This is a story about a guy who finished last. Which is
technically true. You can look up the results of the race, and you'll see his
name, right there, lonely at the bottom. Taylor Phinney. USA. Finishing time of
six hours, twenty-two minutes, fifty-four seconds. One hundred-and-ninth place.
Last.
But this story is better than that.
First, about Taylor Phinney. Remember that name. You might
already know it. Bike racer from Boulder, Colo., 22 years old. The son of two
cycling legends, Davis Phinney and Connie Carpenter. A big dude on the bike, at
6 feet 5 inches, 180 pounds, Taylor Phinney is one of the most promising young
cyclists in the world. He's already been to the Olympics twice. Won a stage of
the prestigious Giro d'Italia last year. He is expected to have many great days
in the sport.
Monday didn't begin like one of those days. Phinney was
competing in Italy's Tirreno-Adriatico stage race, and this penultimate stage
was a doozy. Up and down, down and up, 209 kilometers of punishment, including
a 27% climb so comically steep that some riders got off their bikes and pushed
them uphill. Many riders quit. Later the race organizer would admit that the
stage was too difficult, even for elite pros.
Phinney didn't expect to win this stage. He just wanted to
hang around, because the next day brought a time trial against the clock, and
Phinney had a chance for a good result in that event. But the day soon
unraveled. His legs weren't feeling great, and then his bike busted its chain.
He had to get a replacement and chase his way back to the pack.
"I just was dangling," Phinney said on the phone,
from his home in Tuscany. "We kept going over these really difficult
climbs. I'd get back to the group and I would get dropped. I'd get back again,
then get dropped."
Bike racing is a sport that fetishizes suffering. Anyone
who's done it talks almost mystically about painful days on the bike, about the
serenity achieved by pedaling through the agony. But even the best can only
take so much. Soon Phinney found himself in a small group of 30 or so riders
who had fallen off the main field, with about 130 kilometers, or 80 miles,
left. The riders in the group began talking. Phinney said it became clear that
nobody wanted to finish. Drop out now, get out of the cold. This is no shame.
It happens all the time. Fight another day.
But Phinney wanted to fight now. He had to complete the race
under the time limit to do the time trial Tuesday. "If I wanted to finish
the race, I was going to have to do it by myself," he said.
So that's what he did. As the rest of the group abandoned
the race, Phinney put his head down and pedaled. He was suddenly alone. The
weather was miserable. It began to rain. And Phinney kept thinking of one
thing.
"I would just think of my dad," he said.
Davis Phinney has lived with Parkinson's disease for more
than half of Taylor Phinney's life. One of the great American racers of all
time, a Tour de France stage winner and Olympian, Davis's day is often met by
frustrating physical challenges. Tasks that were once simple take so much
longer. Ordinary life requires patience.
That's what kept his son pedaling in the cold Italian rain.
"I knew that if my dad could be in my shoes for one
day—if all he had to do was struggle on a bike for six hours, but be healthy
and fully functional—he would be me on that day in a heartbeat," Taylor
Phinney said. "Every time I wanted to quit, every time I wanted to cry, I
just thought about that."
He had so many miles to ride. "It's kind of
embarrassing," he said. "The race has gone by, and people aren't
really expecting one rider slogging along by himself." Fans on the side of
the road offered to push him up hills. But Phinney remembered a story his Dad
had told him about one of his old Tour de France teams, making a pact to
decline pushes.
Taylor would do the same. No pushes.
"He never lost his motivation," said Fabio
Baldato, an assistant director for Phinney's team, BMC Racing, who was driving
a car behind Phinney the entire route. "It was unbelievable."
"He wanted so badly to finish the race," said
Phinney's teammate, Thor Hushovd, a former world champion.
Hours later, Phinney crossed the line, exhausted. He
finished almost 15 minutes after the second-to-last rider, thirty-seven minutes
behind the winner. He didn't make the time cut for the day, which meant he
couldn't compete in Tuesday's time trial. It was a bummer, but Phinney was too
zonked to be devastated. During his post-race massage, he cried like crazy. On
Twitter, Phinney wrote about riding for his Dad and called it "probably
the most trying day I've had on a bike." When Phinney's saga was reported on
the website VeloNews, cycling fans went crazy. These have been bleak times for
the sport, ripped apart by doping scandals. Phinney's solo effort—and his
emotions post-race—had stirred something soulful. "Emotion is powerful and
undeniably human," Phinney's mother, Connie Carpenter, said in an email
from Italy.
Back home in Colorado, Davis Phinney was marveling at the
whole story. You can still find Davis on his bike, usually on the fancy
carbon-fiber city commuter he got from his son. Cycling remains a
sanctuary—"easier than walking, in a sense," he said. But the daily
routine remains full of hassles. Davis Phinney keeps a sense of humor about it,
jokingly referring to himself as "Turtleboy." He began a foundation
to give people living with Parkinson's tools for living well—for achieving
little victories.
Davis Phinney said he didn't learn about Taylor's ride until
after it was over. Friends told him how inspired they were by his son. When he
heard that Taylor had been thinking about him the whole time, he was floored.
"I have almost no words for how amazing it makes me
feel," Davis Phinney said. He wrote in an email to his son:
You make me so happy and beyond proud—and that is better
than any medicine and can defeat any disease.
The results are wrong. This is not a story about a guy who
finished last. Taylor Phinney won that race.
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