By: Matt Roy Wednesday May 26, 2010

Intro – August 2000

Somewhere along I-90 in New York, probably around mile marker 380, I’m pretty sure I heard what amounted to an audible pop. It was the sound of my brain ceasing to function at a high level. It was the fifteenth time I made the drive in the team van from Waukesha, WI (home to Team Sports, Inc., the marketing group that ran Saturn Cycling, Volvo Cannondale and the Timex Women’s Pro Cycling Team) back to Boston. It was an 18-hour, 1,100-mile mind-numbing trip that I drove straight through each time.

Even the CB radio had ceased to be entertaining. Affectionately termed “The White Trash Internet,” the CB radio was my lifeline to obstacles in the road; from speed traps to road kill to traffic. “Plain brown wrapper at your front door” = Unmarked brown police car in the median. “Four-wheeler paying for a light show” = Car pulled over for speeding. “Smokey Bear with gumball machines at 221.” = Marked police car with lights on the roof at mile marker 221. Driving around in a van emblazoned to the hilt with “Timex Women’s Professional Cycling Team” often made for sleazy (and occasionally clever) CB banter. For example (please insert your best Southern drawl): “I bet them Timex women take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.” And regrettably, on the occasion I would have to drive with bikes on the roof, (drawl again, please), “I sure would like to sniff them bike seats.” That one still makes me shudder.

It was nearing the end of my tenure on the road for Timex. Many of the teams’ athletes had left for Sydney to train with their respective national teams in preparation for the Olympic Games. I had been on the go for nine months, driven close to 115,000 miles and had crisscrossed the US six times. I was cracked and I was ready for something new. I thought it might be time to get back to science. Instead of focusing on ecology, however, I thought my “skill set” could be applied to understanding human illness.

The Factotum –

In an obnoxiously worded resume on Monster.com I described myself as the following: “Generalist/Factotum: A Principal Investigator’s Dream Candidate!!!” (Yes, I used three exclamation points). Surprisingly, this ploy worked and I landed a job as a research technician at the Joslin Diabetes Center in Boston, MA. I was selected for the job not because of my understanding of genetics or immunology (little and none), or because of my aptitude with pipettes and standard lab methodologies (I knew what a pipette was, let’s just leave it at that) but because of two things that stood out on my resume.

The first; I double majored in biology and jazz at a small liberal arts school in Vermont (of course). One half of the husband/wife PI team, Diane, is a jazz aficionado and she thought the lab could really use another musician. Rather than quiz me on intricacies of T-cell differentiations (thankfully) she wanted to know how I felt about Chet Baker, the heroin addled trumpet player who died soon after his comeback. (I told her I was more of a Clifford Brown guy, as far as the trumpet goes… but she didn’t hold it against me).

The second, and this is the one that really sold them; I had worked as a mechanic for the Timex Women’s Professional Cycling and the Saturn Cycling Teams the previous two years. The other half of the PI team, Christophe, grew up in Paris watching the Tour de France every summer. He asked the first thing anyone who was privy to the Festina scandal of the 1988 Tour de France might ask; does everyone dope? I could proudly say that I was unaware of any domestic athletes who were “on the program.” (But shit, what does a guy who works in a parking lot out of the back of the truck really know?).

Despite my obvious lack of credentials, I was offered the job.

The funny thing was… I didn’t take it right way. I was torn between taking a job at a biotech in Cambridge ($) or working in academia at a non-profit (less $). I hemmed and hawed for a week or so until Christophe sent me an email entirely in French. He had somehow presumed that as a mechanic who had worked in French governed sport (linguistically speaking, anyway) I was fluent (so very French of him, huh?). Truth be told, I could tell you what numbers the Commissaire read out over the race radio or whether we were about to turn à gauche or à droite. Needless to say, it took me a little while to translate it. And after I translated it, I had to translate it. Here’s the gist of what the email said:

“A man should spend more time choosing what he should have for dinner than who he should marry.”

Hmm.

I took this to mean; if it’s the right thing, you know it right away. If it is something trite like a meal, you can quibble about whether the risotto or the fresh gnocchi is right for your palette (by the way, it’s always the gnocchi).

Crap. He was right. This was the right job for me.

