heavy metal!

NNN%I<;9LCC<K@E%:FD
AN ALMOST INDEPENDENT MONTHLY MAGAZINE /JULY 2009
Beckham By Numbers
NOT JUST 23: HOW DAVID'S
SECRET STATS ADD UP
Fired Up for The Ashes
MYTHS & LEGENDS OF CRICKET'S
LONGEST-BURNING RIVALRY
Bottle-Top Baseball
THE MILLION-DOLLAR STREET KIDS
FROM THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC
HEAVY METAL!
From Days of Thunder to
A Little Night Music:
the NASCAR racer that's
a musical instrument
Exclusively with
The Independent
on the first Tuesday
of every month
The etnies Brunswick features a vulcanized construction for better grip and board feel as well as
System G2 for comfort and heel protection. etnies.com
RYAN SHECKLER. 360 FLIP. PHOTO: BARTON
INFO@SOLETECHNOLOGY.EU
THE COLA
FROM RED BULL.
STRONG NATURAL.
The cola from Red Bull has a
unique blend of ingredients, all from
the original Kola nut and the Coca leaf.
Its naturally refreshing cola
What’s more, the cola from
Red Bull contains no phosphoric acid,
100% natural sources. In addition,
taste comes from using the right blend
no preservatives and no artificial
it’s the only cola that contains both
of plant extracts.
colours or flavourings.
BULLHORN
HITTING THE TOP
Bottle tops and broomsticks. Unlikely materials with which
to build the foundation of sporting ambition. But armed with
these barest of necessities, the street-sport superstars of the
Dominican Republic, nurture their dreams of a honeyed life
as one of the US’s top hitters in Major League Baseball.
Such are the demands of speed and precision made by vitilla,
it has rendered the Dominican Republic the most unlikely talent
pool for one of North America’s top-three sports. Scouts from
MLB giants, be they Dodgers, Yankees or Red Sox, now routinely
scour the impoverished island in the hope of finding a ‘next
big thing’. Or maybe two of them. Or three. It’s a remarkable
tale of hope springing from adversity. Read our riveting
account of the grittier side of sport beginning on page 54.
Overcoming seemingly overwhelming odds such as those
faced by the street kids of Santo Domingo is a challenge any
sportsman will recognise. Few, however, have offered such
stubborn resilience as has Ashley Fiolek, champion of women’s
motocross despite being profoundly deaf since birth, and
whose rather unconventional all-American girl story we bring
you on page 68. Still only 18, she’s a poster girl for her peers,
having succeeded in turning her disability to her advantage
by being unable to listen to those who might have doubted her.
Doubt? There wasn’t too much of that dubious quality
around when two Austrian musical adventurers embarked on
a project to turn a NASCAR stock car – a machine originally
designed to lap banked concrete oval circuits at more than
200mph – into a musical instrument. Yes, really. The resulting
vehicle, which graces this month’s cover, is, you can rest
assured, quite unlike anything you have ever seen before,
and you can read how it came to exist on page 48.
There’s much more in this issue, of course – delights such
as David Beckham by numbers, a peek into the mind of Kevin
Spacey and a rather delightful picture of the oldest golf club
we could find, alongside its future-tech modern cousin. But we
wouldn’t want to give too much away, would we?
Turn over, read on, enjoy.
NNN%I<;9LCC<K@E%:FD
AN ALMOST INDEPENDENT MONTHLY MAGAZINE /JULY 2009
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COVER PHOTGRAPH: JÜRGEN SKARWAN
Your editorial team
05
5
CONTENTS
WELCOME TO THE
WORLD OF RED BULL
Inside your red-hot Red Bulletin this month...
Bullevard
10 GALLERY
The bigger picture exposed
14 NOW AND NEXT
Who to see and where to be; the
month’s best sport and culture
17 ME AND MY BODY
Downhill mountain biker
Matti Lehikoinen’s battles,
both in and out of the saddle
34
20 WINNING FORMULA
Red Bull Paper Wings is the top
flight for paper pilots: our technical
breakdown shows you how to take off
23 WHERE’S YOUR HEAD AT?
Whether it’s Hollywood thrills or
highbrow theatre, Kevin Spacey’s
your man. Find out what goes
on behind the brow
24 KIT EVOLUTION
Over a century of development has
gone into today’s golf clubs, even if
the fshion is from the dark ages
27 LUCKY NUMBERS
David Beckham’s star-studded
football career has a few scores
worth remembering
Heroes
30 GREG LEMOND
With Lance Armstrong back for this
year’s Tour de France, a reminder
of the original American winner
34 HERO’S HERO
Skateboard prodigy Ryan Sheckler on
motorsport madman Travis Pastrana
36 DALLAS FRIDAY
Her name may sound Dukes of
Hazzard-style ditzy, but the 22-yearold wakeboarder is anything but
40 JAIME ALGUERSUARI
The 19-year-old Spanish champion
of British F3, now competing in
the World Series by Renault, sets
his sights on Formula One
42 OLIVER WILSON
We play caddy to the Ryder Cup pro,
revealing the skill that’s put him 11th
in golf’s list of European earners
06
54
30
CONTENTS
Action
48 NASCAR TUNE-UP
There’s a new sound resonating from
the garages of the USA’s number-one
motorsport: Noisia are the musical
act dismantling cars and bringing
new meaning to the term ‘steel band’
27
68
36
42
PHOTOGRAPHY: VALERIE PHILLIPS (1), THOMAS BUTLER (1), ACTION IMAGES (1), REX FEATURES (1), JOSH LETCHWORTH/RED BULL PHOTOFILES (1) GETTY IMAGES (1) SPORTING PICTURES/ACTION IMAGES (1)
54 STREET BASEBALL
The Dominican Republic is the
Caribbean island famous for growing
stars of US Major League baseball,
and it’s vitilla, the game played on the
streets, that turns hungry Dominican
youths into deadeye big hitters
64 THE ASHES:
A SECRET HISTORY
It’s one of Britain’s best-loved sporting
traditions, but the Ashes has taken
more strange turns than a Shane
Warne googly. So, do you know your
Bradmans from your Bothams?
68 ASHLEY FIOLEK
She’s the 18-year-old motocross queen
who keeps the rest of pack out of sight at
all times, despite being profoundly deaf
More Body
& Mind
78 THE HANGAR-7 INTERVIEW
Irish World Supersport biker Eugene
Laverty touches down in Salzburg
80 GET THE GEAR
Road cycling’s moved on from dayglo
Spandex (well, Spandex anyway)
82 LOST FAIRWAYS
The Open is golf’s FA cup, but with
plenty of past courses to visit, there’s
more than one Wembley to go around
84 LISTINGS
Check the global guide for daytime
hotspots and cool nights out
88 NIGHTLIFE
Partying in Cannes, spinning
tunes in Santiago, rocking out in
Newcastle and clubbing in Lisbon
94 BULL’S EYE
Culinary capers
96 SHORT STORY
Anthony Peacock describes
a holy dilemma
98 STEPHEN BAYLEY
Is it possible to dislike all music?
The design guru thinks so
FOR MORE LIKE THIS, VISIT:
WWW.REDBULLETIN.COM
07
LETTERS
WORD UP!
Wisecracks and wisdom from the world of Red Bull and beyond.
