Gotham’s Dynamic Duo | Al Toefield, Lou Maltese, and New York City Bike Racing

Originally I wrote this for the July 1986 issue of Bicycle Guide Magazine. This version is slightly different. It’s shorter. And better. You’re welcome.

I have not updated any time references. “Last year” means 1985, “four years ago” means 1982, etc. There was no internet or cable then, and the only bike racing on TV was the Tour de France. This story is based on personal interviews with Al Toefield and Lou Maltese conducted in 1986. They died in 1989 and never, ever got enough credit for what they contributed to the sport of bicycle racing. That’s why I’m posting this. Thank you Lou Maltese, Al Toefield, and Pete Senia.

Copyright ©2017 ©1986 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All rights reserved

New York is a city of five boroughs and two cycling czars. In the battle of nerves that is Big Apple bicycle racing, Lou Maltese and Al Toefield never blink.

Lou Maltese and Al Toefield each have respected racing clubs in New York City. Both were track racing fiends in their youth, and both love to organize big-time racing events. Before there was ever a Coors Classic, before the Colorado World’s Championship was even a gleam in the USCF’s eye, Maltese and Toefield were showing Americans what a real race is all about. There the resemblance ends and the fireworks begin.

Lou Maltese. Photo © Ted Leyson

Lou Maltese. Photo © Ted Leyson

Depending on whom you ask, the reputation of Lou Maltese’s Century Road Club (CRC) Association ranges from Olympic cadet school to marauding band of rowdies. You can’t be the oldest and perhaps largest racing club in the country without developing a certain cachet. The CRC has been raising dust and more since it was founded in 1898 by Charles P. Staubach.

Central Park is the domain of Lou Maltese and the CRC, as it has been since 1963. Before that he ruled Grand Concourse in the Bronx and Harlem Speedway. When he set his sights on Central Park, it was a rough start.

His storied nemesis was legendary civic builder Robert Moses. A colossal asshole with an ego to match, Moses was the State Council of Parks chairman, Long Island State Parks Commission president, NYC Parks Commissioner, New York State Power Authority chairman, Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority chairman, president of — well, you get the picture. Moses championed a lot of causes. Bicycle racing wasn’t among them.

Says Maltese about Moses’ Central Park welcome wagon: “I used to run like an outlaw. Every once in a while the officials would catch up to us and chase us out of the park.” With time came shifts in city politics. Moses died in 1981 and Maltese holds court every Saturday at the Central Park Boathouse, the de facto CRC headquarters.

Maltese was born in 1907. In his halcyon days he was a record-breaker in 3-mile, 25-mile, and century time trials, holding the 100-mile record for more than 30 years. He first joined a club himself in 1922, qualified for the Olympics but missed selection by a hair, and turned pro in 1928. His specialty was motorpace racing, pedaling 55 mph behind motorcycles on board tracks.

The Great Depression and World War II caused the tracks to fold, and many pros returned to the amateur ranks. Maltese didn’t need to. He took up race promotion, developing a talent that served him as well as his racing skills had.

For 27 years he was Director of National Championships for the Amateur Bicycle League of America (ABLA was renamed the U.S. Cycling Federation in 1975, and USACycling in 1995), organizing thousands of races all over the country. He was responsible for the 1955 National Championships and Olympic qualification trials in 1960, 1964, 1968, and 1972, all held in New York. He ran the monthly races at Astoria Park for years. In the 1930s he joined CRC and now runs the club’s weekly races in Central Park, as well as the annual Memorial Races and Mengoni Grand Prix.

While Central Park is certainly glamorous, he’ll be the first to tell you it’s no picnic running a sane event there. Educating parkgoers is about equivalent to informing a zombie horde they’re about to be flattened by a rabid pack of bombers. “They run down the middle of the road,” says Maltese in despair, “even with baby carriages! You learn how to ride your bike like a cat walks.”

Public use hours of the park are posted on signs all over. But problems exist despite a raft of precautions that include advance cars with loudspeakers, race marshals, road restrictions, and suspension of riders who drift out of the designated race path. And that’s just for training races.

To make things more lively, the southernmost end of the 6.25-mile race circuit is carpeted with emissions from police horses, carriage horses, and the riding academy horses. The racers call it Marlboro Country. And yet a CRC membership card is still the hot ticket in town. Maltese expects to log over 400 members this year.

Most CRC members are male. Female riders are especially difficult to attract to a club, and the CRC’s few are a point of pride for him. He has but one complaint. “Our women get better, then the other clubs steal them away.”

By “other clubs,” he could mean the Nassau Wheelmen way out on Long Island, or maybe Westchester Velo up north, or perhaps the Century Road Club of America over in Jersey (no relation, he’s quick to add). But all of them are virtually inaccessible to people who spend all their money on bikes instead of cars. What he probably means is the only other club whose races you can get to by bike: Kissena.

The monarch of that Queens domain is, of course, Al Toefield, who has a reputation for never forgetting a name, and for dispensing the same quality of advice to geeks as to stars.

Al Toefield. Photo © Peter Nye

Al Toefield. Photo © Peter Nye

From where Toefield stands, Maltese’s Central Park operation is more flash than substance, and the CRC serves but one useful purpose: prescreening.

“We turn down an awful lot of people,” he says, referring to CRC defectors. “We’ve found through experience that if they’re frustrated in that club, it means they’re looking for something unrealistic. Eventually they’ll be frustrated with us. We don’t want them.”

In a town where talk is cheap and poseurs are the rule, Toefield has become something of an icon to kids with a dream. His Kissena Cycling Club has a stellar rep for mentoring juniors, and the Kissena Bicycle Shop that he owns is about the only one where a serious racer of modest means can get a competitive bike. It also serves as executive HQ for the 200-member KCC.

A night person, Toefield can be found most evenings fielding phone calls in this tiny place that somehow holds a vast jungle of racing equipment. In a corner hangs one of his old wood-rimmed tires with “Toefield 1972” painted on it in script. It was a good-luck gift the year he went to Munich as chairman of the U.S. Olympic Committee and manager of the Olympic cycling team.

Before that he was the ABLA’s president (1967-1971), and now is the USCF’s first vice president. For the last 12 years he’s been New York State and New York City regional chairman of cycling events for the prestigious Empire State Games. He also ran the Pepsi-Cola Marathon for 12 years, the 1985 Tour of Long Island, and the 1980s Lowenbrau Grand Prix cycling series.

Toefield was born in 1921. He scored his foundational chops during the Great Depression, working as a bicycle messenger for 15 cents an hour and joining school teams. All of them.

