The Peter L. Teeuwen Memorial Ride

I sat in my warm home looking out the window at the rare snow falling, whipped by wind gusts and felt the embrace of the wood stove's presence. The coast is so viscerally raw in these conditions. It's as if it wants to push us all away from the very place buried by the summer's hordes later in the year. Locals here know this snow event thing is rare and fleeting. The rain that followed confirmed this and worked for hours and hours to wash the white blanket away. We are now left with only wind and cold, cold, cold.

Two weeks ago I rode with about 40 other cyclists to honor the memory of Peter Teeuwen in Chesapeake, Virginia. Among the riders were Peter's brother, Gerald and his son John. His daughter, Christina, was at the Grassfield Ruritan Club building with others preparing the potluck meal the cyclists attending had brought this day.

When I arrived riders were going in and out of the building and standing around the back of their vehicles pumping tires and wrapping up for a ride we all knew would challenge only a freezing north wind and not each other. We rolled our bikes out to Shillaleigh Road with Gerald standing by his bike at the head of the group with John, his son, moving to his side.

I noticed Gerald looking around as if someone was still to arrive. Then I noticed 3 guys move into position by his side with the letters "VBW" on the backs of their kits. They were members of Virgina Beach Wheelmen and all were competitive cyclists: Jonathan Nisbet, Tim Shockey, and Tom Tomayo. Their connection to Peter Teeuwen I would learn later was quite special.

We set off down the road, the same road, the same course and direction many here ride in the Peter L. Teeuwen Time Trial known among cyclists as the "PLT." The first leg of the 23-mile course was downwind. The group's riders found their places. I was trying to move up near Gerald and his entourage so that I could do a little eavesdropping. I knew it would be good.

As we wound downwind we settled into a 20-21 mph pace. A rider named Andreas rode to my right and we talked a little on the ride. Turns out he's a Category 3 racer and knows Robert a friend and member of our club, GS Outer Banks. He told me he had recently purchased bikes for his wife and daughter and they all were getting some riding in together.

I remarked how much I loved to hear the distinct whisper on group rides of spokes slicing the air. Gerald came off the front group and dropped back along with John and the VBW riders. The guys on the front strained forward seeming to want to ride faster. We were up to 23+ mph now. I heard someone call my name from behind and I assumed correctly it was Gerald and he wanted me to rein the tempo in a little. So I relayed the message to the front and everybody eased back some.

For many of us, it's something new to just relax and ride with the very people you compete in races against all of each season for years. It's like seeing them and automatically flipping into the race mode.

Peter Teeuwen, according to Gerald, had not died on the road, but maybe as a result of a series of head injuries received crashing in road races over the years. He was forty-one years old when he passed away.

The last 6 miles we were back on the stick of the lollipop course returning to the Ruritan Club bucking the north wind. We traded pulls with plenty of riders to share the work, each thanking the rider coming off the front after his effort.

The Chesapeake police had come out to stand traffic guard for us at the corners of the course just like they always do for the PLT's. It all looked the same as it does during a time trial. But unlike the time trials, today's ride allowed us to ride the course sub-anaerobic threshold. No red lining and spitting up internal organs on the final mile to the finish line today.

Also unlike the PLT's, there was hot coffee and a fine meal waiting in the clubhouse when we returned. Inside there were three rows of tables covered with cloth tableclothes and potted plants called Cyclamens with their floppy pink petals grown by Gerald's family in their greenhouses I suppose. There was another table with a computer scrollng photos of the Teeuwen's racing days and a stand-up collage of friend and family photos.

So we all ate together---the cyclists, the police, and the family. While we sat, Jonathan Nisbet and Tom Tomayo came to the front of the room and told us of three 15-year-old boys who had been lured into cycling and then encouraged and groomed to compete in races by a local bike racer. They were shown how to do it---how to put on the strange tight-fitting cycling kits, how to trust clipping your shoes to the pedals, and how to train and mentally prepare for this very arcane sport in America.

They were carried to races everywhere and discovered a passion and place they didn't know existed. The veteran bike racer who took them even far away to race, endured their adolescent attitudes and behavior with boundless patience even when they drove golf balls in hotel hallways and explored the possibilities of light explosives and fireworks. The races had lit a fire in them.