Tell us what you think by emailing letters@redbulletin.com
“For me, it’s about
a minute and a half’s
worth of torture. The
sensation of doing it
really is indescribable”
9lkI\[9lcc8`iIXZ\g`cfkD`b\>flc`Xe
nflc[eËk_Xm\`kXepfk_\inXp
“WHEN YOU’RE RIDING YOUR HORSE
AND TRYING TO PLAY YOUR
SHOT, IT’S A BIT LIKE RIDING A WAVE.
YOU MAKE A COMMITMENT,
AND SOMETIMES IT WORKS OUT
REALLY GOOD, SOMETIMES
IT DOESN’T – BUT YOU HAVE TO
ATTEMPT IT TO FIND OUT”
Gifjli]\iAXd`\Jk\ic`e^`j
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“I LIKE TO SING, I LIKE
TO DANCE, I LIKE TO BANG
DRUMS AND DRESS UP,
AND SOMEONE PAYS
ME – IT’S INCREDIBLE”
=cfi\eZ\N\cZ_f]=cfi\eZ\Xe[k_\DXZ_`e\n`cc
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“So, I’m on this jetski, holding
on to Travis Pastrana,
and we’re racing through
flooded downtown
Annapolis in the middle
of a hurricane…”
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“I’M JAMES PANTS…
OR JAMES
TROUSERS TO YOU”
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`eCfe[fe#n_\i\_\gcXp\[n`k_CXk`e$jflc`ZfeAf\9XkXXe
“When I had my wrist troubles, my
doctor told me he thought my biking
days were over. But I got back on
a cross-country bike for the first time
on the quiet. What did my doctor
have to say about that? That you
shouldn’t believe everything doctors say”
=`ee`j_[fne_`ccdflekX`eY`b\i
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“THEY’RE
PLAYING HARD
TO GET… REALLY
HARD TO GET”
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>\\8k_\ikfe]Xd\#YlkXggXi\ekcpefkk_\cX[`\j
“MY DREAM IS TO GO
TO FORMULA ONE. IT’S
GOING TO BE TOUGH,
BUT I KEEP TRYING
– I KEEP BELIEVING”
KfifIfjjf=([i`m\iJ„YXjk`\e9l\d`_Xj
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“Someone decided it would be
fun to steal my identity online,
and they’ve done it really well.
He or she obviously has some
talent, so if they’re interested in
coming forward, then maybe
I can find a way to use that talent
in my movie project!”
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08
Your Letters
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ILLUSTRATION: DIETMAR KAINRATH
K A I N R AT H
09
SILVERSTONE , ENGLAND
ONE-TWO GLEE
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Bullevard
An unparalleled view of the world’s most exciting athletes and action
11
NEW YORK CITY, USA
SQUARE ROUTE
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B U L L E VA R D
PETE RAY
BIGGIN
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WORDS: RUTH MORGAN, PAUL WILSON. PHOTOGRAPHY: RUSSELL HOLLINSHEAD (1), DREAM TEAM/RED BULL PHOTOFILES (1)
YOU R E A L LY
OU G H T
TO K N OW
SOMETHING
A B OU T...
PICTURES OF THE MONTH
EVERY SHOT ON TARGET
Email your pics with a Red Bull flavour to
letters@redbulletin.com. Every one we print wins
a pair of Sennheiser PMX 80 Sport II headphones.
These sleek, sporty and rugged stereo ’phones
feature an ergonomic neckband and vertical
transducer system for optimum fit and comfort.
Their sweat- and water-resistant construction
also makes them ideal for all music-loving
sports enthusiasts. www.sennheiser.co.uk
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14
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B U L L E VA R D
WAKEY
WAKEY
Norway gets its
wings in grand style
In the last few weeks, Red Bull has
been appearing on the shelves and
in the chillers of shops across Norway
– the 151st country in which the
energy drink has become available.
To mark the occasion, on launch
day in the capital, Oslo, French trial
biker Julien Dupont made the most
unusual performance yet seen at the
Oslo Opera House, a spectacular new
structure that has won international
architecture awards since it opened
in April 2008. He turned commuters’
heads with his wheelie circuits
of the building’s rooftop.
Later that afternoon, Duncan
Zuur, the wakeboarder noted for
his urban waveriding in his home
town of Amsterdam and in St Mark’s
Square, Venice (yes, the actual
square; it was flooded), rode the
waters in Oslo’s Spikersuppa Park’s
fountains before surfing behind
a sailboat in the city’s harbour.
The first blue and silver cans
made their Norwegian debut on
May 27, and within four weeks
3.5 million cans had been sold
across the Scandinavian country –
that’s one each for over 70 per cent
of the population. Last year, Red
Bull also made its long-awaited
debut in France. It first went on
sale in Austria in 1987.
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<inXe>iXjjXk
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_`jI\[9lccIXZ`e^=(ZXifek_\jki\\kjf]?le^Xip%
8e[iXj:qXbf#I\[9lccJki\\kGXiX[\
15
B U L L E VA R D
EIRE
GUITAR
66666666666
LOVIN’ SUMMER
X Games turns 15 with the best show ever
If the X Games were a marriage – and
there are some who say that they’re the
perfect partnership of action sports and
made-for-TV athletic competition – then
this month it would celebrate its crystal
anniversary. Crystal clear to all is that
a decade and a half of groundbreaking
and name-making at the X Games have
made them the premier event of their kind.
Devised in 1995 by TV sports network
ESPN, the aim was to bring together
disparate skate and ride events (with
snow sports following two years later
in the shape of the Winter X Games).
These disciplines have grown so much
that the Summer and Winter Olympics
now feature the likes of BMX and
snowboarding. These sports would
not have gained five-ring recognition
Dominican RepublicK_\j\Yfpjn`cc
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@mXeD\e[\q#JXekf;fd`e^f;i`]k9Xkkc\
16
without X Games exposure at a time
when they were below the radar.
This year’s shebang, from July 30 to
August 2, takes place where the previous
six have unfolded: at arenas and stadia
in Los Angeles. Shaun White (above),
Travis Pastrana and Ryan Sheckler (see
page 34) are among the big names due
to take part. Skate events Big Air Rail
Jam and Park Legends make their debut,
upping the total number of events to
23. For those who can’t make it to LA,
a 3D film showcasing the best of the
X Games is set for August release in
US cinemas, with a possible UK run
to follow. Insert your own X-word that
means something positive here.