“I learned fund raising early by playing as many school sports as possible,” he says of his high school years. “Each coach dispensed lunch on practice days and 25 cents for car fare,” which Toefield squireled away for bicycle equipment purchases. It was a brilliant plan, he says, “except when different teams practiced on the same day.”

By World War II Toefield was burning up the board tracks at the Coney Island Velodrome, the old Madison Square Garden, and the velodrome in Nutley, New Jersey. He joined CRC in the 1950s. His last sprint was in the 1953 Race of Champions at the now-defunct Flushing Meadow track, a six-tenths-mile oval in Queens.

In 1958 he became president of the Eastern Cycling Federation. Now he runs his track races at the Kissena Velodrome in Queens and his road races in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park.

In the battle of nerves, Toefield is a front-liner and beloved folk hero. It serves him well in Prospect Park, a scaled-down version of Central Park bordered by rough neighborhoods and frequented by airheads shambling and biking where they shouldn’t. But it also has a world-class art museum, fine botanical gardens, a big zoo, a skating rink, and a famous ampitheater. Its picturesque race circuit measures three miles and change. Vehicles are prohibited all weekend, and from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily in the summer. But that doesn’t stop some folks.

There’s an oft-told anecdote about a car parked in the middle of the road during one of Toefield’s races. The driver had wormed past a police barricade, then proceeded to ignore warnings from club marshals to leave the park. Toefield, a retired police sergeant with 38 years on the force, approached the party pooper himself. Failing to persuade him to go home by being nice, Toefield produced a revolver. The pooper scrammed.

[Author’s note: Toefield famously tolerated no poopage of any kind in his races. Before motorcycles were commonplace in cycling events, he recruited me to run interference for him on mine. I was impressed at how effective it was to sneak up on hosers and bark in their faces, “Al says get out!” The one time it didn’t work, the perp (an unregistered rider who shouldn’t have been racing) threatened to kill me, which I duly reported. Toefield tore off after the f∪cker in his van. That guy never tried it again.]

Kissena Velodrome in 2005. Photo © City of NY

Kissena Velodrome in 2005. Photo © City of New York

The Kissena Velodrome saga

One of the few things on which the two kingpins agree is the circus surrounding construction of the Kissena Velodrome in Queens.

It was intended to replace the old flat track at Flushing Meadow, the one where Toefield rode his last Race of Champions in 1953. Maltese’s eternal nemesis Robert Moses, who demolished a children’s park to build a parking lot for Tavern on the Green and tried to demolish Greenwich Village to build a highway, now wanted to raze the Flushing track to build the 1964 World’s Fair.

“Many good events, starting in ’55 with the National Championships, were held there,” said Peter Senia Sr., a longtime associate of Toefield and Maltese who was a USCF board director, and U.S. team coach for the Pan Am Games and Olympics.

So while the city was still feeling guilty about depriving the racers of their last velodrome, a deal was struck. The cycling clubs would raise funds to build a new track and the city would donate the land — if Toefield and Maltese came back with the money.

And raise cash they did — $10,000. And the Parks Department, who’d expected never to see them again, granted $90,000 and a site for the project after a lot of arm-twisting.

The Parks staff had never seen a banked track, so Maltese had to design the 400-meter Kissena Velodrome himself. The groundbreaking was delayed, however, by bureaucratic red tape; construction prices rose, and with them the cost projections. The city refused to allocate additional funds to meet rising estimates.

According to Toefield, Maltese, and Senia, the city forbade them from privately negotiating with the union contractors who originally bid for the job, and those contractors in turn leaned on other contractors to scare them away.

Pete Senia. Photo © Anthony Van Dunk

Pete Senia. Photo © Anthony Van Dunk

After years of government sidestepping and relentless perseverance by Toefield, Maltese, and Senia, the asphalt arena finally got built in 1963 — over a sewer pipeline in a swamp, thanks to the choice parcel donated by the city. Every year the track sinks a bit, requiring extensive repairs. Local racers affectionately call it The Track With A Hill.

To the surprise of no one, Robert Moses took credit for building Kissena Velodrome. It rests but three blocks away from the Kissena Bicycle Shop, and so Toefield assumed maintenance of it (helped by Senia, with the two often paying for and doing repairs themselves) after a falling-out with Maltese that led to the founding of KCC.

That spat started a few years earlier, driven by differences of opinion regarding CRC policy. U.S. junior national champion Perry Metzler, a racer from Brooklyn, was a CRC rider Maltese wouldn’t help. Toefield personally drove Metzler to the 1957 senior nats in Wisconsin, a trip Metzler couldn’t afford to make on his own. Metzler won, becoming the first African-American U.S. amateur national champion.

Rather than abandon CRC’s 1898 charter declaring it a club exclusively for white men, Maltese reportedly told everyone Metzler was a Mexican, a Puerto Rican, or an Indian. By 1963 Toefield and Senia had had enough. They started their own club in Queens, KCC, to develop talented young riders of all skintones while Maltese headed to Central Park to get pounded some more by Robert Moses.

Despite the city’s bad behavior and Maltese’s departure, Kissena Velodrome’s season still creaks to life every May, with the faithful arriving on Wednesday nights for racing at dusk.

Kissena Velodrome, National Championships in 1964. Photo © Untapped Cities NYC / Stepanie Geier

Kissena Velodrome, National Championships in 1964. Photo © Untapped Cities NYC / Stepanie Geier

Above: Kissena Velodrome in 1975, © Paul Sery. The “hill” is clearly visible at 0:55.

New York City club wars

Club membership in New York City is a microcosm of the general population: You’ve got your schoolkids, your banshees on gaspipe bikes, your affluent Baby Boomers scrounging around for lost youth, your Gen X-ers who are “serious,” at least until they acquire mortgages. The common fabric is racing fever and a unilateral resentment of joggers who think $150 shoes make them athletes.

The mere mention of the New York Road Runners Club is enough to foment a cyclist shitstorm. Founded in 1958 with 47 members, NYRR now has 25,000 members who also have races in Central Park on Saturday mornings, effectively inflating the club’s influence there as well as its sense of property rights.

CRCA Hincapie Classic in Memory of Lou Maltese, Central Park. © Bicycle Racing Pictures

CRCA Hincapie Classic in Memory of Lou Maltese, Central Park. © Bicycle Racing Pictures

It didn’t take long for the rift between runners and riders to become the biggest undeclared war since Vietnam.

