Tour D' France. They all knew of the upcoming Tour D' San Luis and really seemed excited by our sport and the bright Colavita team Jerseys.

When told that their very own Argentine-born Alexandre Brajo was riding for us they knew well who he was and were very impressed. We also rode a good while with the team this day, they too being out for a Hard day under the direction of Seba though he had already taken off for Buenos Aires earlier in the morning.

For us a hard day was 3.5 hours with lots of climbing, for them, almost 6 hours with more climbing and they would do several of these days back to back. Just one was enough for us. Anthony Colby told me later he had slipped up the Mirador at an easy 370 watts. At 20 lbs lighter than I and almost 100w more going easy, you can imagine how fast he climbs in anger.

A lazy afternoon and massage followed the climbing followed by another superb dinner at 9:30, as always. This time the venue was "Les Robles" (The Oak in San Luis) a place Rich knew well and for good reason, the service was excellent and food quality matched it. Another fine local Red was carefully chilled under Rich's direction in an ice bucket. This noted because they will by default serve red at room temp here (and it is 90F) and give you ice to add to the glass.

We left a little after midnight and gave up our table to the family of five who had been waiting. Once again, not one child of the three present was past their sixth year.

Saturday Jan 19, 08
The City of Fair Winds.

“The History of Buenos Aires is written in it’s telephone directory. Pompey Romanov, Emilio Rommel, Crespina D.Z. de Rose, Ladislao Radziwil, and Elizabeth Marta Callman de Rothschild-five names taken at random from among the R’s - told a story of exile, disillusion and anxiety from behind lace curtains.”
“In Patagonia” by Bruce Chatwin.

Who could ever forget an introduction like that? It figures that Bruce was the type of guy who spent time reading telephone directories. Still, in truth, there is some of the cultural genome written there.

We arrived in Buenos Aires late afternoon yesterday and met Seba at the regional airport. This airport sits right on the bay and we came out of the terminal into bright sunlight, breezes, and the sight of an immense brown ocean dotted with fleeting white caps and sails scudding in the far distance. I asked Seba why the ocean was so brown. "That is not the ocean, that is the River" he said.

The Rio Plate drains much of Northern Argentina, Uruguay and Southern Brazil. It flows into the Atlantic here, pouring out of a vast mouth some 38 km across, still fresh water or, on this day, not so fresh owing to the storms of summer drenching the city throughout the last week.

Buenos Aires is in an autonomous city in the state of Buenos Aires. It has the government and general authority to lead the nation but it's authority is not president in all matters. Most recently the nation decided to add an hour to daylight savings as did North America. A few weeks later, San Luis, a region that gained little by this change and lost a useful hour of early light, moved the hour back. The back story is that last year the governor of San Luis ran for president but was defeated. He has not forgotten it seems.

We stay a few hours at Seba’s wife's parent's retirement home on the edge of the city. Carla's parents live at the Christian Brother's college nearby where they have been caretakers for 30 years but will retire in a year. Federal in style, in front of the house the garden is a small postage stamp of grass with a small potted Olive tree and some roses.

The interior of the home is neat, elegant and spare. It has two small bedrooms with very high ceilings railroad off a kitchen which also opens to a small sitting area, a small bathroom and a covered side patio. The floors are all cool tile, the overly tall door frames are of stained wood, each with a transom, the external doors and window frames are black painted steel and have elegant geometric shuttering screwed into the wall for security. There are five locks with large, complex and confounding brass keys required in sequence to secure ingress.

The feel is distinctly Spanish with that hint of the Moor still present half a millennium and a world away. Art and craft tell a tale otherwise un-guessed. The bookshelves are lined with historical sets of some age covering Greece, Rome, Art etc.

We steal a few hours rest, a cup of tea and then we go to Seba's new apartment currently being prepared for the imminent arrival of his already-named first born son; Thomas.

Seba is fluent in English, good natured, thoughtful, organized and, most importantly, a great friend and mentor to his riders. They are handpicked and matched by him. With this team he tells us later, Colavita will have it's best year ever on the Pro circuit. He seems perfectly formed for this job and talks of it with gusto. An amazing dinner on the newly renovated waterfront of the downtown followed with Rich, Seba, his wife;Carla and Seba's remarkably trim and fit 73 year old father Anthony Alexandre;who drove there to meet us.

The waterfront restaurant is beautifully designed within a section of an old red brick warehouse, one of dozens now renovated and thriving in the flush of newly minted life that has rushed back to this section of the city. In complement, the gangling pre-container dock cranes of the former age remain in place to yaw like great Giraffes out over the edge of the stone pier. Brightly painted they make impressive sculptures, monuments to the rich history of this waterway and the part it played in the glory of the Argentine.

Further up the dock is a restored three-masted tall ship whose rear gunwales and stout funnels give witness to a short period in time when wind was just bowing to steam, wood hulls to steel flanks and Argentina's naval frigates were it's best and only defense.

Defending the life blood, the vast agricultural bounty of a new nation, in size 7th largest in the world, flowing out almost exclusively through the port of this city. That flow has fueled 300 years of almost non-stop growth and prosperity. Now, at over 12 million inhabitants, Buenos Aires ("Fair Winds") is home to a half of this nation's very mixed peoples, the rest are scattered over it's Pampas, nestled under the gigantic mountains and basking on the verdant Andean Alpine pastures.

It is by far the largest city of the southern hemisphere. Driving to dinner earlier in the evening I was struck by the immensity of this metropolis. The outskirts seemed endless. A rolling parade of medium rise apartment buildings, hard by the super highway comes at you from both beams for almost an hour before you finally reach Ave Julio. This majestic entryway, at over 300m across, is the widest central avenue of any City I have ever seen. Here the buildings are more commercial and financial in their utility. They rival the newest and finest anywhere else in the world but they mesh with a layer of complexity, a sense of style, an old world feeling atypical of the Americas.