K_\Fo\^\e]\jk`mXcfeAlcp('$()
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=cfi\eZ\Xe[k_\DXZ_`e\%8e[
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Fo\^\e#I\[9lccDlj`Z8ZX[\dp
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n`ccYi\Xk_\
@i\cXe[Ëj
Zc\XeX`i
XkFo\^\e
=fccfnpfli]Xmfli`k\jkXijËYl`c[$lgkf
O>Xd\jOMXknnn%i\[Ylcc\k`e%Zfd&\e
SzegedN_`c\M\kk\cjXnkf_`jZXi#KfifIfjjf
iffb`\J„YXjk`\e9l\d`kffbZXi\f]k_\]Xej%
G\k\iMXdfj`#I\[9lccJki\\kGXiX[\
WORDS: PAUL WILSON, TOM HALL. PHOTOGRAPHY: CORBIS (1), LELE SAVERI (1)
Rock out and save the planet
at Ireland’s best festival
SloveniaI\[9lccIXZ`e^]Xe8cYlc\elj\j[Xe[\c`fe
ZcfZbjkfZflek_fndXep)''0=(n`ejk_\pd`^_kXZ_`\m\%
8cYlc\e8a^\i`
B U L L E VA R D
ME AND MY BODY
MATTI LEHIKOINEN
Not so much ‘Scarface’ as ‘Scarbody’. Finland’s 25-year-old
downhill mountain bike World Cup winner thinks nothing
of overcoming physical injury in pursuit of glory
WORDS: WERNER JESSNER PHOTOGRAPHY: MURDO MACLEOD
GAME OVER DOWN UNDER
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BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN
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IN THE FLESH
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DOC SHOCK
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WORLD ON HIS SHOULDER
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KXb\Xi`[\n`k_DXkk`Xknnn%dXkk`c\_`bf`e\e%Zfd
17
MONTE
CARLO
OR BUST
Non-stop for a fortnight
through the Alps by foot or
paraglider: welcome to the
hardest hike in the world
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k_\`i`e$iXZ\Ycf^jXknnn%i\[YlccoXcgj%Zfd
MATTERHORN
SWITZERLAND
TURNPOINT 5
Altitude 4478m
45° 58´ 35˝ North
7° 39´ 30˝ East
MONT BLANC
FRANCE
TURNPOINT 6
Altitude 4792m
45° 49´ 57˝ North
6° 51´ 51˝ East
MATTERHORN
MONT BLANC
MONT GROS
FRANCE
TURNPOINT 7
Altitude 723m
43° 46´ 2˝ North
7° 26´ 20˝ East
MONTE CARLO
MONACO
RACE GOAL
Altitude 0m
43° 44´ North
7° 25´ East
MONT GROS
MONTE CARLO
Delaware;Xm`[:flck_Xi[af`ej9i`XeM`Zb\ij BrusselsI\eXkfi\gc\e`j_\j_`j\e\i^pi\j\im\j
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JfeepIXen`k_cffe
I\eXkfCfj`f
18
Nürburgring9Xe[J\c`^i\]fidkfifZbk_\
Zifn[j]ifdk_\iff]f]k_\I\[9lccKfliYlj%
IfY`Xj?Xii\i
SALZBURG
GAISBERG
WATZMANN
MARMOLADA
SALZBURG
AUSTRIA
RACE START
Altitude 424m
47° 48´ North
13° 2´ East
GROSSGLOCKNER
GAISBERG
TURNPOINT 3
Altitude 3798m
47° 4´ 30˝ North
12° 41´ 43˝ East
TURNPOINT 1
Altitude 1288m
47° 48´ 20˝ North
13° 6´ 45˝ East
AUSTRIA
AUSTRIA
MARMOLADA
WATZMANN
TURNPOINT 4
Altitude 3343m
46° 26´ 2˝ North
11° 51´ 2˝ East
TURNPOINT 2
Altitude 2713m
47° 33´ 19˝ North
12° 55´ 24˝ East
ITALY
Hollywood8e^\c`eXAfc`\Ëjjklek[flYc\
;\YY`\<mXejn`ej9\jk=\dXc\G\i]fidXeZ\%
)''0KXliljNfic[Jklek8nXi[j
GERMANY
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (1), MAURITIUS (5), PICTUREDESK (1), RED BULL PHOTOFILES (3), WILD & TEAM-FOTOAGENTUR (1)
GROSSGLOCKNER
FinisterreJ`^`>iXYe\iiX`j\[ö).',]fik_\Z_Xi`kp SalzburgJkpc\#efkjg\\[#Zflekj`ek_\XeelXc
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J>JefnYfXi[j
K_fdXjDXkq\cY\i^\i
19
B U L L E VA R D
WINNING FORMULA
WING MEN
THE FLYING FINN
“Many principles for paper planes
are the same as for real planes,”
says Tuomas Pärnänen (right), 25,
an aero engineering student at the
Helsinki University of Technology.
This shared ground helped Pärnänen
win the Red Bull Paper Wings
competition in his native Finland,
and then represent his country
at the world finals at Hangar-7
in Salzburg, Austria.
“I saw Red Bull Paper Wings
advertised at university, so a friend
and I went along. We didn’t treat it
seriously at first, but when I got to
the Finland final, I was treating it
a lot more seriously. And the more
I practised, the more I realised
that the dimensions were crucial.”
So size matters – more than
weight, according to Pärnänen –
but so does a little luck. Flying
conditions inside the hangar that
day were ideal, and so the reasons
one plane flew further than another
are lost on the paper pilots. “I’m
not sure why mine flew so well,”
says Pärnänen. “The competition
was very even. We had a day of
practice, followed by a day of
competition. I finished 17th in the
category for longest airtime [with
8.90 seconds; the winner clocked
11.66 seconds]. It was great fun.”
Indeed, this meeting of minds
on the forefront of folding was
about more than the work. Away
from the heat of competition,
which also took in categories
for longest flight length and
aerobatics, numbers and emails
were swapped, along with
blueprints and flight tips.
“A girl from the Swiss team is
coming to see me,” says Pärnänen,
making it clear that she is merely
taking a slight detour on a planned
tour and there’s nothing romantic
about it. That’s a shame: how
fantastic for there to have been
love in the air that day, alongside
the world’s leading light aircraft.
20
THE FLYING DOCTOR
“The recently broken world record
for paper aeroplane flight time is
an unbelievable 27.9 seconds,” notes
physicist and sports scientist Dr
Martin Apolin, “but what determines
how long a plane stays in the air?
“A plane glides best if the
so-called glide ratio, E, is as large
as possible. Glide ratio is flight
distance, l, divided by the occurring
height loss, h: thus E = l/h. A hangglider has a glide ratio of 10-15.
This means it can fly 10-15m and
lose only 1m in height over this
distance. A top paper plane’s
gliding ability is on the same
scale. Since a paper plane falls,
as a rule of thumb, at a rate of
1m/s, you have to throw it very
high to reach world-record levels.
(You also need a high ceiling!)
“Three forces are balanced in
stationary glide flight: weight, FG;
lift, FL; and drag, FD. The glide
ratio can be described using two
of these forces, namely E = FL/FD.
The bigger the lift while the drag
decreases, the further the plane
will glide. The lift force depends
on the lift coefficient cL , and the
drag force depends on the drag
coefficient cD. So we can calculate
the throwing range: l = hcL/cD.
“Thus the throwing range
gets bigger the higher the plane is
initially thrown, because the phase
of stationary flight is increased.
If you throw 10 per cent higher
than your competitors, your plane
will glide 10 per cent further and
longer. Besides, it is important
to construct your plane so that
your lift coefficient is as high as
possible and your drag coefficient
is as low as possible. Unfortunately,
these two values are not completely
independent of one another.
“The practical details of your
flight are up to your own unique
construction capabilities!”
=`e[flk_fnkfYl`c[XY\kk\igXg\i
gcXe\Xknnn%i\[YlccgXg\in`e^j%Zfd
WORDS: PAUL WILSON AND DR MARTIN APOLIN. PHOTOGRAPHY: RUTGERPAUW.COM/RED BULL PHOTOFILES. ILLUSTRATION: MANDY FISCHER
To fly world-beating paper planes requires
endeavour, engineering and no end of good fortune.
These folding fellows are blessed with all three
B U L L E VA R D
NIGHT
RIDERS
EXdE^lp\e#)''/I\[9lcc
Jki\\kjkpc\hlXik\i$]`eXc`jk
YOU CAN KICK IT
The world’s best freestyle football comp is back in play
If you think that Cristiano Ronaldo
has the right idea when he shows off
the slick stuff, Red Bull Street Style
wants you. Entrants must dazzle with
innovative tricks and deft ball control,
outsmarting opponents in one-on-one
keepy-up face-offs set to music.