Maltese, Toefield, and Senia were excited to be awarded the 1960 Olympic cycling trials, scheduled to be held in Central Park. They were unhappy when it took six months to get consent to close the park to cars for four hours. So they organized a coalition of clubs that lobbied the city into closing all parks to cars every weekend. What they had in mind was more bike races. What they got was quite different.

After the weekend car bans began in the late sixties, the Road Runners overran both Central Park and the city’s major events calendar. Says Senia, “They’re allowed to use the park as much as they want. We’re not allowed a permit except for the Mengoni race.”

The NYRR got pretty much the whole city shut down for the 1976 New York City Marathon, while the CRC was ordered to hold their weekend Central Park races at dawn, so as not to inconvenience any runners training for it.

Ask Toefield about the park wars, and he’ll tell you an epic combat story. “A certain corporate mogul and major political contributor likes to run off his hangovers in Central Park. He gets the finger from cyclists. He gets four-letter words shouted at him. They run him off the path — aim at him! And he calls up Eddie [Koch, the mayor]. He calls up Henry [Stern, the Parks Commissioner]. How are you going to fight that?”

Cyclist-versus-runner turf wars rage nonstop. The clubs hate each other, but Maltese denies it. “It’s not the Road Runners Club that gives us any problem. It’s the general public. The runners have one inside lane, and the riders have two outside lanes. The [rest of the] public thinks they own the park.”

Bill Noël, Executive Director of the Road Runners, agrees, explaining how a coalition of eight civic groups is trying to draft ceasefire guidelines and failing utterly. “It’s extremely slow going. It’s very complex. Things that are not very practical are being tossed out on the table.”

Meanwhile, during one particular CRC race, an errant yuppie was plodding in the cyclists’ lane instead of the runners’. The pack saw the jogger and parted like the Red Sea, all except for one novice at the back who did the unthinkable: He creamed what turned out to be a lawyer. The case went to court. The CRC won.

Politics & payola

Everyone agrees racing costs money, lots of it. It will always live in a financial Twilight Zone between municipal and corporate dependency.

For those who promote it, American bicycle racing at its best is a nightmare of permit applications, insurance hassles, and scheduling conflicts. Arguably the toughest problem is how to simultaneously satisfy sponsors, who mostly want love, and politicians, who mostly want… well, something else.

Sponsors, they’re easy. Anyone asks them for a donation, they’ll ask what they’re getting for it. Fair enough. Mainly they want uncritical publicity. If they’re into bike racing, they’re often good with whatever ya got for ’em.

Politicians, they’re different.

Witness the 1978 Apple Lap, an ambitious plan by Maltese and Toefield for a 75-mile race in which 300 riders would cut through all five boroughs. Incredibly, New York City was on board! But based on the success of the recent Citibank Marathon, the city insisted on not 300 riders, but thousands.

Toefield says, “I finally convinced city fathers that there would be a massacre with 10,000 riders racing.” So it was on, again. But then the police didn’t like the idea of 600 cops guarding 300 riders. And with that, the Apple Lap was history before it even began.

Given the logistics, it’s not hard to understand why corporate sponsors are more willing to commit time and money to lesser events in remote places; it’s just easier and cheaper. But Toefield believes big cities like his have unlimited superior talent reserves begging to be showcased.

“You could sell horseshit in New York City if you package it right,” he says, quoting his ad exec friend on Madison Avenue. “Why should they create markets when they’re already here?”

The answer is kind of sad. Access to Central Park — what little of it there is — goes mostly to Maltese, possession being nine-tenths of the law. The outer boroughs have many fine venues, but they suffer from a lack of recognition as commercial race sites for much the same reasons that cycling itself is slow to be recognized as national sport: They have a reputation of being dull, dangerous, and small-time.

Even though Brooklyn’s Prospect Park was designed by Central Park architects Olmsted and Vaux (and is widely considered more beautiful), racing sponsors always demand Central Park. Toefield says, “I forfeited a blank check from Cinzano because I couldn’t deliver Central Park for a Sunday afternoon race.”

Then there’s the other spoiler, which is way thornier.

According to Toefield, Bloomingdale’s agreed to sponsor a race four years ago. The bill from the Parks Department was $25,000 for the use of Central Park. That’s in addition to, you understand, salaries, security, equipment, insurance, prize money — the race itself. Bloomie’s was horrified. They coughed up the dough, but backed off from race sponsorship for the next three years.

“Anybody comes up with $100,000 for me to run a race, I’d gladly give Central Park $10,000,” maintains Toefield. “But if Central Park knew I had a $100,000 budget, they’d want $50,000.”

Toefield is one of the few promoters who will talk about payola. It isn’t pretty. [Read my story from Spy Magazine about the 1989 Tour de Trump, which also addresses this subject. — ss]

A few years ago he provided cyclists and technical advice for the film Key Exchange, which features footage of racers in Central Park. The producer agreed as payment to sponsor another, real race in Central Park. When Toefield filed the permit applications, the Parks Department discovered the film’s backer was Manufacturer Hanover’s Trust. They had a question. Just how generous a contribution to the Central Park Cultural Foundation were Kissena Cycling Club and the fourth largest bank in the country prepared to make?

MHT threatened to back out, but the movie did get made. And eventually Toefield had his real race, but in Prospect Park rather than Central Park. And MHT never sponsored a cycling event again.

It’s easy to argue that until cycling is considered mainstream in the U.S., getting sponsorship will be difficult. Getting sponsorship requires a guarantee of publicity, and getting publicity requires the guarantee of sponsorship. Cycling will never become mainstream without them. This is the Catch 22 of the sport’s future.

That said, it’s worth noting that when the Europeans showed up in Colorado last year for the Coors Classic and this year for the UCI World Championships, the national media lapped it up. And with Greg LeMond, Steve Bauer, and Andy Hampsten proving to the world that North Americans are fierce contenders, the international focus may shift as well. Whenever that happens, America is ready because Toefield and Maltese showed us just what to do. Catch 22 just slipped a toestrap.

Long Meadow, Prospect Park. Photo by Hua Chen (c) 2006

Long Meadow, Prospect Park. Photo by Hua Chen (c) 2006

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All rights reserved

Author’s note: Shortly after this piece was written in 1986, Century Road Club management was taken over by the membership. They created a board of directors, wrote new bylaws, officially renamed the club CRCA, and became the inclusive organization they are today. Lou Maltese remained CRCA chairman until his death in 1989. Al Toefield remained the head of KCC until his death in 1989. KCC incorporated as a nonprofit that year and is ongoing today. The club still manages the operation and maintenance of Kissena Velodrome.

