Dad winning some race somewhere

I’ve been called by various people the joker of the cycling industry, described as “someone who loves the sport enough to laugh at it” and I often enjoy a joke at my own expense. I’ve also been known to get into fights, yell at people, drink more than what is socially acceptable and be too competitive. For good or bad all of these traits I get from my Irish dad. He was the original, “Shit my dad says” saying the most outrageous things to get a rise out of people. My British mom passed on more sensible genes and better ears than the ones dad has protruding from his head.

Last month, just before I was about to go live on my Versus Tour de France chat, my mom called. She immediately got to the point, “Your dad has terminal lung cancer and has months to live.” Needless to say I was a little shocked.

Dad had some health issues earlier this year but nothing that suggested cancer. He is a non-smoker and an ex-pro bike racer. Now he is sitting in a chair with cancer that has taken over his lung, kidney, and liver. It has also worked it’s way into his bones causing a lot of pain and he’s taking the most morphine that you can legally have. My younger brother and sister are in England now and I join them tomorrow to help out as much as I can. As the time nears for the trip the harder it is to realize that this will be the last time I will see him alive.

My mom said dad is drawing some strength from America’s seven time Tour de France champion saying, “Lance Armstrong beat this so I can too.” He is as comfortable as he can be watching past editions of the Tour de France on the DVD player. “He’ll enjoy watching them with you.”

Right now I have no great insight into what is going on – just trying to remember all the times we had together. He told great stories of bike racing, fights and other random stories. I’ve put together a photo album for him showing him Greenville, South Carolina. One regret I do have is that he’ll never see Greenville – I think he would have liked it.

I’m not sure how much I’ll be off the radar but I’ll continue to post when or if the mood strikes.

Zirbel - second place at '09 US Pro TT championships

My parents have just returned from a month long vacation in Spain, courtesy of their pensioner’s fund. Or it might have been some deal my mother got. Either way they became Spain’s problem for almost a month. With their return my dad calls me to get caught up with all the news.

“Hey, what’s this I hear about Armstrong and the French? Bloody people won’t leave him alone!” My dad then goes into a rant about how a French team tried to gang up on him in some race he did in Europe, but I suspect he’s thinking of a scene from Breaking Away and substituted the Italians for French riders. At this point there is no use correcting him, the anger train has departed and you either need to be on board or just wave from the platform as it chugs away.

In the background I can hear my mother. “Tommy, remember what the doctor said. Don’t get so bloody riled up!” This then gets my dad going and he yells back, “I’m not listening to what some f%#@ing quack told me!” I think my mom likes to get my dad riled up so that he will stroke out and die. That’s a post for another day.

So then I catch him up on the latest doping drama with Tom Zirbel. I explain to him what he’s accused of taking and Dad goes on to laughingly tell me how mom is on some kind of hormones and she hasn’t gotten any faster, just “bitchier.” I continue to explain the circumstances of what I know. Dad knows I’ve interviewed Zirbel before and I re-tell dad how Zirbel was always a good guy to me and was very accommodating to any interview requests. From a personal standpoint I would hate to see Zirbel’s B Sample come back positive, but I’m not holding my breath. From what I’ve seen the positive A Sample is followed by a positive B Sample. And again, I truly hope this isn’t the case. He had just signed a contract with Garmin-Transitions and was getting his shot at racing in Europe. If his B Sample comes back negative I hope that everyone can let the accusations go and he can continue with his contract. However my dad has more stories to tell.

“Let me tell you about doping back in my day. You’d be ten kilometers from the finish and you could smell the whiskey. I wasn’t a sprinter so I never worried about doing shots. ”

In my father’s time alcohol was supposed to get the blood pumping and make you faster for the sprint. However all it did was get the racers drunk really quick and lose all inhibition. “One arsehole crashed into a lorry!” is usually how these stories conclude. Ahh, doping in my dad’s time. Those were simpler days…

They better not be spending my inheritance

As we continue this crusade against doping it makes me wonder if we’re going in the right direction. I’ve heard people call for lifetime bans for first offenses, which is ridiculous. Teammate Burke Swindlehurst has a blog post in which he says a jury by peers might be the way to go. Interesting… Others have stated that the Biological Passport is sufficient, while confessed doper Bernard Kohl said it was just a benchmark to see how much they could get away with. As the doping gets more sophisticated the methods to try to catch the cheats needs to be completely transparent with no room for mistakes.  Aside from the fact that Zirbel is now under a cloud of suspicion, any and all sponsors have to be doing a gut-check right now when considering spending their corporate dollars on the sport of cycling. Because now, even if found innocent, Zirbel’s name will be tarnished and the sport takes another hit to the gut.

My dad is second from the right

My cell phone’s “alarm” ringtone woke me out of my usual 3:00 PM nap. I have that ringtone set for only two people and I know that one of those will no longer call (mental note – remove that person from contacts), so it could only be one other person. The European phone number prefix only confirmed what I knew. “Hey dad – what’s up?”