Last year saw more than 200
qualifiers from 44 countries battle it out
to reach the finals, a 16-man freestylefor-all event in the spiritual home of
tricksy football, Brazil. Professional
freestyler John Whetton was England’s
representative, while kicking it for
Ireland was Nam ‘The Man’ Nguyen
from Co Sligo. The winner was
Frenchman Arnaud ‘Séan’ Garnier,
who impressed judges, including
22
former Dutch international Edgar
Davids, by spinning the ball on the tip
of a pen he held between his teeth.
With national qualifiers already
underway in Japan, Australia and Spain,
next comes India, in Delhi, on August 1.
The UK will join the fray with qualifiers
in London on September 26, Newcastle
on October 10, Nottingham on October 24
and Bristol on November 7. The winners
will head to the London final on November
21. Irish tricksters keen to follow Nam ‘The
Man’ can try out in October/November.
National winners then head to the world
finals in South Africa in April 2010, in
the run-up to the FIFA World Cup.
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WORDS: RUTH MORGAN, TOM HALL. PHOTOGRAPHY: JASON HALAYKO/RED BULL PHOTOFILES (1), ADAM ROBERTS (1)
Cycling in the city for
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B U L L E VA R D
WHERE’S YOUR HEAD AT?
KEVIN SPACEY
He marks his 50th birthday this month by voicing a robot in the sci-fi
film Moon – how very space-y. Here’s what else orbits inside his mind
PAINTER MAN
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A MINI ADVENTURE
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23
B U L L E VA R D
OLD STICK
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KIT EVOLUTION
SWING SHIFT
WORDS: PAUL WILSON. PHOTOGRAPHY: LUKE KIRWAN
From own-brand craftsmanship to
the appliance of science, discover the
driving forces behind the development
of golf clubs in the last 135 years
HEAD MUSIC
CALLAWAY FT-9 TOUR DRIVER, 2009
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25
B U L L E VA R D
HARD & FAST
Top performers and winning
ways from across the globe
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WORDS: PAUL WILSON. PHOTOGRAPHY: AFP/GETTY IMAGES (1), AP/RED BULL PHOTOFILES (1), AARON SCHWARTZBARD (1). OLAF PIGNATARO/RED BULL (1). ILLUSTRATION: DIETMAR KAINRATH
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B U L L E VA R D
LUCKY NUMBERS
DAVID BECKHAM
Entering the last stage of a stellar career, the world’s most famous footballer has
produced impressive stats, no matter where he has chosen to bend it like himself
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Heroes
Boarders, riders, a hero driver and a hero with a driver
30 GREG LEMOND 34 RYAN SHECKLER 36 DALLAS FRIDAY
40 JAIME ALGUERSUARI 42 OLIVER WILSON
29
HEROES
Pioneer
GREG
LEMOND
With the Tour de France in full swing, a former US rider
reflects on the man who first blazed a trail for American
cyclists in Europe – and the return of Lance Armstrong
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30
I packed my bags and left for Europe in the spring
of 1986. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was about
to take part in the American assault on European
professional cycling that would change the face and
language of bike racing for generations to come. We
were a group of adventurers, dreamers and nonconformists, mostly. We might have had a passing
interest in traditional American sports, such as
American football and baseball, but somewhere
along the way, all of that became sidetracked when
we discovered road bicycles and began racing them.
We left our homes and families in search of real
bike racing – racing that could only be found on the
ancient cobblestone Belgian roads, the windswept
Dutch dyke paths, and the torturous Pyrenean,
Dolomite and Alpine climbs. We had no idea
if there was fame and fortune to be had, but we
knew we wanted to compete against the legendary
European cyclists in their playground – and we
all dreamed of racing in the Tour de France.
The two most notable early pioneers were
Northern Californians Mike Neel and George Mount.
In 1976, Neel, a large man by road cycling standards,
became the first American to break into the European
professional peloton. Mount soon followed. In 1981,
Jonathan ‘Jock’ Boyer planted the Stars and Stripes
firmly on the Tour de France, becoming the first
American to finish the three-week-long event. He
continued the charge towards Paris, and in 1983
finished in a career-best 12th place in le Grand
Boucle. But it was the following year that another
young Californian, Greg LeMond, put the United
States on the podium, finishing third.
LeMond was the perfect candidate to lead the US
charge. With a combination of youthful enthusiasm
and boyish good looks, he won the hearts and minds
of continental cycling fans. Riding with Greg in top
racing form, you got the sense that he didn’t know
how strong he was – that he was simply trying to
ride the wheels off his bike, and in so doing, he was
also riding the legs out from under everyone else.
After third in ’84, he climbed one step closer to the
top of the podium in 1985, helping his La Vie Claire
team-mate and cycling legend, Frenchman Bernard
Hinault, win his fifth Tour de France in the process.
Hinault vowed to help LeMond win in 1986. But all’s
fair in love and war, and it seems bike racing is both
love and war simultaneously. Instead of assisting
his team-mate, Hinault, one of the most competitive
pro cyclists ever, rode an aggressive race, waiting
for LeMond to show any sign of weakness. (LeMond
prevailed in a dramatic 13th stage mountain
showdown and went on to outright victory.)
Unlike other great champions, LeMond didn’t
possess a frowning, down-to-business, field-general
demeanour, but actually seemed to be enjoying
himself in races. While other grand tour winners
rode through the countryside almost emotionless,
talking only to team-mates or other podium hopefuls,
Greg would often be seen laughing his way through
the group, slapping lesser-known professionals on
the back. In the peloton, this afforded him a fairly
wide berth, since such behaviour was alien to
the class-divided professional ranks.
But he was all business when he needed to
be, and this side of his character was almost
as unorthodox as the rest. On the morning of
important time trials, Greg could be seen testing
the entry and exit speeds of each corner. More
like a racing driver than a bicycle racer, he’d run
through each corner repeatedly, sometimes even
crashing in the process, until he had every bend
mastered. When his body was more prepared than
his mind, Greg would warm up for the event by
tying fishing flies until shortly before the start.
If LeMond’s 1986 Tour win marked a breakthrough
for American cycling, it was also the first year an
all-American team, 7-Eleven, entered the race, with
America’s first European pro, Mike Neel, as its
director. That first 7-Eleven Tour team consisted
of eight of America’s absolute best cyclists, one
Canadian and one Mexican. In North America,
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES
Words: Joe Parkin
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the 7-Eleven team were legendary, winning races
whenever and however they wanted. They had the
best riders, best support and best equipment. 7-Eleven
was the rock star programme, the absolute top of
the North American cycling food chain, and the
team were later immortalised in the film American
Flyers. In Europe, that all changed. Team director
Neel was better known than any of his riders and
they struggled to finish races, let alone get results.
The immense motivating power of the Tour
nevertheless took the young American team to the
starting line, hoping to parade their colours in front
of the world. It also drove them to some remarkable
early feats. Canadian Alex Stieda threw down the
gauntlet on the first stage, breaking away and riding
solo for most of the day. He collected enough time
bonuses to take the leader’s yellow jersey despite
not actually winning the stage. The very next day,
American team-mate Davis Phinney won the 214km
stage into Liévin. Just three days into the Tour, the
7-Eleven team were officially on the map.
