It was a crazy idea to sign up for both the 2 week long Vuelta a Venezuela and the 6 day Tour of Missouri in the first place. It was even crazier to do it when we realized that there was only one day separating them. But the thought of racing 20 days in 21, on two continents, in what we called the 'Grand Tour', was an appealing thought. I for one figured it would be the closest I shall ever come to simulating one of the Big Three: the Tour de France, the Giro d'Italia and the Vuelta a Espana. So, why not?
We started our journey by flying to Miami. Eric and I met up in Denver to find a broken plane and the inevitable delay. Word went out to the crew in Vancouver that their trip was doomed even before taking off. So after waiting all day at the airport, Svein, Brandon, Cam and Sherby were whisked off to L.A so that they could catch a Red Eye to Miami that night. Eric and I met up with Bill, Sophie and Kevin Field that evening in Miami. The next morning, we found the Vancouver boys laying on the floor at the airport, in a little room they built out of bike bags. Off we went to Atlanta and then Caracas. We landed at midnight. Upon exiting the airport, we found a small bus. Luckily for us, had we all brought TT bikes, we'd still be there trying to jam it all in. Everything got inside the bus somehow and then we were told that the trip to the start town was 8 hours. Another Red Eye.
After driving for an hour or so, we get off the "highway" and start driving through some neighborhoods. Eventually, the driver stops and we realize that we're at his house. He disappears for a little while and then hops back in. Off we go, but only for a moment. We soon stop again on the highway and, through our combined limited Spanish efforts, learn that the driver feels unsafe driving with the bus packed to the gills. He's called his brother who's coming with a bigger bus. Eventually we load up onto his bus and begin our adventure again.
Venezuelans love to blast the AC. It's even noted in Svein's Lonely Planet book. Our bus driver had the temp down to about 10 Celsius. We asked him to turn it off and slowly, all of us passed out. Late into that morning, I awoke freezing again but too tired to complain. In the distance, a woman's voice rattled off in Spanish to the driver. I didn't know that Sophie could speak Spanish so well. But when the sun rose, I peeked towards the front and saw that the driver made another stop during the night and found a friend. A look behind me found Brandon passed out, using his yoga mat for a blanket. I was jealous.
This was just 2 horrible days out of 14. Unfortunately, Venezuela really is in a state of decay. Looking at every building, every hotel, every road, you could see that perhaps in the '70s, and I stress perhaps, these things may have been kinda cool. There was one particular hotel that was an old resort near the Andes. It had an open design overlooking the pool and mountains. At one time, I am sure it was nice. Sophie set up the massage table under the veranda and I was enjoying the evening until she told me to take another shower after the massage. There were bugs crawling on me. Nice.
Towards the end of the race, I was skipping lunch so that I would be hungry at dinner. When you're hungry, and it's day 10, spaghetti and chicken becomes delicious again. I will say this. Not once, not ever, was the spaghetti overcooked. That is tricky to do for 150 people. Every night we'd come down for dinner at about 7pm. Every night the head organizer would say to us in Spanish, "Here come the Canadians. They don't understand me. Look! They are hungry!" Then he'd point to me. "This guy understands a little!" Then he'd laugh and tell the story to anyone in earshot about the Canadians who want to eat at 7pm instead of 9. But at least he'd go into the kitchen and have the waiters bring us something to eat.
Brandon was out of the race on day 4 with full intestinal malaise, as bad as you can imagine. He needed to travel with us for another 4 days until finally getting word that the organizers may have a way for him to the airport. We started the stage that day and essentially left him in a random town. I guess he sat there for three hours until finding his ride. Then he began the scariest trip I've ever heard about to the airport.
Everyone was having various problems throughout the race. Bill got sick and then blew out his back. Sophie and Kevin were getting sick. Everyone else had various digestive problems and were succumbing to a bronchitis as well. Sherby also had some chemical chamois burns from the sink washing with mystery detergents. The hardest man in the world, Eric Wohlberg, said uncle on day 10 after being up all night and Cam pulled the plug with fever chills during the stage. Svein, Sherby and I rode one more day. After the stage however, my left eye began to close shut. Was it sickness or just some crazy diesel spray infection? I was up all night stressed about finding eye drops in Venezuela. Svein got the chills and then the sweats that night and Sherby was working on getting pneumonia. Our alarm woke us at 6am. I peeled my eye open and proclaimed, "I'm out". Svein said he was too and then Sherby coughed up some phlegm and agreed. Our disastrous tour was over.
