Of fines and francs
The sport of bicycle racing is highly regulated, as are most sports which involve international competition or large scale participation. There are reasons for this: standards and consistency within your chosen sport give you comfort to know you are participating in the same sport on one side of the globe as another; that any records established or standings can be verified as accurate, among other things. Underlying the rules are values or principles like fair play, safety, or compliance with state law.
So, in cycling there are equipment or doping restrictions (fair play), and road centre-line restrictions (safety), for example. Rules regarding rider identification are partly related to the principle of fair play, but they are also partly related to legal/contractual issues, such as a competitor’s declared agreement to be bound by the rules of his or her sport.
By and large, most rules and the penalties imposed for violations are justifiable either intuitively or with a little explanation or further thought. But then there are rules that are questionable on principle, and also arguably wrong on their analytical application.
The following is a short analysis of a rule that says a rider is subject to a $10 fine if a racing licence isn’t signed when presented to a commissaire (official). This may be tear-inducingly boring for some (with a short race report at the end), but nonetheless it is an important issue, since it affected me and several individuals at B.C. Cup race #2, Race the Ridge, this weekend in Maple Ridge.
I was later imposed an additional $20 fine for crossing the finish line while warming up and, while there is a good argument that that was also wrongly imposed, I agree with the principle of that rule, namely that because there is a camera recording finishes, the results can be made very messy by riders crossing back and forth across the line. So, I leave that issue for another day, as the chief commissaire also indicated it was likely that fine would be suspended if I don’t violate the rule again for the rest of the year. However, here I look a little more closely at the rule regarding licence signatures and its $10 fine.
In my case I had not signed the back of my licence before handing it to a commissaire, who in turn imposed the $10 fine. He returned my unsigned licence to me, at which point I signed it as he watched. I asked if that was sufficient to ameliorate the $10 penalty, but he insisted on imposing the fine, as in his view, apparently, the violation had already occurred and the penalty legitimate.
Bicycle racing is governed internationally by the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI), based in Switzerland. When cyclists apply for a racing licence, they sign a declaration that says they agree to “respect the Constitution and Regulations” of the UCI. There is a UCI rule which says that riders may not participate if they do not hold the “requisite licence” (section 1.1.002), and a rule which says that a licence holder must sign the declaration on the back of it, with no mention of a fine (1.1.026). On principle these requirements relate to identity and to evidence of contractual agreement. If the principle is examined in isolation, then it is fulfilled when riders sign a waiver and a nearly identical, but more comprehensive, declaration. Riders sign this before their licences are even issued.
So arguably, on principle, the imposition of a fine for failing to sign the licence is inappropriate when the waiver and declaration are signed before the licence is issued. In turn, however, a commissaire may argue that he is not concerned about principles, rather he is concerned about the precise letter of the regulations: provision 1.1.026 is clear that a rider must sign the declaration on the licence. However, if he wishes to argue, not on principle, but on strict adherence to what is stated in the Regulations, then he should consider that a fine of 10 Canadian dollars for failing to sign does not appear in the UCI Regulations, but rather that it comes in the form of a rule created by the Provincial organizing body, Cycling B.C.
There is language in the UCI rules that give Provincial (”national”) federations jurisdiction to establish their own criteria in the issuance of licences (1.1.006), as long as they “comply with UCI Regulations” (12.1.017) However, arguably that does not include the imposition of fines. In adhering to the precise letter of the regulations, Cycling B.C. has no jurisdiction to impose a penalty not stated in the UCI regulations (although existing fines may be reduced at the discretion of a national federation (12.1.040). Rule 12.1.015 says:
“12.1.015 National federations may not introduce other penalties for infringements of the UCI Constitution and Regulations.”
Here “other” arguably means penalties not already prescribed in the rules, although there is jurisdiction to lower existing ones, as noted above. A $10 fine for failure to sign a licence does not exist. Additionally, all fines must be be issued in Swiss francs (12.1.027;12.1.007;12.1.40), which may be paid in other currencies (12.1.027), but there appears to be no allowance for fines to be issued in any currency other than Swiss francs.
In conclusion, this analysis argues that a) it is wrong on broad principle to issue a fine for failing to sign a licence, if the waiver and declaration have already been signed; and b) it is wrong on a plain reading of the provisions of the UCI Constitution and Regulations for Cycling B.C .to create a penalty where it is not already stated in the Constitution and Regulations.
This argument of course does not necessarily mean that, if the matter were put to the Court of Arbitration for Sport, it would win the day. It does suggest, however, that Cycling B.C. ought very carefully to re-examine its rule and policy in this respect. At the very least, Cycling B.C. ought to establish a policy that encourages riders, who are mostly amateurs, to participate in what is already an expensive, highly regulated, physically demanding and largely elitist sport.