An American would be in yellow, too, three
weeks later when the Tour peloton arrived on
the Champs-Élysées. LeMond was that man, while
Ron Kiefel, Jeff Pierce, Bob Roll, Raul Alcala and
Stieda were the five members of the 7-Eleven
team who also made it to Paris. Each one of them,
LeMond included, arrived at the finish line lighter
than when they started, and with their eyes sunken
and their faces wrinkled and weathered.
The Tour is a race like no other: three weeks
worth of racing designed to destroy all but the fittest
and best-prepared cyclists in the world. Getting
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32
through the torture is often simply a matter of
surrendering to it after the realisation that, for
the race’s duration at least, you’ll only feel normal
while on the bike – every other waking moment
being a struggle with both the body’s and mind’s
desire to completely shut down.
Despite all of that, the American invasion
of the Tour de France was well underway and
European cycling embraced riders from the United
States with open arms during this period. Team
managers looked at us like dollar signs with legs.
Though we helped clear the roads for future
generations of American cyclists, we were, by
and large, a novelty that didn’t pose much of a
threat to professional cycling’s status quo. While
the financial rewards for our efforts were minimal,
comparatively speaking, we looked at each race
as new territory to be discovered, considering
ourselves lucky for the experience. Americans
who have followed have become specialists,
contesting only certain races, and being subjected
to a much higher level of public scrutiny.
LeMond would win the Tour again in 1989 and
1990, having recovered from a near-fatal hunting
accident in 1987 that threatened to end his career.
But, by 1991, there were already rumours
circulating in the pro peloton of a new American
rider who seemed poised to take LeMond’s throne.
Texan Lance Armstrong joined the pro ranks in
1992 with the cockiness of a fighter pilot and the
speed to back it up. Everything’s bigger in Texas,
right down to the amount of effort Armstrong put
into his cycling career. When I met Lance for the
first time, I already knew I was in the presence
of greatness – at least future greatness – but Lance
knew about me. While it’s true that I was a bit of
an enigma in American cycling, having spent my
career racing exclusively for European trade teams,
I was no future Tour winner. But for Lance, cycling
was more than just a sport, it was war, and he
would learn as much as he could about the history
of the sport and every one of his opponents.
In 1999, after surviving his near-death fight with
cancer, a completely resculpted Lance Armstrong
rode into Paris wearing the leader’s yellow jersey,
just as LeMond had done 13 years earlier, to begin
his historic string of seven consecutive wins – two
more than anyone else. During his seven-year reign,
the roadsides of the Tour route became ever more
populated with American fans. In fewer than 30
years, a bicycle race, once mostly unknown to the
American consciousness, has become front-page
news. Once something just a few guys dreamed
of finishing, today’s generation of US cyclists are
expected to win. In the next couple of weeks, Mike,
George, Jock, the 1986 7-Eleven team and I will all
be proudly watching Lance go for number eight.
Joe Parkin has represented the US in the World
Professional Road, Cyclocross and Mountain Bike
Championships. He’s author of the acclaimed
A Dog in a Hat, his cycling memoirs.
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PHOTOGRAPHY: OFFSIDE SPORTS PHOTOGRAPHY (2), ACTION IMAGES (1)
HEROES
HEROES
Hero’s Hero: Ryan Sheckler on
TRAVIS
PASTRANA
Sheckler has been hailed as a skateboarding phenomenon since he won
the X Games at 13. But it’s a motocross daredevil, rally driver and
all-round mentalist who inspires him to get on his board every day
I first met Travis Pastrana in LA at the
2003 X Games. I’d known of him long
before that because I was a fan. But
I really started to get to know him when
he made a $500 bet against the guy
who’s now my agent that I would win
the skateboarding competition. My
agent had told him: “No way.”
So I ended up winning Travis the
money and I just remember him coming
up and being like: “Yeah, thanks dude,
I just won 500 bucks!” I was psyched.
It was Pastrana. Sick!
From then on we just seemed to have
very similar personalities. We like having
fun. Whenever he came to California, he’d
come stay at the house and we’d borrow
my dad’s truck and go racing around or
whatever. From day one I just felt like he
was a loyal friend, you know? And I’ve
been chilling with him all the time since.
He’s bred to be a motocross guy, just
like I’m sitting here to be a skateboarder.
No matter if you’re religious or not, that’s
clearly his gift to ride bikes and do other
ridiculous stunts like jumping out of a
plane without a parachute or flipping
a rally car eight times. I like to jump
off big things and do crazy stuff too,
so it’s brought our friendship closer.
When I was about 13 or 14, I visited
Pastrana’s house in Maryland. I had no
idea what to expect, but I was getting
jumped into what these guys’ lifestyle
is like. We’d go and practise backflips
on bikes in his foam pit. He’d be like:
“If I come back and you’re not doing
the backflip, you’re going on the boat.”
Next thing we’re on this boat going
40mph, and he just pushes me off with
no warning! I was like, ‘OK, this is how
34
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they roll’, but I was still a little kid,
and he was pushing me off huge bridges
with the rest of the Nitro Circus guys.
I was getting ready to come home
and had told my mum all the stories.
I was like: “I’ve gotta come home, I’m
gonna die out here!” But then a hurricane
came through and flooded the whole
of downtown Annapolis. Travis was like:
“We’re gonna go ride jet-skis downtown.”
I was like: “What? It’s fully storming
a hurricane out there!” So I’m on this
jet-ski holding onto Pastrana and we’re
racing through. Then all of a sudden
we hit a parking meter and fly off
because the water was so high we just
didn’t see it, and I’m swimming in the
middle of a parking lot in a hurricane.
Since then, every time we see each other
we go balls to the wall. It’s amazing.
But as dangerous as his whole
situation is, I actually feel really safe
around him. I don’t feel like he’s trying
to put me in harm’s way. So if I chose to
do a skydive or something, I can’t think
of a better guy to have around while
I did it. He’s broken every bone in his
body and still doesn’t stop: that really
says something about his character.
I’ve broken my elbow six times
and I’ve had a lot of concussions. But
I always feel like an idiot when I do it.
I’m not bummed at the result, I’m just
bummed at how the hell did I manage
to fall? I want to get better so I can get
back to the basics and improve. I think
it’s the motivation to get back on the
board that drives me.
I’d like to switch sports at some point,
like Pastrana did to rally driving. But
I have so much practice to do. I’d even
race Formula One, because the 320kphplus really appeals, but I’ve got to get
into the right circles to start learning how.
I’ve set up Sheckler Racing, which is just
basically me and my dad, but we want
to help motocross riders so we’ve started
our own team. I won’t be riding, though!
I get amped when I see other successes.
I like learning and surrounding myself
with smarter people. Seeing all the fame
Pastrana has and comparing it to whatever
sort of fame I have, that’s great, but
I think it can be used in a different way
besides all the glitz and glamour. I use
my career to be a role model and be
a good example for those kids growing
up and trying to figure their lives out.
Travis, he’s a freak of nature. He inspires
me all the time. I have his back forever.
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PHOTOGRAPHY: MAURITS SILEM (1), JODY MORRIS/RED BULL PHOTOFILES (1)
Interview: Tom Hall
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HEROES
DALLAS
FRIDAY
When she was just 13 years old, she was tipped
to be the first girl to make a million dollars from
wakeboarding. Now 22, she hasn’t disappointed
Words: Ruth Morgan Portrait: Karen Fuchs/Red Bull Photofiles
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36
The world of extreme sports is chock-full of unusually
named athletes: Heath Frisby, Parks Bonifay, Boaz
Arrow Aquino, Austin Horse, to name just a few.