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! (Also available in paperback.) Thanks.

 

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

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Celebs Behaving Badly: New York City Edition

This is the latest in an ongoing gossip marathon but I’m calling it a memoir, so bite me. Be sure to see Celebs Behaving Badly, Celebs Behaving Badly: CalArts Edition, and Celebs Behaving Badly: Burbank Edition.

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Glorious Pile of Rubell

I used to go to Studio 54 with my pal David, the handsomest gay man in the world. (Sorry, also-rans. Is what it is.)

David, Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

David, Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Co-owner Steve Rubell was always out front, personally cherry picking who could go in. He’d be all “You, you, and you but not you.”

David and I breezed past the eternal line of bridge-and-tunnel losers. Well actually, David breezed by them and I got in too, because Date of Handsomest Gay Man. He coulda breezed into Fort Knox.

One night David and I spilled out of a cab in front of Studio and scrambled straight for the front door. Rubell stopped us.

Well actually, he stopped me. My outfit was something best described as Raquel Welch’s costume in One Million Years B.C. Or as David put it, “Ohmygod you’re not wearing anything!”

He got over it. But Steve, he no likey.

“C’mon!” I said to him. “You always let me in!” which he had no reason to remember. He was totally blasted on … something. He looked me up and down, all bug-eyed and weaving (him, not me). Finally he said okay because a fight was breaking out that he had to go supervise. I think that was the night David and I shared a couch with Lee Radziwill and Jay North.

West Side doorman Steve Rubell - Copyright © 2017 Robin Platzer/The LIFE Images Collection/Getty Images

West Side doorman Steve Rubell – Copyright © 2017 Robin Platzer/The LIFE Images Collection/Getty Images

Lifecycle A-Go-Go

Way back when, I used to write for cycling magazines. They made me attend the annual ritual of mass consumption, Boogerbike or whatever it was called. It was a trade show held at a venue nobody misses now, the New York Coliseum. The Coliseum was less like a place where gladiators would’ve hung out and more like a dirigible hangar. (Later Biketastic moved to the Javits Center, then to Philly, then I stopped going.)

Tedious as these shows were, they did have their moments. I met his highness Eddy Merckx and the delightful Georgena Terry, from whom I bought a delicious custom frame. But mostly Bikegasm was endless displays of fredware and birdseed energy bars. One magazine I worked for wanted me to write up the launch of a stationary bike called Sit-N-Spin. I am not making this up.

As you might imagine, the swag in the vast crapscape that was Bikerteria generally sucked. So I was thrilled the time I scored a huge poster of Connie Carpenter.

She was all kinds of hot that year, having just won the Coors Classic and Nats, and gold medals at the Olympics and World Championships. She was a force of nature, that girl. Also really cute. (You young’uns might know her better as the mom of three-time national champ Taylor Phinney, a 2017 Tour de France rider for Cannondale.) Someone I knew who raced her told me, “When Connie makes up her mind to win, everyone else may as well go home because what the hell’s the point?”

Anyway, I was so excited to get this great poster with her on it that I had to pee. I ducked into the Bikerama can, and holy macaroni — there’s Connie Carpenter herself! In the flesh! By which I mean buck nekkid!

She’d been biking around town and was changing into street clothes, so she’d look less smelly at the booth of the company she repped. We’re not supposed to see superheroes out of costume. But sh!t happens, especially to me. I was so embarrassed, I spun outta there like a motorized dreidl.

Everything worked out okay, though. A little later I found her at the Cannondale booth, where she graciously autographed my poster and laughed at me for running away. She was adorable! And I still have her poster.

The magnificent Connie Carpenter - Copyright © 2017 Getty Images

The magnificent Connie Carpenter – Copyright © 2017 Getty Images

Haute Cloture

I used to design artsy fartsy fashions. (See Celebs Behaving Badly for a brutal play-by-play.) One of the first places I tried to sell them in New York was Julie: Artisans’ Gallery.

There really was a Julie — Julie Schafler — and there really was a colon in her store’s name. It was on Madison Avenue in the 60s. I don’t think it’s there anymore, but here’s a Groupon. Let me know.

Julie Artisans' Gallery - Photo Copyright Julie Artisan's Gallery

Julie: Artisans’ Gallery – Photo Copyright Julie: Artisans’ Gallery

The store was famous for wild one-of-a-kind artisanal clothes and accessories. I introduced Julie to my already-made stuff, which she liked but not enough to buy any. Instead, she wanted me to custom-make something just for her: patchwork leather gloves slathered with beads. Like an idiot I said okay.

Meanwhile, the only customer in Julie’s store did want to buy something I’d brought in: the fancy leather suit bag I’d made to transport samples to buyer meetings. I was happy to sell it to her. I was happy to sell anything.

I really wanted into this store. It got lots of publicity and the prices were crazy stupid high. Assuming Julie would double my wholesale price for her hapless customer as is customary in retail, I asked her for an economical $700. “That’s not enough,” Julie said and marched away.

Not enough? What the actual f⊔⊏k?

While she was off doing who knows what, I met the customer she’d been yapping at  through a curtain about her “jet-setting husband,” as if she had no money or identity of her own. Not that there weren’t shoppers like that in Manhattan. But blow me down! Out of the dressing room stepped Ann Turkel, one of the hotter-than-a-rope-burn supermodels of the late 1960s.

She was on the cover of every magazine I ever loved. She’d just begun acting (soon to star in one of my fave guilty pleasures, Humanoids from the Deep). And only tangentially interesting (to me, anyway) was that she’d recently married Richard Burton’s beer bro Richard Harris, who’d just won a Grammy and a Golden Globe.

Ann Turkel - photo Copyright © Conde Nast

Ann Turkel – photo Copyright © Conde Nast

I’ve seen lots of models in person, and way too many are totes skanky. Not Turkel. OMG, so gorgeous! And funny. And so not snobby. She said she had to attend a stuffy, old-money formal event for which she needed suitable attire. She wanted to look special, she said, “not like all those old ladies in their crappy chiffons.”

She tried on a boho frock that was… interesting, I guess. But in the end she left with nothing. As did I, with the exception of my assignment from Julie that I should’ve gotten a contract for but didn’t.

A month later I returned with exactly the unique, labor-intensive creation she’d requested. She greeted it with “No! Needs more beads! And feathers! And fringe! Go crazy with it!” Stylewise, she was still shaking off the brown acid at Woodstock.

I left with my gloves and never went back.