We are not all professional cyclists, and most compete simply because they love the sport. A policy that allows officials to slavishly adhere to rules around minor infractions can only discourage participation in a crowded sporting market place, where athletic talent is already highly diffused and the element of fun is found abundantly elsewhere.
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On that note (!), I was reasonably happy with my race effort. The road race was 96km over a tortuous hilly 12km circuit done 8 times. The pack 55-60 riders split immediately over the first hard climb on lap one, and I made the front group.
However, I was not so lucky the second time - I made it over the hard climb, but lost contact on a false flat and gradual descent that followed. From there I was mostly on my own in no-man’s land between the two packs, although on the odd time I connected with others. I ended up 26th on the stage. The stage 2 time trial was 23km in Golden Ears park over a rolling, difficult course. My time was 32.16 compared to 28.46 for the winner. I was 28th on that stage, which shows the depth of the talent in the Cat 1/2 field. For the third stage criterium in downtown Maple Ridge, the rain and crashes on the first three laps of our race caused me to ease up and essentially wait to be lapped. I was happy not to have been involved in the crashes, and thought it not worth risking one at all. For criteriums, lapped riders are given a pro-rated time and technically finish the race and the stage race. This left me 30th overall in the three stage general classification. I was happy with this effort for my first Cat 1/2 race of the season.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (0)The Monkey Tree
“For five pennies,” said the girl with a smile, “I will sing you a song.”
“All right,” said the gypsy cyclist. “Please do. I am sure it will be lovely.”
Then, as a small crowd of boys and girls gathered from alleyways, doorways, windows and gutters, for five minutes the girl sang of her brother’s encounter with the Rhesus monkeys: the April day when they clambered among the greening branches in the jungles overhead; how one fell, and the others came to rescue her while one single monkey remained motionless in the branches above.
“That one,” she sang, her voice gentle but confident, lyrical and wise, melodic and open. Her eyebrows were raised; a smile curled thin lips that rounded the notes she refrained.
“That monkey, he loved the fallen one,
Loved her more dearly than the rest.
But how motionless was he!
And the monkey who fell,
Up to the tree did she look: where is my mate?
The others, they comforted her, her arm had she hurt,
But deeper was the wound to her heart.
In a moment she shrieked; the others shrunk back,
Her view had they blocked.
But up in the tree her lover he stayed.
So she softened her shrieks:
“Down you may come,” her cries seemed to say,
“But limp is my arm and I no longer can climb!
To you, my love, I no longer can come
And now my friends must take me away.”
The monkey above, he stared rigidly down;
But her arm was too sore
And her lover she watched in the tree up above
While her friends all around, they helped her away.”
The girl stopped her song. “There,” she said, with a smile, “that will be five pennies, please!” The boys and the girls who had gathered clapped and cheered.
“Thank you,” said the gypsy cyclist, pulling coins from his jersey pocket, handing them to the girl. “That was even more lovely than I expected! But here is five dollars, if you will tell me what happened to the two monkeys.”
“Oh,” replied the girl. “It is only a song. I am sure the ending is different for everyone! It is up to you what becomes of them! You must imagine it yourself. I am sorry, I do not know!” She looked to the gypsy cyclist apologetically. “Please,” she said. “You must take back your money, for I cannot answer you.” If she would not take the coins, hands from the children around eagerly reached out.
The gypsy cyclist pulled his hands from the many that stretched to him. He pressed the coins into the hands of the girl. “No,” replied the gypsy cyclist. “Please keep it. You have answered my question perfectly.”
The other children groaned with jealousy, just as the girl proclaimed that she would share her earnings among them. With that the gypsy cyclist bid them goodbye, turned his face and his handlebars toward the morning sun, and pedaled away.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (0)Flowers for anonymity
“You see this pot of flowers?” asked the frail, legless woman, perched in her chair of wheels like a helpless, flightless bird.
“Yes, of course,” said the gypsy cyclist, tired from the day, all day in the saddle, and three punctures and a mechanical failure. It was time for some new tires, he knew, but that would be a task for tomorrow, and he was glad for the descent of the sun and no more travelling for the day.
“Every evening there are new ones,” she continued. “For six years, less three days, they have been left for me by a man whom I have never met. I know it is a man, because one day I came early, and he saw me from a distance and scurried away without leaving the flowers. I did not clearly see his face, but he was a younger man with dark features.”
She paused, shifted her chair, putting her nose to the flower pot. “I knew then he left them especially for me,” she continued. “Knew I could never meet him, or that if I did, I would never receive these flowers again. I have come to believe I would rather see and smell these flowers than to meet him, but I have dreamt his visage and long to know him. But now, now should I meet him, all my dreams of him will vanish, the petals of the flowers will lose their color, shrink and droop limply. This I know. Or perhaps he will see me for all that I am not, and the legless, helpless woman that I am. Do you see?”