So when, 22 years ago, a couple in Orlando, Florida,
named their baby daughter Dallas Friday, perhaps
they unwittingly prompted the sporting gods to
bless Li’l’ D with a career of athletic achievement.
A couple of decades on, Dallas is riding the very
crest of the wave in the boom sport of women’s
wakeboarding. Imagine waterskiing on a snowboard
and you’ll be halfway to understanding what
she does (but dismiss visions of ’60s American
holiday camps and group pyramid formations:
wakeboarding is one of the toughest watersports
going). Wakeboarders use the wake from a
speedboat as a ramp to launch into mid-air flips,
spins and twists. And it’s super-tight: one wrong
move can transform even the best into a spectator.
Nevertheless, Dallas has been at the top since day
one. As a 14-year-old, in her first year of competition,
she won the America’s Cup Championship; she
was World Cup Champion in her second, winning
almost every tournament she entered. Since then,
she’s cemented her top spot with three X Games
gold medals, World Championship titles and wins
at nearly every major contest in existence. She was
also the first wakeboarder to win the much-coveted
gong from American sports TV channel ESPN for
Best Female Action Sports Athlete, as they branded
her ‘the winningest female wakeboarder in history’.
Rarely, though, has the phrase ‘no pain, no
gain’ been more appropriate than when applied
to Dallas. At an age when fresh-faced graduates
may be tiptoeing into the big, wide world, she has
endured injuries that have threatened not only her
career, but her life. After crashing out of one world
cup contest, she was left in a coma in a Singapore
hospital, unable to breathe unaided.
Only a stubborn determination as rare as her
name got her back on a board and back to the top of
her game. That, and a competitive instinct running
deep in her veins: before discovering wakeboarding,
Dallas was a promising gymnast, training every
day after school and competing at a high level. But
when, at the tender age of 12, she began to complain
of burnout, her older brothers suggested she try
wakeboarding instead – a sport they already enjoyed
just for kicks on the lake next to the family home.
Initially, Dallas was unsure: “I didn’t even
know wakeboarding was a sport,” she says, “but
I always wanted to do what my brothers did,
so I tried it and instantly loved it.”
Dallas’s gymnastic background made her a
natural in the air, and she caught the eye of one
local professional who advised her mother, Darla,
to seek out the help of top trainer Mike Ferraro.
Mike’s name is renowned in the wakeboarding
world; his training diaries read like a Who’s Who
of the sport. As such, the $200-per-hour trainer
only had time to personally take on already highlevel riders and was turning away the merely
gifted. Darla, however, was determined to get him
to work with her then-13-year-old daughter, despite
Dallas only having a couple of months’ experience.
“I told Darla I wouldn’t take on someone at
Dallas’s stage,” says Mike, “but she’s gone ‘no, no,
I was told I had to get you’. I eventually said, ‘Fine,
I’ll do you a favour, bring her up and I’ll see how
she does.’ So I watched her, and I saw her take
a hard fall and get up like it wasn’t a problem. So
I agreed to watch her for a week.” At the end of
the week, Mike invited Dallas’s parents out for
dinner to discuss his observations. There, he told
them that their daughter would be the first girl
to make a million dollars from wakeboarding.
“It was great to hear that coming from somebody
who knows what they’re talking about,” says Darla.
“It was very exciting for us as parents to think
that Dallas could be doing something she loved so
much.” But it didn’t come cheap. To get Dallas the
training and equipment she needed, the Fridays
had to take out a second mortgage on their home.
Dallas matched their commitment, pouring every
spare second into wakeboarding. “I’ve always had
that competitiveness,” she says. “I always wanted
to show that I could do whatever the challenge
was and surpass it and be the best at it. Growing
up with my brothers, I just wanted to be like them;
to hang out with the boys.” It may have been the
influence of her brothers that gave Dallas the edge
that Mike had spotted in her. “When you find
a unique personality like Dallas who deals with
risk different to most girls, that’s when you know
you’ve got something,” he says. “She’s willing to
put her body on the line more than any other girl.
I’ve seen her learning stuff where even the guys
will say, ‘I’m just not going to do that.’”
And Dallas’s willingness to take risks immediately
began to pay off. In her rookie year, she finished
on the podium at several high-profile events and
won the America’s Cup Championship. She quickly
built a name as a fearless rider who could land
tricks never before seen in her class, and seemed
almost unbeatable. But with risk comes almost
inevitable injury, as she first learned just over
a year into her career. In 2001 she underwent
knee surgery for a torn meniscus, and in 2002,
aged 15, she broke her back after being slammed
into the water during a competition.
Worse was to come. In October 2006, during
the final world cup event in Singapore, she broke
her left femur after wiping out, suffering nine
spiral fractures, which required a titanium rod to
38
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be inserted into her thigh. Then, during surgery,
there were severe complications and Dallas’s lungs
collapsed, leaving her unable to breathe on her own.
When she regained consciousness after a angstridden week for her family, she first had to learn to
walk again before she could even contemplate riding.
“I ended up in hospital in Singapore for about
a month,” says Dallas. “It was all really tough.
It was frustrating and I didn’t understand why
any of it had happened. There were a lot of
setbacks and frustrating moments with doctors
and physios. Wakeboarding is my life. When you
get used to doing something you love so much
and have it taken away, it’s just… it’s everything.”
After returning to the US, she was determined
to get back on the water.
“She was in bad shape, I mean she’d been on
life-support,” says Mike. “If that had been me, I’d
be like ‘that’s it, I’m done’. She’s the only one I’ve
ever seen with this much drive. I told her to take
two years off. But she said, ‘I think in two or three
months I could be riding.’ I said, ‘Dallas, you are
out of your mind.’ But this is how it is with Dallas.
I still have to call the local training centres when
I tell her to take a day off and have to get them to
promise me they’re not letting her in the door.”
After undergoing daily physiotherapy, Dallas
returned less than a year later to win the IWSF
World Cup Championship, the Pro-AM Wakeboarding
Championship, the Wakeboard World Cup event in
Qatar and, in a result fit for Hollywood, she won
the event in Singapore where her career was so
nearly terminated the year before.
“People ask me if I was scared of doing that
same trick after my injury and, honestly, no,” says
Dallas. “I told myself, ‘Just go out and do it – what’s
the worst that could happen?’ People are like, ‘Are
you serious?’ But you have to go out there and just
do it like nothing’s going to happen, with that
confidence and positivity.” She followed up with
a 2008 season that saw her claim the Masters
Championship, the IWSF World Cup Championship,
the Malibu Open and the Singapore World Cup once
more for good measure. But for the ‘winningest
female’ wakeboarder, both years were disappointing,
as her performance was still hampered by her
past knee injury and further surgery.
This year, she believes, will be her first with full
form and health since her accident in Singapore.
She started it as she means to go on, taking her
first-ever Wake Games title and finishing on the
podium in her next two events. And her trademark
determination is stronger than ever.
“I don’t care about second or third place,” she
says. “I’m always going for that number-one spot.
I just want to look back one day and know that
I was the best that I could be and didn’t hold back;
that I made an impact on the sport for the better.
I just got home late from travelling last night and
Mike’s already calling me to go work on something
new, so there’s no break, but this is my job and
I love it. There’s plenty more to come from me.
This is only the beginning.”