So here they stood in their mid-thirties still missing their mentor, Peter L. Teeuwen, but still loving the sport he had shown them. However no one misses Peter, I observed, more than this family. Of this I am certain. And here before us all was the human legacy Peter had left. Nothing in this world counts more than this. Nothing.

A Ride In Memorium---Peter Teeuwen

I'm thinking about going to Chesapeake this Sunday at 1 p.m. to ride in memory of Peter Teeuwen, a ride organized apparently by the family and friends of this deceased former pro cyclist. This is the ride's 18th year. I've been aware of it but never taken the time, been to the trouble. But this year I may go. This is not a ride which demands any special fitness level or even a fancy bike (a reason I can do it I suppose).

I began racing five years ago starting with a few time trials. They were the Peter Teeuwen Time Trials, three each summer. I raced two that year. You race on a 23 mile course shaped like a lollipop with square corners against the clock and your own mind and endurance. I loved it.

Even in my first time trial I noticed a growling, grumbly, irascible old guy who appeared totally in charge. He wore a broad hat and long-legged khaki pants and directed cyclist traffic around the starting gate in the 95-degree heat. He seemed to own the place. He would grumble about something unknown and then make a crack about some obscure part on someone's bike as they rolled to the line, a part I heard him say he hadn't seen on a bike in 25 years. Sounded like he'd been around this stuff for a long, long time because he had.

I became struck by this stalwart figure in command and was dying to know more about him. I love real characters. And this surely was one. After building homes as a carpenter/contractor for over 30 years, I've learned it's one of the things I savor, like sustenance itself. The business trains you to honor these characters who get it done. Gerald Teeuwen, Peter's brother, is such a character. Solid.

One possible reward for my trip to the Grassfield Ruritan Clubhouse building on Shillelagh Road is to ride with Gerald. My gift to Gerald, long overdue the way I see it, is to ride at least one time in memory of his brother whom I was never fortunate enough to know. I'm sure there will be lots of local cyclists there, as there always are. Gerald and his family have supported road bike racing and riding in southeastern Virginia for years. They more than deserve our thanks for the events they support which benefit riders like those in our club and me.

I arrived at the Grassfield Ruritan Club for registration for one of the time trials there in recent years and a photo tacked to the doors caught my eye. I looked closer. Here was a black-and-white shot of three cyclists straddling old style road bikes wearing cycling caps, the tight-fitting kind with short brims. I looked even more closely. One rider's face looked familiar. It was Gerald. His daughter, Christina, told me later that day it was her dad in his racing days in Europe. This was during the early 1970's, a time when riding and racing in Europe was only important in America to those who rode and raced. I bought my first road bike in 1971.

Sunday I'll learn what it is to ride in someone's memory and honor. Should be very positive. I'll let you know.

The Winter Cycling 25---What I Wore Today

Today I was late and in a hurry to get to a New Year's Day group ride with our club riders. It felt like it took me so long to dress and leave. This always happens when in a hurry to do almost anything. My sensibilities are heightened. If surfing today, I'd be struggling into my wetsuit. In this case though, I was struggling getting out the door for the ride and there was more to wear.

When I returned I decided to study what was behind the delay leaving the house. I went into the bathroom to shower and began stripping. I had already taken off my helmet, under-helmet cap, road glasses, shoe covers, shoes, wind-breaker/Thinsulated vest, winter cycling jersey, gloves, and watch. I was now up to eleven items, apparel and accessories.

I continued this sort of obsessive look into just how far I was into this sport I really do love. But from time to time I do need a self audit.

I peeled off the two socks on each foot, the pair of arm warmers, the club cycling jersey, the club bib shorts, a pair of leg warmers, an Underarmor Cold Gear jersey, a pair of thigh-length, compression leggings, and a heart monitor: 25 things put on---25 items taken off. I stood alone shivering before the shower I surely earned. There was nothing left to take off. I felt like the master of nothing but I remain somehow willing to wear it all again tomorrow so I can ride.

It will be about 9 degrees colder tomorrow with a northwest wind blowing 25 to 35 mph. I love this sport.

Happy New Year y'all.