“I do see,” replied the gypsy cyclist. “Of course, I understand completely”.
The woman turned her attention away from the flowers, and regarded the gypsy cyclist’s bicycle as he straddled it, both feet on ground. “You are on two wheels, too,” she observed. “Are there flowers somewhere left for you?”
“Oh no,” he replied. “There are none. None, maybe, but people like you. Every day they are different, the people I meet. Unlike your flowers, which you can always predict, my encounters are really nothing more than by chance. Sometimes I let myself wonder if there are reasons I must meet these particular people. Like you for example, is there some reason that I have met you here, at this time? But whatever that reason may be, if I knew what it was, then surely all these people would become brighter to me. I don’t think they would shrink or lose their color, as you think your flowers will.”
“Well,” she said. “Then my legless body is a flower for you, anonymously given, like those that are given to me. I will return again tomorrow for mine, and where ever you are then, I shall think of you. Perhaps you will meet another by then, perhaps not. But either way, the man who leaves me my flowers will seem to me a little more like you, and then I shall truly know who he is. And whoever it is that gives you yours, perhaps he or she will seem a little more like me.”
“Yes,” replied the gypsy cyclist. “I am certain of that.”
The woman smiled, shifted her weight, turned and directed her wheels away from the flowers, while the gypsy cyclist rode away.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (0)Cowichan Lake Masters RR
The first BC Masters Association race of the season took place on Sunday April 6, a 70km effort beginning on the outskirts of Cowichan Lake, a quaint little town that oddly reminds me of various places in Switzerland, given its proximity to the mountains, a large lake and the somewhat twisting configuration of the streets.
The course consisted of roughly 20km out along undulating and winding topography, before hanging a right onto a 15km circuit that included a 2km leg-breaking climb completed twice before turning back onto the straightaway to the finish. Masters races are traditionally an “Australian pursuit” format, where the oldest age group starts first, followed by the younger groups at timed intervals . This is essentially a handicapped start, the idea being to stagger the starts sufficiently to compensate for age-related discrepancies in fitness, making it possible for the oldest rider to win the race overall if the younger groups are not able to catch the older riders. In this case the times were staggered by four minutes, I believe, between each group, although the organizers do not always set the time gaps uniformly between groups, so I’m not certain this was the case. There are prizes for those who cross the line first, regardless of their age group, as well as among the age-groups.
I had heard that it is “always raining for that race”. Being early April the odds of that holding true again were good, and sure enough it was cloudy, cool (about 7 degrees), with a light rain accompanying the riders at the start. There were only 22 riders to start, but that was good enough to make a race of it. Although I am currently 39, I turn 40 this year, and so am in the 40-49 category, which group also contained Bob Cameron, Tony Wakelin, Steve Munro, and about 4 others - a group of good strong riders. In the 50 group there was Duane Martindale, Derek Tripp, and others (I didn’t make a mental note of everyone there). Among a couple of others in the 60 group was David Mercer, always fit and strong, and a couple of others. The 30 group was the largest, consisting of about 8 or 9 riders. Among other strong riders, this group contained Emil de Rosnay, who had a stellar ride in the end.
From my perspective I was aware that not only is Bob an unbeatable sprinter (having just won the Caleb Pike race among the crowd of much younger, higher level, cyclists the Wednesday before) but that he has also been climbing well and is as strong as anyone on the flats. Since Bob can dust me and most anyone in a sprint, the only chance I have against him is to get away sometime well before the final sprint. I was also aware that Derek Tripp, in the 50s group, is always strong, as is Duane, although Derek is a stronger climber. Although I usually feel I have a good chance to win these races, both my category and overall, this time I thought it was quite possible that either Bob or Derek would take the overall win. I have won a handful of Masters races in the past in the 30 category, at least two of them as the overall winner after catching all the groups ahead.
On the start, my group worked together well for about the first 10k, when a few of the gradual rises and a bit of pressure from Bob and me at the front, forced the group to disintegrate. A few km before the first climb up, it was Bob, Tony, Steve, and I left. Of these four, Steve was the first to succumb, while Tony dropped off just before the climb. Bob took the first part of the climb at a hard, steady pace, and I was thinking I would have a tough time shaking him at that pace. We passed two riders from the 60s group who had been passed earlier by the 50s. However, about half-way, I was able to hold the same pace anaerobically, while Bob dropped off and I gained distance over him rapidly over the second half of the climb. At that point, and over the top, I decided to keep the pace high in order to maintain my gap over Bob, and then to hunt down the 50s.