One of the first lengthy discussions my new boss and I had was the usage of the word “factotum” in my online resume. I have always thought of it as a tongue-in-cheek snobby word for handyman. Christophe, on the other hand, took a different interpretation of the word. From the only source worth referencing, the Oxford English Dictionary, factotum is, a Jack-of-all-trades, a would-be universal genius (yup, that’s what I was thinking, emphasis on the would-be). But also; one who meddles with everything, a busybody… and, a servant who has the entire management of his master’s affairs. Christophe was thinking, here’s someone who is offering to be my bitch (of course, in slightly more elegant French discourse) while I’m thinking that I’m a would-be-demi-genius who could untangle the intricacies of Type-I diabetes (that’s not the one that fat people get, right?). Meddles with everything? That, I cannot deny. Needless to say, it wouldn’t be the last time we would cross swords over interpretation (of words, data, cheese).

For the next four years, I worked as research technician, studying the genetics of Type I diabetes, Rheumatoid Arthritis and a very strange disease called APECED. Fortunately, I have always been able to keep my hand in the cycling cookie jar. I look forward to that phone call or email from my friends “on the circuit,” or in the industry. A few times a year, for a week here and there, I take time out of the lab to work for different team, for Butch at SRAM Neutral Race Support, or with the Berlingers at MAVIC. I keep my skills sharp, renew old friendships and make new ones, and relieve the occasionally jaded team mechanic with fresh legs, so to speak. Of course, there is still cyclocross season to talk about, but that’s a completely different animal.

I added yet another arrow to my quixotic quiver of jobs (mechanic, musician, aquatic biologist, professor, mower of lawns). Even today, nearly six years into my PhD program, I am seeking the next step forward. When questioned by my mentors and colleagues why I have had such a circuitous route to academia, I tell them, jokingly (hopefully), “I’m trying to be so well rounded I’m useless.”

By the way, as I put the finishing touches on this entry, I am on a plane to San Juan, Puerto Rico with the Pedro’s crew to help Marla Streb kick off the opening of her new mountain bike park, ToroVerde. I have the best second job. Ever.

Oh, and I have a meeting with my thesis committee next Tuesday.

By: Matt Roy Friday April 23, 2010

I’m just going to come right out and say it: the best part about driving in the race caravan happens in the moments after you stop the car. Yes, it’s cool to be behind the wheel of the SRAM Neutral Race Support Volvo, tearing around the back roads of Cambridge, NY with riders slotting back into the peloton after bombing through the caravan. It’s satisfying knowing that you helped the victim of a mechanical mishap with a fresh wheel, a 20-yard push and a draft through the team cars.

But really, the best part is when the car stops for a minute and the entire race caravan goes by you. You stretch your legs, water a nearby tree, swap out the dead wheel with a fresh one, and breath in the stillness for one perfect second. Then, with the road still closed to traffic behind you and the race way down the road in front of you, you drive. Like. Hell. And holy crap is that fun. There is something altogether satisfying about pulling up to a State Trooper going 60mph on a dirt road and having him just wave you by as you kick it up to 75. As if he were saying, “On your way, Sir. Have a nice day. Go as fast as you please, faster even.” You drill it until you reach the string of cars, bullying your way past the snoozing directors and erratic FNGs, finally slotting your way back into the prescribed caravan position as if you had only been gone for a second.

How is it that I ended up at the Battenkill Pro Invitational behind the wheel of this car? It’s a fair question but the answer isn’t a short one. As this might well be the first of many ramblings, maybe I should just take you back to the beginning… not the beginning-beginning (we’ll save that for another day) but back to my first day as a pro mechanic.

I got my first call to the big leagues (mechanically speaking) the summer of ’99. I was doing a little part-time wrenching at a mom-and-pop-shop in my hometown as I was winding down my short-lived career as an aquatic biologist specializing in invasive species control (we’ll definitely save that one for another day). One morning, a friend from Pedros called me up and asked if I wanted to work at a week of races in Philadelphia for the Saturn Cycling Team. They had three mechanics on staff and needed one more. Interested and naïve, I called Ian Sherburne (now with BMC), the team’s Chief Mechanic. He told me that I wasn’t expected to know much but I would need to work hard (which just about summed me up). I would also need my own tools and I had to get to Philly on my own.

What the hell? I’ll do it.