Art & photo Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Art & photo Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Steal This Suit

Back when Barney’s New York had just the one extraordinary store on 7th Avenue, I practically lived there. This was before it became McBarneys, moved uptown, and morphed into the Men’s Whorehouse franchise that went bankrupt.

Barney’s men’s suit department was the bomb. I got a lot of stuff there, because a) it fit me better than women’s clothes, b) Barney’s tailors were aces, and c) they never gave me any crap about being a girl and/or using the men’s dressing room. They were so utterly cool!

One day as I rapturously rifled Barney’s suit racks, a great commotion arose from the dressing room. I hadn’t gone in yet, so it wasn’t my fault this time.

Presently a disheveled old fart shambled out, ranting and confused, wearing a fine Italian suit with a hopelessly rumpled shirt and the pants around his ankles. A coterie of handlers hustled him off the sales floor, but not before the whole store recognized him. Even with the plastic surgery you could tell it was acquitted Chicago Seven superstar Abbie Hoffman.

Hoffman needed elegant attire for his upcoming coke trafficking trial. He was convicted for that one, but received a commuted sentence. See? Barney’s rules!

Abbie Hoffman makes a public appearance in his Barney's finery. Copyright © 1981 Ida Libby Dengrove

Abbie Hoffman makes a public appearance in his Barney’s finery. Copyright 1981 Ida Libby Dengrove

 

Another Kind of Suit

There was a club on Fifth Avenue at 13th Street that I liked a lot, the Lone Star Cafe. It hosted a steady parade of unrepentant Stetson-wearers and big music stars (Willie Nelson, Roy Orbison, Albert Collins, The Blues Brothers), plus a 40-foot iguana. The humans worked the inside; the lizard had the roof.

The Lone Star Cafe

The Lone Star Cafe

I once saw a performance there by The Suits, a rock band fronted by New York City slumlord Jay Weiss. Weiss owned the Happy Land Social Club, a Bronx venue burned down by an arsonist while 87 people were inside. In case you’re wondering: Yes, Weiss was as good a musician as he was a landlord.

Happy Land Social Club - copyright New York Daily News

Happy Land Social Club – copyright New York Daily News

Anyway, pre-show I ducked into the can. I was shocked to be competing for the vanity with Kathleen Turner. Yes, that Kathleen Turner.

Turned out she was The Suits’ singer. Also Weiss’s wife. Yes, she acts better than she sings. No, she wasn’t really bad, it’s just that I wouldn’t have paid to hear that. The Suits were the opening act for the band I actually did pay to see. They probably got the gig because they owned the building.

I was pretty sure the Lone Star had private facilities for the talent. Whatever. Dressed in her best rock chick outfit, Turner bounced off every hard bathroom surface — people included — while emitting a nonstop look-at-me rap. I fled the restroom mid-plea.

Sadly, the Lone Star burned down in 2006. Probably just a coincidence.

Kathleen Turner rocks out.

Kathleen Turner rocks out.

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

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RUN AMOK! | Mapping the Tour de Trump’s Mishaps, Foul-Ups and Egregious Exaggerations

Copyright © 1989, © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Did you know that before Donald Trump was buying presidential races, he was buying bicycle races? Here’s a 1989 article I wrote for Spy Magazine about the Tour de Trump, an extravaganza of cheating, demagoguery, and over-the-top hyperbole. Some things never change.

The complete article appears in a readable format after the too-small-to-read screencap of the original (below). But do take a look at the awesome Spy map, illustrated by John O’Leary. The text is keyed to it. The intro was written by Spy editor Jamie Malanowski.

Before we get started, here are some insider fun facts about the Tour (and things Spy wouldn’t print):
🚴 When Olympic gold medalist Viatcheslav Ekimov was assaulted, the only racer who stopped to help him was three-times Tour de France champion Greg LeMond.
🚴 The New York City stage almost didn’t happen. Gotham has a long and illustrious history of shaking down bike racing promoters, and Trump was no exception. He ponied up a five-figure cash bribe to nail it down.
🚴 The finishers of Stage 1 were greeted by a mob of protesters with signs reading “Fight Trumpism” and “Eat the Rich.”

Protesters at the finish line of Stage 1 in New Paltz, NY. Copyright Kevin Hogan

Finish line of Stage 1 in New Paltz, NY. Copyright Kevin Hogan

🚴 When Trump wanted to ride bitch to view the race from a support motorcycle, officials made him wear a helmet. Think his hair’s bad now? You should’ve seen it then.
🚴 Trump brought his yacht to the race. The $100 million Trump Princess was formerly Nabila, the yacht of Saudi arms dealer Adnan Khashoggi. It had a disco and helipad. (When it was Largo’s Flying Saucer in the James Bond film Never Say Never Again, it had nuclear weapons.) When Khashoggi was arrested for his role in the Iran-Contra affair, Trump scored the tub at a fire sale for $29 million. In 1991 Trump sold it for $20 million to pay debts when his Taj Mahal casino went bankrupt.

1

Read about everything else that happened at the Tour de Trump below the following screencap. It’s a pretty solid preview of a President Trump Administration.

On Your Mark, Get Set, RUN AMOK!
Mapping the Tour de Trump’s Mishaps, Foul-Ups and Egregious Exaggerations
originally published in Spy Magazine, September 1989
Text Copyright © 1989, © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

The Tour de Trump: who can forget the fun we had? If we couldn’t join sports nuts who flew into Atlantic City to attend the showdown, then (after calling our bookies) we joined our friends in front of the TV for a festive, sure-to-be-annual Tour de Trump party….

Oops — sorry! We were thinking of the Super Bowl. Actually, the Tour de Trump was that curious event last May that, according to its namesake, was supposed to have cycling’s hottest stars and the world’s most lucrative prizes (at least three European races award more), and was generally sold as being the premier cycling race in America. Maybe it was. However, it was also certainly an over-hyped, under-scrutinized event, characterized by snafus, Wile E. Coyote shenanigans, critical errors and a remarkably casual approach to facts. Cycling expert SYDNEY SCHUSTER recaps the highlights.

TRUMP TOWER, MANHATTAN
SUMMER 1987
Basketball analyst and entrepreneur Billy Packer, one of three partners attempting to launch an American bicycle race on the order of Le Tour de France, seeks the financial backing of Donald Trump. Before their meeting Packer thinks, If he asks me, “What’s the race’s name?” I’ll say, “Tour de Trump.” As Francophones know, this term actually describes a race where competitors travel around Trump’s body. Depending on which newspaper note-taker received Trump’s more accurate recollection, he replies either “You have to be kidding…. The idea’s so wild it’s going to work” or “Are you kidding? I will get killed in the media if I use that name…. You know, but it is a great shtick.”