=fccfn`e;XccXjËjnXb\Xknnn%[XccXj]i`[Xp%Zfd
PHOTOGRAPHY: BILL DOSTER/RED BULL PHOTOFILES
HEROES
Post your message on the TwelfthMan WALL OF SUPPORT at:
www.ecb.co.uk/twelfthman
HEROES
JAIME
ALGUERSUARI
Spanish, precocious, intelligent and ferociously focused. Sounds like
a certain double Formula One world champion… But whatever you
do, don’t go calling him the next Fernando Alonso
Words: Michael Curtis Photography: Thomas Butler
Drive down through the tiny Belgian village of
Francorchamps and you’ll come to a racing circuit
that makes heroes of mortals and legends of heroes.
Here, in 2000, the youngest driver to race that year
in Formula 3000 announced himself on the world
stage. All season, Fernando Alonso had been
improving, but at Spa-Francorchamps he pulled
it all together: pole position; fastest race lap;
winner. It was the start of something big.
Nine years later, on the kind of balmy, sunkissed day that this corner of the normally sodden
Ardennes so rarely sees, another young Spaniard
is attempting to make a similar mark, though
he resists comparison with Alonso.
“Obviously, we’re both Spanish, so that tends to
happen a lot,” says 19-year-old Jaime Alguersuari.
“But my story is completely different.”
In just four years, the kid from Barcelona has
come from being the kart-racing son of a former
motorcycle racer to finishing second in the Italian
Formula Renault championship, then last year
springing a massive surprise by claiming the
prestigious British F3 International series at his first
attempt, the youngest ever driver to take the title.
“I’ve been with Red Bull since 2006 and the
progression has been good,” he says. “There’s
a really good training centre in Austria. I used to
go there three or four times a year to learn how
to perform as a racing driver and as a person.
“It’s not all physical work: you need to learn and
you need to think,” he adds, placing heavy emphasis
on the final word. “It gives you an advantage over
the guys who just do the physical stuff.” Last year,
that edge showed in the final round of the F3
championship. Twelve points down on leader and
team-mate Oliver Turvey going into the final round
at Donington Park, Alguersuari dug deep, won both
the weekend’s races and took the title.
“I had more to win than to lose,” he says now.
“I took a lot of risks in qualifying, but it went well
and I took both pole positions. Donington was
40
the consequence of all the work we had all done
throughout the whole year. It all came together.”
The result was the most publicity ever in Spain
for the series and its star driver. At an end-of-year
sports awards ceremony, Alguersuari was chosen
as Spain’s ‘rising star’. “No driver had done it
before,” he says. “The other awards were for
Rafael Nadal, the best tennis player in the world,
and for the Spanish national football team.”
Now, here at Spa, other imperatives are calling:
another ladder to climb; another waypoint on the
road to Formula One. This time it’s World Series by
Renault, a step up in power and difficulty from F3,
and a series that Alonso also contested on his way to
the big league. Casting aside the obvious reference,
is there any driver he does want to emulate?
“Maybe Sebastian Vettel,” he says simply. “Mainly
because he’s the most recent to come out of the
Red Bull Team Junior programme – where I am
– and succeed. He’s won two Grands Prix already
and he’s a good driver. He did Formula 3 for two
years and he raced in this series, so his progression
looks like mine. His route to the top is a target to
aim for, and makes me think that I can do it too.”
It isn’t so long ago that drivers graduated to F1
straight from British F3 – 2009 F1 title contender
Jenson Button being just one. However, Alguersuari
is convinced it’s not his time – yet. “I only did one
year of F3 and, unfortunately, I won it, so I couldn’t
do that any more! Now I’ve stepped up to World
Series and I think this is my consolidation year
before F1. I think this car gives you much more of
an idea of what you can expect when you get there.”
You wouldn’t bet on him not fulfilling that
ambition. Here is a kid who spent a year at boarding
school in Ipswich because racing drivers need
perfect English, and who has no hesitation in
tagging this year as the year before the big one.
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HEROES
OLIVER
WILSON
He’s barely a birdie away from becoming a household
name, but on the eve of The Open he still managed
to find time for a few holes with The Red Bulletin
Words: Scott Murray
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42
So this chap called Steve, a Kent-based businessman
and weekend hacker, is striding down the 13th fairway
of the Jack Nicklaus-designed course at the London
Golf Club with a spring in his step. The 15-handicapper
has just creamed a drive straight down the middle;
a simple wedge into the heart of the green, surely
no problem for a man riding high on confidence,
is almost certain to set him up for an easy birdie.
The majority of golf, however, is played in the
head, and a player’s mental equilibrium can be
easily unbalanced by the least little thing. And
as Steve bounds down the hole after his booming
drive, your faithful Red Bulletin reporter decides
to engage him in a spot of small talk.
“So, I overheard you telling your caddy that you
support Liverpool?” is Red Bulletin’s opening gambit.
“Yep,” smiles Steve.
“Did pretty well last season to come second in
the league,” opines Red Bulletin.
Steve nods.
“Shame about all those dropped points at home,”
adds your faithful reporter. “Cost you the title.”
Steve emits a low grunt. His pace slows a tad as
his shoulders tense up slightly. He is not smiling now.
“Yeah, those games against Stoke, Wigan, Hull,
Fulham, West Ham,” continues Red Bulletin. “You’ve
gotta be winning those matches.”
Steve reflects on this theory, furrows his brow,
pulls his wedge from his bag with some force – and
duffs his attempted chip to the green. The ball, which
should have travelled approximately 80yds, rolls
apologetically along the ground for less than eight.
“You wonder whether that’s their best chance
of the title gone for good, because Chelsea aren’t
going to be as bad again next year,” continues
Red Bulletin blithely, before spotting that this
most genial of men now has knots in his shoulders
the size of Titleist Pro V1s.
Red Bulletin decides it might be best to leave it.
But it’s too late: the damage has already been done.
Agitated, Steve duffs another chip a few yards up
the road, then thins a third straight through the
green into the deep rough behind. In between those
two particular efforts, Red Bulletin is shot a glance.
If looks could kill… in fact they sort of do, a little
piece within Red Bulletin quietly dying of shame.
Still, luckily for Steve, this is a team game today:
he’s playing in a fourball, the best score going
on the card. And among his group is none other
than Oliver Wilson: at 28 one of England’s most
promising professionals, fifth on the European
money list, and the man who beat world number
two Phil Mickelson in last year’s Ryder Cup.
So while Steve has been forced to embark on
a harrowing journey into the dark heart of the
soul, Wilson has been efficiently carding a no-fuss
birdie for the team. “All’s well that ends well,”
chirps Red Bulletin, trotting after them both as
they make their way to the next tee.
Steve shoots Red Bulletin that look again.
The world of golf can be easily represented by
a basic two-set Venn diagram: in one set are the
professionals, neatly turned-out, fit men crashing
300yd-plus drives down fairways and raking
30ft putts into holes; in the other, the rest of us,
out-of-condition amateurs and Sunday hackers,
snap-hooking drives straight out of bounds, topping
irons into thickets, and taking five putts from 6ft.
These two sets – the pros and the hackers – exist
almost totally independently of each other. Once a
week, however, there’s a small overlap in the middle
as two worlds collide: the pro-am. Every event on
the professional circuit hosts one, a curtain-raiser
allowing the hoi polloi to rub shoulders with the
great and the good. And thanks to the handicap
system, all players from Tiger Woods to the dyspraxic
first-timer can – theoretically at least – compete
with each other on a level playing surface.