But sadly, it really wasn't. We had to follow the race until the last day in the bus. 6 hours a day. We couldn't do any short rides, as our bikes followed the race separately and showed up later in the day. But as sick as we were, there was no possibility of riding. Eric was the only one to venture out on the last day in a city choking with traffic and pollution. The rest of us said, No thanks.
It was time for a final packing of bikes and clothes, stinking of mildew, that never once dried in two weeks. Sherby was heading home while 4 riders and 3 staff prepared to start Missouri in 2 days. With the death virus firmly ensconced in my head and lungs, and having not ridden in 4 days, I seriously doubted whether I could even finish the first stage. At least my eye was getting better.
Oh I mentioned bad roads. What can I say? Imagine two weeks of riding through a construction zone. Giant man swallowing holes. Wheel breaking, bike breaking holes. Look out! There's a sign in the middle of the road! Oh the cuban hit it. He showed up an hour later covered in gauze. Tough little guy. Oh, that other dude hit a dog. Poor guy. Poor dog. Every town has about 5 or 6 speed bumps but imagine broken 2 foot high little mountains. Now I know you think I'm joking about them being 2 feet high. Well, go to Venezuela and have a look. Uh oh, Svein was pushed into the gutter. It's a 6 inch drop into a trench actually. Can't get out of that. He's going to have to stop…but not in time before slamming into a pile of garbage.
Well I know that I sound really down on Venezuela. It was regrettably the most difficult travel and racing conditions any of us have experienced in our careers. I guess that I feel the organizers are biting off more than they can chew. Money is, of course, very tight. However the same budget could go into a week-long race instead and things could be improved. Most of the stage distances were off by more than 20km. The organizer was even calling finishing towns during the stage to find hotels for the riders! "Hi there, do you have room for 150? Tonight. Well in 2 hours actually". And the UCI regulations were thrown out the window regarding teams. Most of the squads were coming from various provinces of Venezuela. Each province had three teams each and they were all working together. Some teams even had the exact same kits. Imagine having the leaders jersey and having 17 guys roll on the front for you. Imagine attacking while 17 guys chase you down.
Missouri was pure joy in comparison. As sick as the 4 of us were, we were as happy as my dog Emma in mud to be on smooth roads and in good hotels. Every time the race went single file, I said,"Yeah sure. Chuck it in the ditch. I don't care. You can't hurt me anymore. I'm on stage 16 here". And the team did really well too. Three podiums and Randell 8th overall. It was a great success. The stage where we chased down the break for 40k was actually fun to me. I was enjoying being a part of the race and my head was starting to clear up too.
Unfortunately the Grand Tour came to an abrupt end for me on the last stage with about 30k to go. A media motorbike clipped my shoulder while attempting to pass the field through a gap only a few feet wide. Clearly the driver didn't have enough room when he hit me. My hand came off the bars and I veered into some large construction barrels. Upon hitting the ground, I landed on my shoulder, took road rash on both sides of my body and whacked my head for good measure. The diagnosis was a complete break of my right clavicle.
I got into the doctor back in Portland about a week after the crash for a check-up. I went in thinking that I didn't want surgery unless it was necessary. After all, the season was nearly over. The doctor was leaning towards surgery however given the distance between the bones. We decided to do another x-ray and see how things were going. I was surprised to see that the bones were now even further apart. Surgery seems necessary now to prevent a possible non-union of the bone. So it's scheduled for Wednesday morning. I'll try and do a one-handed update later next week. The pictures below show my X-ray initially after the crash. Then, a week later shows that the bones are even further apart now.

This entry was posted on Sunday, September 30th, 2007 at 5:11 pm and is filed under Jacob Erker. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.