“I just read your internet story and saw you are still messing around with cyclocross.” My dad considers cyclocross an activity to be done just after drinking, just before drinking or you should be drinking during it. Ideally all three options would take place. To take ‘cross seriously, in his book, is just stupid.

“Yeah. Drove north and did a couple of races for the hell of it.”

“Well, at least you had the common sense to be drinking during it.” I was actually surprised that he had seen the blog and had taken the time to read it. My parents are at that age where modern conveniences like the internet, ATMs, and drive-thrus might as well be alien technology and not trusted. I gave him more details of the weekend’s events: the mud, the boozing and the people we met. In return he retold the story of how a young teammate of his almost drowned in a puddle of water during a ‘cross race because he was so drunk he crashed and passed out face down in it. He loves telling that story as a cautionary tale of how, if you are going to pass out, do it on your side so as not to choke on your own vomit. And then he laughs. The story always ends with, “What a dumb arse!”

With rain dumping my only training option is the indoor trainer. Sure I could do a structured workout to keep my form sharp for the upcoming ‘cross race, however I still remember my dad’s words. Am I taking cyclocross too seriously? Should I just ride ‘cross for the hell of it and not be concerned about results? So after some soul searching I decided to split the middle and do one more race “full gas” and then slide into slacker mode. We’ll see how that goes…

]]> http://neilbrowne.com/2009/12/conversations-with-my-father/feed/ 0 http://neilbrowne.com/2008/09/you-can-do-almost-anything-in-vegas-except-get-beer-during-the-cross-race/ http://neilbrowne.com/2008/09/you-can-do-almost-anything-in-vegas-except-get-beer-during-the-cross-race/#comments Wed, 24 Sep 2008 02:30:00 +0000 Neil http://neilbrowne.com/2008/09/you-can-do-almost-anything-in-vegas-except-get-beer-during-the-cross-race/ I’m pinning it to win it in Vegas So I’m chilling watching my Tivo’ed episodes of Frisky Dingo when my cell phone snaps to life. My ring tone of the week? Cat party. Anyways I digress. It’s one of the promoters of the Vegas Cross race giving me a call. We exchange pleasantries and he [...]]]>

I’m pinning it to win it in Vegas

So I’m chilling watching my Tivo’ed episodes of Frisky Dingo when my cell phone snaps to life. My ring tone of the week? Cat party. Anyways I digress. It’s one of the promoters of the Vegas Cross race giving me a call. We exchange pleasantries and he starts to get into the reason of this phone call.

“So you’re racing the cross. We’re happy to have you there.”

“Hell yeah I’m racing! I’m going to kick ass and take names!” I’m in full blarney mode now and just getting started.

“That’s great. I heard you were going to get beer hand ups during the race.”

“Hell yeah I am! Booya!” I really don’t know what “booya” means but I saw it on MTV and thought it sounded cool.

“Yeah…the problem is that you can’t get unauthorized beer hand-outs during the race. It’s actually against the UCI rules.”

“UC who? Are those guys still in charge of anything?” Now my excitement for getting slightly intoxicated while racing is slipping away. I know my dad, at whatever pub he’s posted up at, is laughing at me.

“Yeah, you can’t drink while racing. And if you do take anything you’ll be disqualified”

So now I’m changing my strategy. I’m attacking from the first lap and leading it from soup to nuts. Then I’m getting sloppy.

Me (far left) not racing pro at the Redlands Classic

It’s been awhile since I spoke to or about my parents. Like most loyal British subjects, when the weather turns cold they head to warmer climes and my parents had fallen off the grid. We’re not a chatty family anyways so it’s not unusual for them to call me up and tell me that the following day they are leaving for Portugal for two weeks with no way to contact them. I’m fine with that.

My dad is usually the one that calls and then hands off the phone to my mom when he’s had enough. You can time my conversations with an egg timer with my dad. I get straight into catching him up with what I’d been doing.

“As an April Fool’s joke I posted that I was turning pro and was going to race Redlands.” I tell him.

“You?”, came his surprised reply.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re still fat and your birthday is this month making you old. Who’d believe that?” Then I hear a low rumbling. I’m not sure if this is lager churning its way through his lower intestine or the sound of disbelief. He quickly changes subjects. “How’s that Bikes Gone Wild lad?” I fill him in with the pertinent details of my local posse. Silence on his end.

“Here’s your mother.”

As a Browne I am facing a milestone in aging for my family which my dad had reminded me of. While biologically I am still youngish and in good shape, Brownes usually fall off this mortal coil in their low 70’s. Not due to bad health, but more due to lifestyle choices. I am the first Browne to ride a desk as a job. Both sides of my family fought in the Great Wars, the not-so-great wars that followed, and then made a career that involved making things with their bare hands. This is not a gene pool that has ever had a long life span. However I trying my best to live into at least my lower 80s. I’m eating well, riding or running and haven’t been in any physical confrontations for at least two months. Things are looking up. But as I write this I am preparing for the Tour de Georgia, so who knows what could happen. I’ll keep you informed. And Noel, keep your cell phone near by. I feel a crisis looming as my birthday nears.