All around in this capital district there is stamped the timeless grace of the European Diaspora. It has molded and spoken for all of the architecture, the elegant streets and the line of the rooftops. Beaux Arts, Belle Epoque, Classic Italianate and Greek revival all cluster majestically under the same gleaming glass towers you might see in New York. Paris of the South you might describe it as but no, it is much bigger and bolder than even Paris. Perhaps when Paris meets Chicago it gets you some of the way to Buenos Aires.

The new president lives near here in a grand pink limestone mansion, just completed and resplendent with Mansard roof, it is a perfect architectural complement to the magnificent Beaux Arts capital building down the road.

Sebastian; his father and his father before that were all national champions on the track here. Like them, he also had to leave and travel the world to find his way. In 2000 he was a great in Argentina but, like his friends and teammates on the national team; local fame was not a fortune.

On the Internet he saw that in New Jersey USA, there was to be a great race sponsored by Colavita. He called his friends and then emailed the race organizer. He wanted to come but could not afford the entry fees. Rich responded. "If you can come you will race for free". Seba got his friends organized and they came over with their bikes.

In that, the very first race in North America, Seba won and his friends took most of the top ten spots. It was a walk in the park for them. The other racers were amazed and somewhat fearful. Colavita was stunned by the performance and signed them up immediately. Arrangements were hastily made for the team to stay in the US for the local racing season and in the homes of John and Rich. They raced that season as Team Colavita Elite and won almost everything they entered with a blend of power, skill, daring, track experience and an infectious, good humored attitude. A year later the team went professional, the rest is history.

Some of the North Americans that Seba first raced against are here with us now in Argentina training under him for Colavita.

Dinner concludes with a long discussion of the personal commitment and willingness to sacrifice all that comes from a racer whose team mates are first and foremost, his friends, Seba believes that this is the defining aspect of his team this year and this will bring the extra 10% it takes to have a truly great season.

We exit around midnight and Anthony volunteers to drive us around the city. We wish Seba and Carla all the best and pile into Anthony's shiny new car. Anthony takes us to Ave Mayo and then to the Cafe Tortoni. The Tortoni, a grand dame of a coffee shop, is 150 years old and is like an Opera house inside. Replete with mirrors, paintings, a Tiffany stained glass ceiling 18' above and oak paneled walls, in every portrait on the wall, each small piece of art high above, every booth and corner you can feel the age and the influence that has been forged here.

There was once a time in the 1700’s when coffee houses like this appeared in all over Europe and, in the fizzling and over stimulated thinking that coffee inspires, a great period of modern financial ingenuity was born. In this place one still feels a little of the energy and greatness of that age, the crucible of Argentine politics and power seems evident. As Anthony explains later, in the old times when the President finished work each day, he would come here in the evening, sit down with his family and drink a smooth silky coffee. Just as we do now.

From the back there is the intriguing and seductive drill of Tango music coming from the Tango room. Sadly, it is booked up but I have a great chat with a sweet girl who is studying "Tourismo" by day while taking tickets to the show by night. She tells me of the Tango show and the fact that on any night the house is full. “Reservacions only Senor”.

The dancers are nearby taking a break. He is short, immaculately groomed and very Spanish looking. He wears a perfectly fitting and very smart black pin stripe single breasted suit. He has a white tie on a black shirt and his hair is slicked to the shape of his head with gel. She is even shorter, wears a short black satin dress with black stockings and shiny black patent leather dancing shoes. She has a tiny lick of blood on her ankle, perhaps where the heel of the other shoe caught the skin as it snapped past on the way to the floor.

They suddenly jump up and rush in to begin their routine. The music grows more strident, the Violins begin the marching dance. We enjoy the mirrors, talk racing, talk tango and drink espresso. Anthony regales us with stories of his life as a professional racer, first as Argentine national track champion and then later as world track champion.

In his fiery years he traveled to all the worlds major cities and in the 50’s was a participant in the 6 day indoor Velodrome events common to the sport everywhere. Oslo, Paris, New York, London, Korea, Tokyo.

Wherever there was a Velodrome and cash prizes there were itinerant athletes from around the world and Anthony. Around the edge of the velo track the pundits wagered on the racers over 12 hour day of drinking, eating and gambling. Every few laps the PA would announce the prize for the first man over the line in the next lap. That was when Anthony knew how his next few minutes would go and what he would be at. The racers rode until they could not ride any more. Anthony came away with pocketfuls of cash.

In '59 he came to Madison square garden and earned himself $15,000 US in a week and so, like his father before him, he went back to Buenos Aires with the prize money and bought houses.

We pay our bill and head out of the mirrored elegance of this place. We pass tables of women who look like they have stepped out of a Parisian movie poster. We spend another hour driving around Buenos Aires. We drive the Ave de Mayo, the Ave Julio, the Ave Cordoba where we see theatre and opera on every street.

As we head back out on the long road home I think for a brief moment that I am in a long lost but very great European capital. Somehow cut adrift in one wrenching moment of recent history and soon forgotten on northern soils, slowly fading from the written record, the great metromass, adrift and slowly southbound on the fair winds, finally nestled in the bay of the Plate. There it ran aground on the shores of the Pampas and rooted. Now, a last outpost of European enlightenment, vigor and culture, it stands sentry before the vast empty lands of Patagonia and ahead of the endless Antarctic winters.

We get home and lie down for a brief two hours of sleep before Carla’s brother is to come and take us to the airport. It is hot, I am awash with thoughts...I paint some words into my memory as I slowly descend to slumber.

Another moment passed, another chapter closes. The world keeps turning. Morpheus comes, the last day in Argentina ends slowly, softly, sadly.