The Legend of Ricky von Ricky, American Cycling Superstar

I don’t know if we were right or not, but the hurting he laid on Virenque (held aloft by French apologists as “not having been allowed to prepare properly in 1999″), Ullrich (out due to injury in 1999) and Pantani (wounded pride after being stripped of his seemingly inevitable Giro title one stage from the finish), was so methodical and so tortuous to behold that it left no doubt in any of our minds that his intention was not only to win the 2000  TdF, but to eviscerate any rider who’s abscence or condition he felt somehow diminished his 1999 surprise win. Again, this is just one step removed from a conspiracy theory and I have no proof of it’s truth…but it sure seemed that way at the time.

Being young(ish), American (and thus inherently boorish), most likely slightly drunk at the time and having just witnessed LA’s vicious annihilation of his chief rivals, our next logical topic of discussion was just how much it must BURN the French and most of Europe’s cycling elite to be lit up by an upstart American. How did Marcellus Wallace put it? I think it went like this; “The night of the fight? You may feel a slight sting. That’s pride $!#@-ing with you.” You see in our minds, Lance represented all that was good about us as Americans – he’d overcome incredible adversity, he’d put on a display of willpower almost unprecedented in cycling and he’d left scorched earth in his wake. Shock and awe, baby. Damn. That’s gotta hurt.

So heavily fortified with hopped beverages and stuffed to the brim with nerdish fanboy enthusiasm and continental naivete, our conversation sort of spiraled off into random immaturity, but one of the central themes that I’ve always remembered from “the night LA ripped Pantani’s legs off” was, “What if the Europeans got a dose of a REAL ass-kicking American from the wrong side of the tracks? You know, like us – but with talent?” So we made up that rider on the spot. Along with his history and major characteristics.

His name?

Ricky von Ricky.

It still makes me giggle.

According to legend (the one we collectively made up that night), Ricky von Ricky was the illegitimate redneck spawn of Flo the Waitress from “Alice” and Bukowski’s Henry Chinaski (“To all my friends!”). RvR had no redeeming social skills, or any tact to speak of. Raised in a bible-belt trailer park frequently beset by whirling tornados, roving bands of locusts and pushy door-to-door Kirby vacuum cleaner salesmen, young Ricky turned to sports. Except that he sucked. At all of them. Equal parts bad temperament, violent attitude and a complete lack of physical coordination, RvR tried out for, and was subsequently dismissed from his middle school’s (RvR did not attend high school)  football, baseball and basketball programs. And the chip on his shoulder? It grew three sizes that day.

As fate would have it, RvR soon discovered that he posessed not only an indomitable will, but the lungs of a draft horse, the unbridled power of a charging rhinocerous and the stamina of a young Wilt Chamberlain. Details of this momentous discovery are somewhat murky, but I’m pretty sure it involved a liquor store, 2 squad cars and a stolen Wal-mart bike with upturned handlebars, downtube shifters and 27″ (not 700c) wheels. Much to Ricky’s dismay, he found that he was a natural on the bike, and after winning each and every domestic race on the pro calendar (the ones he managed to not get kicked out of for fighting, lewd behavior or public drunkenness) he found himself on a plane headed to Europe.

Ricky’s first years on the Euro circuit represented a period of intense personal growth. No longer the spindly schoolboy with greasy hair and a big attitude, Ricky’s on-the-bike and off-the-bike personas began to meld. Sporting a bleached blonde mullet, cannon-like quads and a slight beer-paunch, RvR’s personality could best be described as part unapologetically-white-trash Kid Rock and part preening-sociopath-showman-sadist, Ric “The Nature Boy” Flair (Woo!). Ricky would attack out of the pack 2k into a 200k stage. And solo to victory. He’d chase down a break by himself and heckle those he’d overtaken. He was known to smoke cigarettes and drink Budweiser…during races. He frequently rode with a long string of garlicky Portuguese sausages strung around his neck. He was massively talented. And borderline insane. He also rocked a blue jean vest with cut-off sleeves. While he rode. Why? He “needed a place to put his smokes.”

He won everything in sight. And was the poorest winner in the history of mankind, endlessly needling his fellow riders on the podium, during interviews and in front of their women. Upon overtaking a breakaway he was known to unleash a lip-flapping belch reeking of stale beer and garlic, very much like Homer’s best friend Barney on “The Simpsons”. Passed riders were quickly demoralized by the ceaselessly pounding waves of his testosterone…and his prodigious odor. He was all that was wrong with America, and the Europeans were powerless to stop him. It was glorious.

Doomed to failure as a “proper ‘Merican athlete”, Ricky’s consolation prize was relegation to a position of Merckx-like dominance at the very highest levels of cycling. Except without one ounce of the charm. And he hated every minute of it. Nonetheless, he was a complete washout at everything else, so this was all he had. No member of the peloton was spared his taunting sarcasm, yet as they said about Eddy, they knew that when Ricky showed up, they were all “racing for second”. A big part of the problem was that back in Texahasseeklahoma-arkana, everyone just knew him as “that psycho dude that wears them funny tight shorts”. Anger at fate’s cruel twist quickly ratcheted up his pathological hatred of everything cycling-related (including and especially his fellow riders), yet continue to win he did, completely redefining the term “ugly American” in the process.

The comprehensive chronicle of Ricky’s exploits sort of lives in my head. Once in awhile, I’ll see a glimpse of him at the local Walmart (which is positively third-world in nature), in a post-race interview of  a televised NASCAR event or as some dude in jeans and a Starter jacket lets out war whoop as he skis a green run under a lift. One of these days I’ll really flesh him out and figure out a way to wrap up his story, but in the meantime 10 years have passed since his story was pulled out of the ether and in that time a long line of Americans have announced their presence with authority on continental soil. And because 10 years later we’re all still nerdish fanboys we’re eternally grateful. In an admittedly jingoistic way.

Thank you Lance Armstrong, for inspiring this piece of random immaturity. And for winning the 2000 Tour de France in such a jaw-droppingly amazing fashion.

Your pals,
The nerds at VeloGear.com
“dorkier than you”

PS: I’m supposed to throw in a few keywords here and there for the search engine police, so here goes: cycling gifts, cycling posters, road bike jerseys, retro cycling clothing, bike books, vintage wool jerseys and bicycle caps. There. Now everyone’s happy.