THE PLAZA HOTEL, MANHATTAN
DECEMBER 6, 1988
This marks the third occasion on which Trump announces the race. At various times before the event, the promoters issue press releases that describe the Tour’s distance as 837 miles, 850 miles, 900 miles, 925 miles, 937 miles, 950 miles and 1,000 miles. The length is actually 782 miles. At the press conference. Trump unveils the obligatory commemorative LeRoy Neiman poster, showing a bareheaded cyclist crossing the finish line with arms upraised against a backdrop of the Atlantic City casinos. (In real life the cyclist, being helmetless, would have been disqualified.) Trump writes in the event’s official program that the Tour will feature the American debut of “the first Soviet professional team…a thrilling breakthrough in international sports history.” The Soviet team, Alfa Lum, does not show; they are racing in Spain. Trump, who has never seen a bike race in person, goes on to promise that the event will be “the most unique and spectacular event on the Eastern seaboard this year.” Unique, certainly.

ALBANY
MAY 5, 1989
(illustration 1) The prologue to the race is a two-mile individual time trial, in which each rider races alone against the clock and the best time wins, thus establishing a race leader. Governor Cuomo is supposed to fire the starting pistol but backs out. A Trump spokesman describes Trump’s reaction to the news: “Privately, he might be a bit angry, but publicly he didn’t flare up at all.” At the last moment Cuomo finds time in his overbooked schedule to appear.

ALBANY
MAY 6
The first stage of the Tour is a 110-mile race down to New Paltz, New York. Though Soviet amateur Viatcheslav Ekimov is the world’s fastest track racer, the pros are flummoxed when he soundly beats them on the open road. This is not because he surprises them with his ability but because he has broken a tacit rule of racing etiquette: Amateurs do not show up the pros. (2) Trump watches this leg of the race from the caravan of 100 or so support vehicles following the cyclists, his stretch limo standing out among a pack of bicycle-laden hatchbacks, vans and Jeeps.

THE PLAZA, MANHATTAN
MAY 7
(3)
Trump wanted to start Stage Two of the Tour in front of Trump Tower, where, he had rhapsodized in the program notes, “more than 120 cyclists will explode onto Fifth Avenue.” Unfortunately, the city has regulations curtailing public gatherings on Fifth Avenue (and may well have an ordinance against exploding bicyclists), and the start is relocated to another Trump venue, the 59th Street side of The Plaza. The new location guarantees that the Tour de Trump will cross paths with the 25,000 recreational cyclists involved in the American Youth Hostels Five-Borough Bike Tour.

Though Trump promises that Mayor Koch will launch this leg, a 123-mile race from Manhattan to Allentown, Pennsylvania — “I just hope he doesn’t point the starting gun at me,” Trump says — Koch declines to make nice to his antagonist and stays home. [Trump had threatened Koch over his never-built Television City development; Koch called Trump “piggy, piggy, piggy” and “one of the great hucksters.“] In fact, the city denies the Tour a racing permit, effectively rendering the first 35 miles of this leg an escorted parade out of town. Meanwhile, little things go wrong: Clif Halsey, cycling expert for NBC (the network provides financial backing for the event as well as broadcasting it), fails to identify cycling superstar Andy Hampsten [two-time winner of Tour de Suisse, three-stage winner of Giro D’Italia, one stage win in Tour de France], and the racers discover that the hot-pink-and-black Tour de Trump race leader’s jersey bleeds profusely when washed (4).

BETWEEN GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, AND WINCHESTER, VIRGINIA
MAY 9
(5)
The professional racers choose this stage of the race to send a subtle message to the precocious amateur, Ekimov. Fifteen or so racers surround him, grab hold of his jersey and jam a feed bag into his wheel, allowing 7-Eleven, Panasonic and PDM team members to speed away in front. Ekimov has to stop and remove the feed bag, which places him so far behind that it becomes impossible for him to win.

BETWEEN FRONT ROYAL AND CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA
MAY 10
(6)
The amateurs retaliate. Inspired by the Soviet coach — who commands his men, “No pee-pee today!” — the amateurs burst past the professionals at the moment the pros slow down to relieve themselves. US national road champion Rishi Grewal establishes an extraordinary lead that lasts well over half the 107-mile race to Charlottesville. The pros eventually catch up, after which Grewal is “accidentally” hit by a support-crew Jeep. (7)

BALTIMORE
MAY 13
(8)
As the pros and amateurs continue to battle extralegally, Trump chooses to watch the next stage of his Tour, a 51-mile circuit race, from the Trump Princess. Later that day in Atlantic City he brushes off the cycling press and spends his time showing the boat to bigwigs.

ATLANTIC CITY
MAY 14
Pro races usually don’t end with time trials, but this one does. Because of the way time trials are held (racers go off at specified intervals), they offer Trump the picturesque vision of racer after godlike racer thundering past the Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino in prime time — indeed, he has it contractually stipulated that the race end this way. As befits an event run by amateurs and media hogs, the 24-mile time trial is marked by numberless incidents of hanky-panky. Racers illegally cut their times by riding in the slipstreams of their escort motorcycles. (9) Three riders converge head-on from three different directions at an intersection, meaning that at least two of them took shortcuts or wrong turns. Many riders go off course because of poorly placed markers and a lack of road marshals. One of the world’s foremost time trialists, Eric Vanderaerden, misses a well-marked turn, prompting speculations that either he was intentionally misdirected or he wasn’t exactly trying to win. Trump and his armed bodyguards commandeer official motorcycles to see the action better.

FINISH LINE, ATLANTIC CITY
MAY 14
After a race full of small disasters (a support van drives into a ditch, the chief motorcycle marshal totals an $11,500 BMW and a sportscaster on a motorcycle trashes an ESPN video camera), $93,150 is awarded to first-place finisher Dag-Otto Lauritzen and his 7-Eleven team, the same team that was featured earlier in the day in an elaborate three-and-a-half-minute NBC documentary — almost as if someone knew the results ahead of time.

The real winner, of course, is Trump. In return for his $750,000 sponsor fee, he has got an estimated $4.5 million worth of promotion for himself and his buildings on NBC and ESPN, reams of uncritical newspaper attention, and even some bonus publicity for his not-yet-completed Atlantic City Taj Mahal when a racer plunges into a barrier around the construction site (10).

