Last week I read my treasured find–the first edition hardcover of Ralph Hurne’s novel, The Yellow Jersey. It is a very quick read, and I found myself racing to finish it before I had to run off for an appointment. Despite its significant flaws, it is entertaining, and the racing scenes make it worth reading for any fan of bike racing who is looking at the lack of TV coverage in despair and is considering watching Breaking Away for the hundredth time.
The novel was published in 1973, and I have to say again, for Mr. SOC’s benefit, that my edition says “First Printing” right there on the copyright page. First printing. Hardcover.
But, in my shameless gloating, I digress. The novel is certainly dated, and while that is usually an unequivocally bad thing, this novel sometimes shows how “dated” can be a benefit. The narrator, Terry Davenport, is a 37 year old former pro racer who now spends his time coaching an up and coming cycling star, working in his fiancee’s antiques shop in Ghent, and have surreptitious sex with his future step-daughter. The bad sort of dated shows in that small plot summary. Terry is a sort of Austin Powers on two wheels, a swinging late-60s, early-70s bachelor who says things like “When I bought this model, I made sure it was a station wagon with a fold-down seat.” All the better for his conquests. And he does go on about the various “birds” he has conquered, in a completely open, unenlightened manner that is almost but not quite charming in its utter candor and ingenuousness.
The good sort of dated, though, is found in the descriptions of the racing scene. Terry’s experiences in the tough Belgian race scene are worth getting through his antediluvian sexual attitudes. He talks about the tough Belgian pros who race several days a week, hoping to earn enough in prize money–a few francs here, a few there–to earn a meager living. The races are local affairs far from the hype of the Tour and the big classics, but they are contested just as fiercely as any of the name venues. Hundreds of local townspeople line the streets in the rain to watch the race, and they cheer on the local heroes and the big pros. It is a tough, gritty, damp, and tiring world that is seemingly far removed from the weekend warrior outings I see all summer long. The men racing in Belgium are not dentists and attorneys and college professors who want to have some fun on their bikes but bicycle racers who race because they have to.
Once the action of the novel moves forward and leaves Terry’s dalliance with a 19 year old tourist from New Zealand more or less behind, it grows in appeal, at least to me. Although he had retired, he entered a local race to impress the girl and, as a result of this and some other events, finds himself slated to help his young protegee in the opening weeks of the Tour de France. Terry figures that he will ride the opening flat stages to help Romain, who is an awesome climber but timid in the rough and tumble of a pack sprint finish, and drop out once the race hits the big mountains.
The plan works well at first, with Romain sitting well when the Pyrenees rear up. However, when a fortuitous accident and a doping scandal thrust Terry into the yellow jersey with a fifteen minute lead, the plan disintegrates. The team owners are furious that this old man is threatening the status of their young star. The young star, meanwhile, agrees to help his mentor win the whole race, further infuriating the big brass. The last several chapters are detailed descriptions of the race stages unfolding, with Terry’s lead slipping every day, and more and more pain and trauma at every rise in the road. Not only must Terry battle his main rival on the raod, but he must also fight off attempts by his team’s sponsors to sabotage his chances. I found my palms sweating as I read about the attacks, counter-attacks, and team strategies being played out. I could feel the tension of the race, and Hurne’s account made me think of my own race reports.
However, Hurne seems to get as tired as his hero, or he decides to toss in the proverbial towel. The last chapter is a frustrating, opaque, and rushed mess, where he wraps up everything too neatly and too quickly for any satisfaction. Still, I have to recommend the novel for the great race scenes. Anyone who has seriously watched a race unfold or has tried to strategize in the middle of the peloton will appreciate and see the grace and excitement of racing in Hurne’s workmanlike prose.