I maintained a high pace around the second loop of the circuit, and caught the 50s and David Mercer, about 1km before the ascent. I took a short breather and rode with them to the base of the hill, but was aware that Bob and the others would be closing the gap too. I was told that one rider, Derek, was still up the road, but no one was sure how far. I thought he might be far enough to hold me off, but when I hit the hill for the second time, I maintained a hard steady pace, albeit perhaps a notch in arrears of the pace the first time up and, as I went, I could see the gap shrink between myself and Derek. By the top I was only a few seconds behind, and was rapidly closing the remainder. Turning onto the last 15km straightaway I was just about to catch him, when I could see him encounter some sort of mechanical problem, as it appeared that his chain had locked up.
Unfortunately for Derek, he was unable to finish the race at that point, while I rode past and onto the last 15km for the finish line and the overall win. My time for the 70km was about 1:46ish, quite fast for a hard course and mostly time-trialing on my own. A couple of minutes later, Bob took the group sprint, a group that included Emil de Rosnay from the 30-39 group, who got across to the 40s, who in turn caught the 50s. Depending on how far ahead I was in fact, and the time gap between us and the 30 group, his overall finishing time may have been faster than mine. In any event, it was a fun day all around, and I loved the course and will plan for it again next year. There is some talk of making it later in the season next year.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (0)The morning sun
“You see,” said the girl. “I used to be like a monkey, and with all my friends we would swing joyfully from the long branches of the Banyan tree. I was four years old when I fell and broke my arm in three places. The earth was soft where I landed, but it was twenty feet down, and I crumpled like an old brown Ankol flower, dried in the heat of the September sun. My mother saw me fall, came to me quickly, gathered me in her arms, set my bones while I cried, and bandaged my arm. But we did not go for a doctor; my arm became infected and, when I was in intolerable pain and my arm became gangrenous, eventually a doctor came and severed it.”
The girl smiled at the gypsy cyclist as morning sun flamed the eastern horizon. “Now you see me with only one arm. I ride with one arm, and to hold the handlebars reminds me sometimes of clinging to the branches of the Banyan tree! ” The girl lifted her hand from the handlebars of her bicycle as she rode in sandals and a skirt, alongside the gypsy cyclist on a hard-packed dirt road, as dust plumed up behind them. “But you see,” she said, giggling, “I can still ride with no hands! Can you?” She asked, maintaining a flawless straight line.
The gypsy cyclist lifted his hands from the bars. “Yes!” he said. “I can too! I would see how fast you can go, but I think it might be dangerous for you. Be careful!” He replaced his hands quickly as if to set an example for the girl, but she continued to ride along side him, one hand waving in the air.
“Oh,” replied the girl. “You do not need to worry about that! Look at these scars!” She continued to ride without hands, demonstrating considerable dexterity and skill, and lifted her sarong above her knees, revealing coin-sized discolored lumps on her knees. “That’s just my knees! I have many more!”
“Yes,” replied the gypsy cyclist, “I have many scars on my body too. Even so, I try my best not to get any more!”
“Well,” she replied. “You see, my mother died soon after I lost my arm. She was crazy like me, and one day she went wandering into a herd of elephants. I shouted to her as she walked on, ‘They are angry!’ I said. ‘Why are you going?’ But my father laughed and told me that mother was an expert with elephants. She had done it before, just like I had swung many times from Banyan trees. But I could see the elephants were angry, and why couldn’t she? But you see, I am crazy like my mother, and you bicycle-man, look like an elephant and your bicycle looks like a Banyan tree!” She laughed. “But I am only teasing you!”
The gypsy cyclist laughed. “Where is your father?” He asked with curiosity.
“Oh he has died too!” Exclaimed the girl. “There were riots in the streets and my father sheltered my little sister and I from the torches and the falling glass, but he could not save himself. And a shard of glass cut my sister’s arm, and she died later from loss of blood. There, you see, I have many scars. I do not worry that it is dangerous to ride my bike with no hands!
“But,” she continued. “I have joined you on your ride by good fortune. I ride at this time every morning to watch the rising sun. You see, the day before the riots, my father took my sister and I on his knee, kissed us both, and pointed to the morning horizon, much as it looks today, every day, and quoted from his favorite poem: ‘Look on the rising sun. There God does live and gives his light, and gives his heat away; And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.’ ”
The girl continued riding with no hands, but she dropped her arm to her side, then lifted it, extending her hand toward the gypsy cyclist. “So,” she said, “My new friend, you will be comforted to know that I am not afraid that I will fall if you hold my hand while we ride and watch the rising sun.”
The gypsy cyclist shifted his bicycle a little closer and extended his hand, but held the other to his handlebars. When they clasped hands the girl wobbled momentarily, but she did not fall. Hands held, they pedaled toward the sun. Briefly she looked to the gypsy cyclist and back to the horizon.
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