I really had no idea what was in store for me that hot June week in Philly. I bought my first tool kit… it was quite literally a tackle box full of the most basic tools for bicycle maintenance. I jammed a weeks’ worth of clothing into an old army duffle bag of my dad’s, grabbed my toolbox and took the red-eye bus to Philly. The Saturn crew was expecting me the next morning.

Have you ever been to a Philly bus station at five in the morning? No? Well, it’s the first time I was ever called “cracker.” And I have to admit; I was one fishing pole away from being Huck Finn. My weather worn duffle tossed over my shoulder, tackle box in my left hand and bleary eyed after a sleepless night on the bus, I took to the Philly streets, a clueless vagrant, heading for the race hotel a few miles away on 4th and Arch.

I wanted to make a good first impression on these guys. I wanted to be there early and ready to go. I figured my best bet was to shuffle to the hotel and find the team truck in the parking lot across the street. There was no way I could miss them if I could find the team truck. Sticky with sweat, shirt soaked all the way through, my hair sticking up like it always does (think a combination of Tin Tin and Cameron Diaz in the “hair gel” scene in There’s Something About Mary), I arrived at my home for the next week. I dropped my duffle and toolbox under the shade of an oak tree a few feet away from the truck. I guessed that I had about an hour before the mechanics would wander down to the truck. I had little to no sleep the night before and a little shuteye wouldn’t hurt.

Imagine for a moment that you’re Ian. You stroll out to the team truck ready for a long days’ work. You say to yourself, “I wonder if that new kid, Matt Roy, is actually going to show up today? Hell, I wonder what he even looks like?” and probably, “I hope he doesn’t suck.” Along with your other two mechanics, Matt T. and Dave P., you get to the truck and see Huck Finn, head propped up on a duffle bag, drool and sweat mingling on the drab canvas, feet crossed and balanced on a little tackle box. You say to your colleagues, as you chirp the alarm to the truck, “Wouldn’t it be funny if the asshole asleep on the lawn was our new mechanic?”

Meanwhile, I was in one of those fuzzy napping-on-the-beach states. I was vaguely aware of voices, a dull murmur of conversation amidst the hum of passing cars. BOIP-BEEP. The truck alarm jolted me from my slumber. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, straightening my shirt, but failing to get the wrinkles out, I approached the three staring figures standing by the truck. Voice cracking, I muttered, “Hey, are one of you guys Ian? I’m your new mechanic, Matt Roy.” I didn’t get an answer right away. Instead, I watched the three exchange glances with one another, then back to me as they broke into laughter. Laughter and pointing. At me.

A general rule of thumb when servicing a rider is this: For every second it takes you to swap out a wheel, the rider has to chase roughly for one minute. A good wheel change takes fewer than 8 seconds… thus, about 8 minutes for that rider to chase back. No pressure. During my first week of wrenching for Saturn in Philly, I gathered the first of many pearls of wisdom. Each time I settle into the jumpseat for a day of racing, like a metta meditation, I recite one of those pearls a few times: “When it comes time to change a wheel, the worst thing you can do is rush. You’ve changed wheels thousands of times.”

With 25km remaining in the Battenkill, the peloton withered to about 40 riders and the winning break long gone, a Trek Livestrong rider pulls over on a blind corner. Not knowing how far back his team car was, I quickly jammed the car off the road a few feet in front the unlucky flat victim and Sean Belfast, riding in the jumpseat, hopped out and smoothly replaced the rear wheel. Sean was back in the car by the time the Livestrong team car showed up, and their rider, Alex Dowsett, was well on his way. I watched the Livestrong car pace Alex partway through the caravan until the Moto official noticed and signaled his disapproval. As my rightful spot was just behind the Chief Commissaire, I obliged by delivering Alex the rest of the way until he was safely back in the peloton. He promptly blew through the remnants of the field, bridged to a chasing group and finished 8th on the day.

Back in the caravan, after the adrenaline has subsided, there is a moment of surprising calmness. The riders settle in for one last moment of piano before the next big surge. The Commissaire has ceased the radio chatter. The photo-motos are all roadside, photographers setting up their next amazing shot. A handful of those oreo-cookie cows (black with a white stripe around the middle, aka Belted Galloways) trot in the direction of the peloton. Elbow propped in the open window. It’s quiet, calm and it is good. Really good. Considering my inauspicious start, an anonymous wrench with a wrinkled shirt and a tackle box, this is not a bad gig, not bad at all.

Next up: The Factotum