My Parents chilling back at the shire

For the five of you who read my diatribe/blog on a semi-regular basis I apologize for the lack of postings. My excuses are varied and many. After my parents left the States and returned to the shire, it was the holidays, then we had a magazine due and I’ve been captivated by the Britney Spears and K-Fed child custody court case, which has been a bigger time suck than my Wii. And speaking of completely wacky people I need to make a few apologies. First off I would like to offer my sincerest apologies to Jodi Hall. When I gave my Dad your number as a contact I had no idea he would use it to drunk dial you and rail against cyclocross. My Dad’s comments about ‘cross racers not being real men because they only race for an hour was completely off-base. For the record to be a real man doesn’t mean you have to race for eight hours at a time in the snow all season long. Also my Dad has no real proof that he beat Fausto Coppi in the Berkinshire road race, so Jodi please disregard that statement. And as I am apologizing, Noel thanks for being at my parent’s competence hearing after that little “incident” in front of the British Embassy and vouching for them. The embassy has now reopened and the windshield of the ambassador’s cars has been replaced. Slover thanks for keeping my parents looking stylish for the mentioned competence hearing. It’s one thing to be crazy, but it doesn’t mean you have to look crazy. Bikes Gone Wild I think my parents will miss you more than me and you have a standing invite to visit them. Thanks to you my Dad will be using such charming phrases such as, “keeping my pimp hand strong,” and “I’m a playa” back at the village to the delight of the other pub denizens. And to all the people who were startled by the blue Ford Focus rental car driving on the left-hand side of the road my sincerest regrets. This blog now returns to its usual mindless ramblings about all things Neil.

“I just got the new issue of ROAD. Did you gain weight? You look fat!”

Quick background on my Dad; he’s an Irish ex-low level pro cyclist. When I was growing up he would give me crap about my weight if he thought I was gaining too much. I never did, it’s just not in the Browne gene pool. We’re like greyhounds: skinny, high-strung and like to nap frequently. However in classic Irish manner, he likes to bust balls given the opportunity.

“No Dad!” But now I’m thinking to myself, “Have I gained weight?”

“Well, how much do you weigh now?”

“I’m 176 pounds, about 80 kilo.” I sometimes have to break it down to him in metrics.

Then he tells me, “And your 6’2.”

“Yes Dad!” Now this is irritating because I’ve been 6’2” for over 20 years. At this moment I know he is busting balls.

A pause, then, “Hmmm….Okay.”

The photo he is referring to is the Standpoint photo that was taken in Greenville the day before the US Pro race. I was heavier by about five pounds, but I swear, that photo makes me look a lot heavier. So as I am driving to the race, my mind is now obsessing on the fact people will see that photo of me and think I am heavy! So just to clear the air; I’m at 176 and dropping. I’m running four days a week, doing Pilates five days a week and riding at least four times a week. Oh, and I’m also a neurotic mess! So Noel, if you are reading this, I need about an hour of psychological therapy. Get my number from Slover…

My start in cycling was due to my Irish father. He raced on what would be considered a Continental pro team. My dad, like many other bike racers of the time, used cycling to escape the economic hardships that followed World War II. But for reasons that have never been fully explained to me, he quit cycling after his time in the British army and worked as an apprentice tool and die mechanic. He met my mom, married and they moved to America.

The stories of my father’s racing in England and Europe always seemed so exotic. As a child he raced around in the craters left from the bombing the previous night by the Germans during World War II. He competed against European racers on courses that were basically fire roads. My father knew a smattering of curse words and cycling related phrases in a few different languages, which I happily learned. He raced on a Brooks saddle that apparently the French couldn’t get, so they rode on pieces of meat strapped to the saddle. He would tell me stories (as the Irish are known for) that involved his use of cunning race tactics against insurmountable odds. I don’t know how much of this is true, but it sure was interesting to listen to.

I started racing road bikes when I was 15 and I asked my dad for training tips. He would reply, “Just ride.” If it was cold out and I didn’t want to train, he had some story of how he rode from one side of England to the next in the cold and rain. When I crashed he told of a story of how a teammate of his ran into the back of a parked lorry and was killed. And even though his teammate was killed in a bike accident, he would give me crap about wearing a helmet. He just didn’t believe in them. A fond memory I have is going to the 1984 road race Olympics and watching the race first hand. We were on one of the hills, but someone next to us had a radio or t.v. (I can’t remember which) and when we heard that Alexi Greywall won, the crowd went nuts. I had some success as a junior racer and I thought that perhaps instead of going to college I could move to England, where I have relatives, and race there. My parents would have none of that. They were working class people and expected that their son go to college, which I did. I don’t regret going to college and not moving to England to race. I know now that I just didn’t have the stuff to make it over there and was better off here in sunny California.

After my sister, brother and I moved out of the house, my parents moved back to England, looking for the simple life that living in Orange County doesn’t offer. When I call over there, my parents are either just going to, or coming back from the pub. Life moves a lot slower for them in the small town they live in. Anyways, that’s my story, what’s yours?

Dad at the back of a breakaway