🚴🚴🚴

Sports Illustrated ran a great article about the Tour de Trump, with lots of details about the racing. Read it here.

🚴🚴🚴

Copyright © 1989 & © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on Amazon

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

It’s Here! | DEAD SPOT 3D

If you order my cool novel DEAD SPOT, here’s what you’ll get:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Yup, this is a 5.5″ x 8.5″ quality paperback, professionally printed, with laminated color cover and 255 pages of salty goodness within.

You know you want it! Get it on Amazon. (Also available there as an ebook.)

It’s super easy, and you can pay with a credit card. You’re just a few clicks away from being the envy of your friends!

Let’s Make a Deal | Bicycle Guide

I’m proud to say I used to write for Bicycle Guide, the world’s greatest sports magazine. It broke every mold by being irreverent, funny, and always on the mark. It was like Top Gear (the fun UK one, not the clueless US one), except for being a magazine instead of a TV show, and about bikes instead of cars. Bicycle Guide never wasted editorial space sucking up to superstars or advertisers. I don’t know about them, but every other cycling freak loved it!

The magazine was run by Ted Costantino, the coolest editor of all time. His own writing was so astute and witty and flab-free, it made me laugh and cry at the same time. He had as many fans as Madonna and looked way better in Lycra.

I had a huge crush on Ted. I even saved all his letters, including the first one in which he doubted I had anything special to offer his magazine. (This was before the Internet, when people communicated by killing trees.) I wrote regularly for Bicycle Guide for the next couple of years.

This was in the 1980s, a truly exciting time in the sport. The US hosted Olympics and (for the first and only time) the World Cycling Championships. There were spectacular pro events like the Coors Classic and Wheat Thins Series. Greg LeMond became the first, second, and third American to win the Tour de France. Women were finally allowed to compete in Olympic events involving bicycles, so I got one.

Back then I spent roughly three hours a day on my bike, and I do mean roughly. I rode it to my job in Manhattan, through the slums of Brooklyn, and over busted glass and potholes to do a few laps in Prospect Park before dusk or D races on weekends. My daily misadventures involved cabs, crack heads, thieves, cops, flats, furious building supers, antifreeze spills, and unleashed dogs. And that’s what I wrote about for Bicycle Guide.

Ted gave me my first publishing break in 1985. But more important, he encouraged me to cruise on the edge and never look down.

———

The following article originally appeared in the November/December 1986 issue of Bicycle Guide.

LET’S MAKE A DEAL
Copyright © 1985 © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Racing? she asked. Who’s got the time or money? Then somewhere along the way, I decided tread marks would make a great conversation starter and a few new enemies wouldn’t make an appreciable difference. I took the bait.

Once upon a time, I was a mere twit in art school. Painting was then the fashion and so was unbearable pressure on all us art twits to paint. I preferred constructing weird fetishes out of garbage. Frankly, smearing colors around a canvas that took two weeks to prepare was beyond my attention span.

I did eventually bow, ever so reluctantly, to administrative intimidation. Surprisingly, I didn’t mind painting so much. The results were even kind of likable. A good thing, because otherwise I’d still be there. But there were some unexpected bonuses: lessons in lightwave theory, timber framing, and creative b.s. techniques. All served me well in subsequent endeavors.

Likewise, I once detested Star Trek, Mexican food, most of the Rolling Stones, brassieres, New Yorkers … the list is endless. The only reason I mention this is because I seem to have developed a pattern regarding tastes that are acquired, a category into which bicycle racing fits neatly.

I certainly liked the idea of it, but my early impression of racers was that most were overbearing jocks who I didn’t care to emulate, and I didn’t know any women who raced. Then I started accompanying a friend who competes in local events. To my eternal gratitude, there were women there. Fast women.

One weekend the 7-Eleven team was in town. They made an appearance at a New York City training race, and my friend got dropped by national champ Cindy Olavarri. He was only impressed. I was dazzled.

Meanwhile, I graduated to a “serious” bike. I rode it briskly to watch the races.

One day I inquired as casually as possible of my competitive friend whether I might make a good racer. I figured he should know, having personally been used and abandoned by the 7-Eleven women. He gave me The Look. I dropped the subject faster than Olavarri dropped the weenies.

But at the park and on my way to work, I noticed cycling women crawling out of the woodwork. I initiated as many conversations as possible, most of which gravitated to what we perceived as pressure to compete. I kept hearing this whiney voice grousing about being run down by speed demons half her age, or making new enemies for being too bossy. The whiney voice turned out to be mine.

It was convenient to let it convince me that waking up at 4:30 a.m. to train is demented, and redirecting beer money to replace crashed bike parts is sick. I heard you need an Italian bike just to train, and a custom job for the real thing. Who’s got time, much less the funds?

But somehow, somewhere along the way, I conceded that bicycle tread marks on my face might make a fine conversation starter, and a few new enemies wouldn’t make an appreciable difference. I’d heard that nothing enhances one’s sense of immortality quite like crashing and spending. I could always live on credit cards.

The bottom line was this: Could racing be any worse than painting, or jalapeño peppers, or William Shatner?

I decided to accept the challenge. That Saturday I traded the week’s grocery money for a team jersey, the promise of high-speed thrills, and a blurry newsletter. In short, I joined a road racing club.

I was pretty sure I knew what I was getting into. Fabulous prizes! Juicy gossip! Tight pants! Deal me in.

My new club’s D riders were a particularly desultory group. I fit right in.

I wasn’t expecting to win, of course; there are more important things in life than winning. By now I’d been making circles alone in the park for so long, what really mattered was the prospect of camaraderie, meaningful conversation, and a wind block.

The big day, as they say, had arrived. My wheels were true. My new cleats finally pointed in more or less the right direction. Even my two bikes were almost paid for.

The Ds lined up for the gun. The race was launched! Up the first hill with Herrera, Argentin and Muffy! Around a series of treacherous curves I stuck with the pack! Okay, so I was at the back, but I was there.

Things were going smoothly — too smoothly. On the next hill I shifted up to honk; everybody else shifted down and spun merrily away.

Well, I didn’t win my first race. Someone said it’s not whether you win or lose that counts, it’s how you lay the blame. But hey, who cares? Didn’t I meet a swell bunch of new people, get treated with more respect than usual, and get dropped by some first-rate tushies? Not a bad rush for a pink-cheeked pledge. Think I’ll go back next week.

