Crashes, and unfulfilled dreams of steel drums

Another day, another crash ...

Let's get the nasty stuff out of the way first: Since my last post a few weeks ago, I once again was involved in a bike crash. On Tuesday, August 22, I was out for my usual morning road ride when one of the legs on my Kestrel EMS fork failed and I hit the ground. I'm not exactly sure what happened since I apparently was knocked out for a short period (I was by myself, so this could have been 10 seconds or a few minutes), but the results were not pretty: My face took a lot of abuse as you can see from the picture, my left wrist is still sprained (but getting a little bit better every day), several fingers of the right hand were jammed like in the days when I played basketbal and handball, and both legs had some good bruises and scrapes right above the knees. I saw my dentist since one of my front teeth was a bit loose and also showed a slight chip, but I may have dodged the bullet and the tooth may actually be fine in the long run. My septum appears to be cracked or worse, but what good is it to run to the doc and get an x-ray for the better part of a C-note and be told "not much we can do about that"? And the rib is healing on its own, too. Things could have been much worse.

A few days later I was making the (almost) annual pilgrimage to Wichita Falls' Hotter'n Hell when I witnessed an oncoming 18-wheeler jackknife on rain-slick HWY 183 and plow into the median. I was the first one on the scene, and thank goodness there was no fire since I would have been totally helpless with the two occupants being trapped in the cabin, hanging upside down but thankfully being responsive. I called 911, other cars stopped, and first responders were on the scene in less than 15 minutes. That experience was certainly not a good omen for Friday's crits and Saturday's road races, but the crashes that did occur were limited to road rash and no broken bones, at least in the races that I worked.

Now, that's a serious crash!

Two days later I was off to Trinidad and Tobago, for the 2017 Elite Pan-American Track Championships. Well, guess what, people crashed here, too, incurring mostly nasty burn wounds from sliding on the fast wooden track of the beautiful indoor velodrome in Couva, about 45 minutes south of Trinidad's capital of Port of Spain. For five long days I saw not much more than the inside of the velodrome, in the company of old friends such as Juan from Argentina and Hector from Colombia. Rainier from Venezuela and Omar from Argentina rounded out our international crew. Our days started with our 8:30 a.m. bus ride in the Sexy Rabbit (a nickname that was based on a sticker on the back of the bus) to the velodrome, for the morning session. A few times things took longer than expected  and we simply stayed in the 'drome until the evening session, which started at 6:00 p.m. Juan and I would finish our work as late as midnight, and then we'd be shuttled back to our hotel, the Cara Suites in Claxton Bay.

Is this called track rash?

If that doesn't sound like much of a vacation, well, it wasn't. We pushed long hours, saw very little of Trinidad, had rice, pasta, and chicken for every lunch and dinner, and had to get our cultural capsules through conversation with our warm and friendly Trini hosts. They are certainly nice people down here: They are open, have a quick smile and an even brighter laugh, and they are interested in the world beyond the island. I had lots of interesting conversations, be it with a janitor, a shuttle driver, a security guard, or a race doctor. I learned a bit about the history of this dual island country that celebrated its 55 years of independence from Britain just a few days ago. Whenever I mentioned that I live in Texas, genuine sympathy would immediately well up with questions about whether my house was OK and my family and friends were safe in the aftermath of hurricane Harvey.

This is the Couva velodrome, a modern and well-equipped facility

As mentioned, we spent the vast bulk of our waking hours in the velodrome. On the last day of the competition, however, we had a few extra hours, and the organizers arranged for our crew to go on a short bus excursion to Port of Spain, about 45 minutes to the north of Couva, where the velodrome is located. (The 'drome is part of a larger sports complex that includes a modern swim facility as well as a large soccer stadium. Unfortunately, word doesn't seem to have made it around that this facility exists as daily spectator attendance was dismal.) I had hoped to see some of the Trinidad that comes to mind when one hears the name, but the reality here on the west side of the island is different: We barreled down a four-lane highway full of cars, trucks, and buses, traversing a commercial and industrial area that stretches for mile after mile. Refineries belch out noxious fumes, and nature can only be imagined in the mountain range toward the north. Trinidad and Tobago have about 1.3 million inhabitants combined, but fewer than 100,000 of them live on the much smaller Tobago, and the bulk of the population is concentrated on the west side of Trinidad.

Afternoon excursion to Port of Spain, Trinidad's capital

A Trini, as they call themselves 

Port of Spain's malecon, with hints of Venezuela in the very far distance

Port of Spain may have a grandiose name, but from what we saw it is a dirty place that is just now starting to try to preserve some of the British legacy in the form of some of the old buildings. There's preciously little to attract a tourist, and our driver admonished us to stay close together and be careful when we took an hour-long stroll in downtown. On the attractiveness scale I'd give this place one out of ten possible points. Don't waste time here.

And so we drove back to the velodrome, passing fairly crummy-looking shopping malls that our driver proudly pointed out. Had the bus broken down, there would have been enough repair places to get us rolling again. The visual onslaught of billboards hawking everything from Nestle products to international banks was almost too much. Trinidad most certainly must have a different side somewhere, but we never came close to it. For all the talk about ecology, pristine beaches, and refreshing waterfalls in the tourist booklet in my room, the stark reality of all those smokestacks and rusting infrastructure didn't make me feel as if this could be the same country. How else can one explain the cemetery of seven ocean vessels right in front of the hotel, half sunk, rusting, and looking like the aftermath of Pearl Harbor?

Pearl Harbor just off Trinidad's western coast, in front of the hotel

On my final day in Trinidad, I finally had a chance to eat outside of the velodrome when my shuttle driver took me to a tiny diner where I had roti. Upon his suggestion I ordered it paratha style, meaning that instead of using utensils I gathered my curried goat stew with the unleavened flatbread and ate with my fingers. I felt like Anthony Bourdain in this tiny place, eating the first food on the island that actually tasted of something! Trinidad has a very large Indian population, and roti came highly recommended. It really was a shame that our hotel was so terribly isolated (OK, there was a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant within walking distance) and that our work schedule did not allow a little more immersion. I tried my best later in the afternoon when I went to my first (and last) rum shop. Our drivers had told me about the rum shops, which really are bars where one can buy beer and rum in small cordials from the keeper of the place who stays safely tucked away behind iron bars. You exchange money through the bars, get your beverage, and then you hang out. Actually, you lime, as they call it down here. If liming is not allowed in a particular place, signs will tell you so. Well, on my last night I limed, alright, and then had a Chinese dinner (the only other place with food apart from the KFC) in a restaurant that required me to press a bell to gain admittance. Safely back in the hotel I had a final nightcap at the bar, sponsored by a German business man who's been selling heavy equipment to the Trinis for the past 20 years. That was better than the rum shop, for sure.

Immediate surroundings of the Cara Suites Hotel

Downtown Claxton Bay in the evening--yep, it ain't much

Overall, it was an interesting, albeit unsatisfying trip. But I came to work and not to vacation, although the latter is implicit in most of these gigs. Will I come back to Trinidad? Well, maybe Tobago, which is supposed to be a natural heaven. But here, overlooking the stretch of water that on the other side is bordered by Venezuela, I didn't see anything that's compelling enough for me to come back. Except, maybe, the promise of actually seeing some real steel drums and not just the tiny replica that our gracious hosts bestowed upon us. Maybe....

Jürgen