I never wanted to stop racing bicycles, but as time passed and my sprint began to fail me, I couldn't win primes anymore, and I found I no longer had the heart to keep training all the time and risking serious injury. Then my strength began to diminish, and I could no longer challenge for the win at cyclocross races. That meant the end of twenty years living as a bicycle racer.
Following my "retirement", as the months passed and my racer's ego softened, I discovered I could enjoy riding just for the sake of riding, and I could go slower than I ever imagined possible without becoming brain-numbingly bored with it all. And the funniest thing happened: as my legs and heart and riding became slower, my choice of bikes and clothing and equipment became slower too!
No more need to wear that lycra skinsuit on the bike trail - wool jersey with front pockets would do nicely.
No more need to use the lightest wheels in my stable - the big, fat 27x1-1/4 Vittorias are more comfortable and more interesting to ride.
No more need for that 17 lb aluminum racer - a 25lb bike from the 1960s looks more interesting, provides more fun, and is such a beautiful thing to look down and see, with all that chrome sparkling in the sunlight.
No more state-of-the-art Italian saddles, thank you very much - my English leather saddle fits like it was made for me.
I was surprised to find so much delight and interest with bikes, as if I had rediscovered something long forgotten from childhood hidden away in an old steamer trunk, or wrapped carefully in a special cardboard box in the attic.
The labor and effort and aggression and struggle and competitiveness which was racing had been replaced with a casualness and delight and fascination. The same hobby, but completely different.
As I look around the basement at my two dozen old bicycles, I realize how much I've become like my father.
My racing days coincide with his experiences in WW2.
My bike collection mirrors his collection of vintage cars.
The cars he loved - American sedans from the 1930s, cars he would have known as new when he was ten or fifteen years old, before he was able to drive. Cars he couldn't afford until the 1970s, when he inherited some money. His collection grew to ten cars - Packards, Cadillacs, Buicks, Lafayette's. A Plymouth just like his dad had owned new. A Packard like the one which used to park outside the bank downtown, the one all the kids would rush over to admire.
The bikes I love - Italian bikes from the 1950s and 60s, bikes from before my time, or which I would have admired when new (if only I'd known about bicycle racing when I was a kid!). Bikes I couldn't afford until the late 1990s, when I'd settled into a career and had some money to spend. My collection outgrows my basement - Bianchis and Legnanos and Olmos and Atalas and Girardengos. A Bianchi kinda like Coppi's, which my friends will stop to admire when I take it on local tours.
I grew-up in the antique car hobby. My first car show was when I was two weeks old. I must have attended 300 car shows at least, and 100 swap meets and such. I stopped going to car shows when I started cycling. My dad never came to my races, partly because they conflicted with his car shows (but mostly because he became physically ill with worry and panic when he tried to watch me race). I lost my interest in cars, spoiled by the knowledge that I could never afford the cars I truly loved - Duesenbergs and Pierce-Arrows and Packard 12s and Maybachs.
Now, suddenly, Dad's cars are mine. I don't know what I'll do with them. Trade them for Glorias and Cinellis and Umberto Deis, I suppose. Maybe paint the 1936 Buick light blue, with big red "Bianchi" logos on the front fenders, like some prewar team car. Perhaps exchange one for my dream vacation to Italy, to visit Milan and the holy sites of Italian cycle industry.
And I'll never again ride a bicycle without thinking about my father and his antique cars, and I'll talk to him, and tell him how much I miss him.
Aldo Ross