All content Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

To Preserve, Develop, and Administer, Sort of | Bike Racing in the ’90s

I used to be a bicycle racing junkie. I was a Category I USACycling official on road and track (and a Cat 4Q2 racer). For you non-bikies, that means I was licensed by the US Olympic Committee to officiate professional racing, which I did for many years.

USAC is the current incarnation of cycling’s governing body, previously called the USCF (and before that it was the ABLA, founded in 1920). There was always a lot of blather in their handbooks about preserving, developing, and administering stuff. Everyone’s still waiting.

During this time I wrote for several cycling magazines. One was The Bike. My editor there was Doug Roosa, formerly of the late, lamented Bicycle Guide. Roosa’s too cool for school. Working for him was a gas. We tested anything and everything bike-related — equipment, socks, coffee table books and the mugs that loved them. Here’s a column I wrote for The Bike in 1992.

TO PRESERVE, DEVELOP, AND ADMINISTER, SORT OF
Copyright © 1992 © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Lower New York State is the sixth largest USCF district, with 1441 licensed riders and scads of racing. That’s where I live. Our district is eternally overadrenalized and understaffed, so one of the many hats I wear is that of USCF official. Scary, but true.

We probably have more racing than any other state. This is good. Most of it is low-budget track racing at dusk and circuit racing at dawn, without photo equipment or bathrooms. Not so good, if you can’t pick sprints in the dark or pee standing up.

Once I was the chief judge at this flavor of circuit race, one in an interminable training series. A spectacular crash had just capped off the citizens’ finish. In a Big Apple display of free expression, a casualty with a bogus number started chasing another on foot, pounding him with a log. (To be fair, all the other fresh meat had their numbers on upside down or on the wrong side, if they had them on at all.) My assistant and the chief referee tore off after the fleeing pounder, leaving me alone with the poundee (who was energetically threatening to sue me) and the entire Cat 4 field as they sprinted 50 abreast across the finish line.

I did my best to pick eight places by myself, with a fist in my face. To tabulate the results in peace, I repaired to a picnic table that doubled as a bum’s boudoir. Why, you may ask, do I do this?

The reason is obvious: Officiating is glamorous.

Another case in point is the ’drome. We’re lucky to have one of the country’s half dozen right here in Nueva York — our own superglam, built-on-sinking-landfill Kissena Velodrome. The Track With A Hill.

I worked over 50 races last year, mostly track, so this year my district rep rewarded my effort and loyalty by assigning three high-level officials from Upper Uranus to run our state track championships.

Assisting USCF brass is a special treat for us drooling locals. The Cat I had worked track once, so he brought his computer to modernize our championship. He was too busy typing to see the races he was supposed to be judging. Five more people crammed onto the stand to watch them for him, including his two ultra-helpful Cat II toadies who’d never seen track racing before. I was handed three pick cards for a 70-lap points race with 14 sprints, and ordered to monitor them through five heads and a computer screen.

The big guns picked sprints on wrong laps and missed others altogether. They ignored district officials who came to help — stalwarts who were at our quaint, weedy velodrome every week for years, manually judging competitions among state and national champions. The riders basically were furious, because the bigshot officials basically wrecked their state championships.

The racers around here take their sport seriously. A lot of them are my pals, and one especially noisy one is my spouse. They’ve seen placings forfeited and races cancelled, they’ve plowed into everything from dogs to tractor-trailers, all due to inadequate staffing. That’s how I got sucked in one day in 1987, when Hall of Famer Al Toefield drafted a spectator to herd rampaging Cat 4s on her motorcycle.

Typical bikie headbanger that I am, I just kept going back. Eventually official emeritus Emily Miller of New York kneaded me into a judge-like mass.

Fingers freezing and noses running and rain soaking us at a wobbly, soggy card table, I ask Emily why she does this. She just laughs, and jots down 80 numbers as they blast by.

Emily is a class act who makes the job look easy. But at best, the gig is a cacophony of bad music blasting in your ear while racers, coaches and road-deprived joggers bark in your face. It’s standing in the sun for ten hours with carnivorous bugs while old-timers guilt trip you about how they officiated for free. Except they didn’t have to buy $50 stopwatches, $80 pocket recorders and $300 uniforms, drive 350 miles to get to a stage race, and 350 miles back, and pay their own restaurant bills in between. Yeah, yeah, yeah, racers do too. But officials don’t get prizes, or get interviewed by VeloNews. Yo! Lemme at those support hose endorsement deals!

So why do I continue to officiate? Too many head blows, I guess. But the velodrome show on Wednesday nights beats the hell out of watching Doogie Howser. And I like hanging around racers — at least they have a reason to live. The judge’s stand at track is the greatest seat anywhere. Elbows in noses and cute buns in Lycra definitely get points. Racing is just the best!

All content Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

DEAD SPOT on Amazon

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Yeah that’s right. Me, blogging.

So what’s this here blog gonna be about? Probably writing. And journalism. And the business side of being a marginally celebrated hack. And shameless promotion of my new novel, Dead Spot, available on Amazon. I’ve already done everything else.

Fine Verbiage for Two Millennia

Whaddya mean, who the heck am I? Well, for decades I wrote columns and features for medical and sports and business magazines and websites, along with a ton of general mass market content — the Village Voice, Medical Imaging, New England Home, WomensBiz.US, Allure, Bicycle Guide, Film Threat, and too many more.

Web writing per se isn’t new for me, just the interactive part is. Before, when any reader whined about my literary endeavors, my editor would forward their mail for my comment, and I’d ignore it. It was a good system. But I see I can delete blog comments if they’re stupid, so that’s a plus.

But what if the only readers my blog attracts are stalkers and spambots and relatives I was avoiding? Will they buy my book?

BTW, it’s awesome — a mystery with motorcycles, music, beer, and a kinky love story. (Dead Spot is available on Amazon.)

Everyone says a blog is the best way to promote … um, anything. We’ll see. I already sent out countless press packets. One editor informed me that my book (which he never read) wasn’t good enough to cover in his tabloid available for free in stores that sell Night Train and rubbers. Dead Spot did get a great write-up in a men’s motorcycle mag, but it turns out biker gangs don’t read so much.

Advertising? Can’t afford it. And it probably wouldn’t matter. Facebook is humping my leg to buy ads that’ll cost me 70 cents every time some technowonk clicks it because they think it’s the same as “liking” stoned pet videos.

So this is my latest desperate ploy for exposure. But enough about me. Buy Dead Spot, available now on Amazon. Hey, I’m just trying to drum up some interest here. And maybe make people laugh. And think a little.

Yep, this is my blog, dogs. Welcome!

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.