The competing ams come from all walks of life,
from local club members and business clients of the
tournament’s sponsors, to celebrities. For example,
this particular event, ahead of the 2009 European
PHOTOGRAPHY: ACTION IMAGES (1)
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44
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (7)
HEROES
Open, features boxing legend Henry Cooper, former
England footballer David Platt, the Sky Sports golf
presenter Di Stewart, and cantankerous Strictly
Come Dancing judge Len Goodman. Oh, and
Formula One world champion Lewis Hamilton, who
doesn’t drive like he, er, drives: the fastest man in
the world sends a shot pootling slowly up the first,
his ball sadly affected by levels of downforce that
would surely get him disqualified in a Grand Prix.
There are no big names in Wilson’s group, not
that he cares. “Pro-ams are good fun,” he says.
“Professional golf can be a bit of a bubble sometimes.
You only ever meet other golfers. So this way you
get to meet a lot of really cool and interesting
people from many different walks of life.”
And while the amateurs get their buzz from
playing with a world-class player, Wilson gets
something out of the arrangement too. “I get a good
practice round; normally you can’t play the course
the day before the tournament starts, unless you’re
in the pro-am. It forces me to concentrate properly;
I treat it like a proper tournament, so you get good
preparation for the main event.
“My goal out here is to see the course, try and
entertain the guys and make it as enjoyable for them
as possible. If they’re struggling, I’ll go and try to
help them; offer them a couple of tips. Usually I’ll be
able to sort something out for them, getting them
airborne if they’re nervous and having a shocker,
or fixing a minor problem with their swing if
they’re playing well but looking to hone their game.
Then they’ll hit a decent shot and they’re happy.
“Every now and then you’ll get someone who
hasn’t played for a year, and they find it tricky for
a couple of holes, but usually they have some ability,
so they pick it up and settle into it after a while. But
there’s no real pressure. There’s four of us: if they
have a bad hole they just pick up and move on to
the next hole. It works out alright usually.”
The laid-back Wilson is getting used to things
working out alright. After spending his formative
years learning his trade at Augusta State University,
the Mansfield-born golfer turned professional in
2003, shortly after playing in Great Britain &
Ireland’s victorious Walker Cup team (the amateur
equivalent of the Ryder Cup). After a few seasons
getting accustomed to life on tour, Wilson stepped
up a gear last year, four runner-up spots and three
more top-10 finishes helping him end the season
11th on the European money list. He also led last
year’s US Open at one point, then ended the season
by qualifying for the Ryder Cup at Valhalla, where
he slayed US poster boy Phil Mickelson in his
first-ever Ryder rubber.
“Beating Mickelson was massive,” he recalls. “It
gave me a lot of confidence. It was a really positive
experience for me, even though the team lost.” In
the pressure-cooker environment of the final day’s
singles, Wilson played brilliantly, carding four
birdies and dropping no shots whatsoever – yet still
lost 4&2, his opponent Boo Weekley enjoying the
mother of all hot streaks by making six birdies and
an eagle. Weekley, a back-to-basics Southerner
taken to galloping down the fairways using his
driver as a hobby horse, quickly became the homecrowd favourite, every shot greeted with screams
of “BOOOOO” or “BOO. S.A.!” Yet Wilson never
once buckled. “I played good in my singles game
against Boo,” reminisces Wilson with a wry smile,
“but he was about eight-under, so what can you
do? It was great, though. Obviously the crowd
were against me, but there wasn’t any nastiness,
they were just cheering for their man.”
Since then, it’s been more of the same for Wilson
in 2009, with another two second places so far this
season, along with two more top 10s. “His focus and
determination are second to none,” says his friend
and manager Robert Duck, a former professional
himself. “He’s got the desire, guts and mental
aptitude to be a world-class golfer. He’s a lovely guy,
but when he goes out on the course and gets down
to work, he has what it takes to get the job done.”
Wilson himself has stated his desire to “get to
the very top”, starting with this month’s Open
Championship at Turnberry. “I’m ready to put in a
good challenge at the Open,” he says. “I’ve struggled
in that particular tournament so far, partly because
the weather has been shocking over the last couple
of years. I wasn’t used to it, and was never able to
get into it. But I played in the recent Irish Open,
which gave me more experience in dreadful wind
and rain, and that’s given me a lot of confidence.”
Confidence is burgeoning back at the pro-am, too.
Steve has got over his minor nervous breakdown
and is finishing strongly with a birdie on 16 –
no doubt helped by a new approach from your
man from The Red Bulletin, who makes sure he’s
positioned at all times on the very opposite side of
the fairway. And the other two amateurs in Wilson’s
group are also enjoying themselves. Dermot,
a 12-handicapper, pars the last four holes, which
is one shot better over that run than Wilson, although
admittedly the pro uses his drive at the 18th as
a pre-tournament experiment to see if he can steal
an extra few yards with a risky route over water –
only to find the drink and decide better of it.
Meanwhile at the par-three 17th, the
19-handicapper Stuart finds a deep greenside
bunker – then splashes out brilliantly to 4ft.
“Great shot,” exclaims Wilson, a kind but genuine
response that plasters a wide grin across Stuart’s
face for the rest of the day.
The team end their round a collective sixunder-par. It’s not quite enough to trouble the
leaders of the pro-am, but then nobody really
cares; the experience was the main thing for
all concerned. Hands are warmly shaken and
photographs taken, before pro and ams withdraw
to their separate circles: Wilson to make his final
preparations for yet another tournament; Steve,
Dermot and Stuart to regale friends and family
with tales about their shots of the day. And
perhaps a choice word or two about that eejit
who wouldn’t shut up about the football.
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Action
Living the dream and daring to dream…
48 FROM NASCAR TO NOISIA 54 STREET BASEBALL
64 THE ASHES 68 ASHLEY FIOLEK
47
THE
DELICATE
SOUND
OF
THUNDER
Behold a NASCAR racer like none
you’ve ever imagined: a stormy brute
of a track machine converted into a
musical instrument… And it’s making
its debut at the spiritual home of
American racing: Indianapolis
Words: Herbert Völker
Photography: Jürgen Skarwan
48
ACTION
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T
his is a stock car. Well, it was once, anyway.
This car – if we can call it that – was originally
designed to lap US oval circuits at more than
220mph in an immensely popular racing series
that inspires loyalty and devotion in fans akin to
what we’re used to in the Premier League. But not any more:
this reworked racer produces unimaginable frequencies that
can unblock any train of thought. It can work magic – like
dope without the side-effects or blood trickling into a new part
of the brain. It creates sounds that are as new and wonderful
for the ears as a never-before-seen colour is for the eyes.
Only its tyres sound dull: drumming away on the rubber
produces only a joyless echo. But the suspension arms, to
take but one example, make for surprisingly good musical
instruments. They are huge lumps of iron – at least compared
to the delicate carbon-fibre equivalents used on F1 cars.
When former F1 driver Gerhard Berger visited the Red Bull
Racing factory in America two years ago, he playfully knocked
into one of these metal components hanging from the ceiling
and, lo, a sound rang out and an idea was born, resulting in
50
a racing car as work of art, which can make music. And it’s
great if you’ve got the right people on throttle-pedal and spoiler.
When first conceived, this musical monster was quietly
dubbed ‘steel band’ – appropriate enough with so much steel
and iron in its form, but ultimately misleading. A steel band
makes music using everyday items: bin lids, old metal pipes
and the like – scrap anyone could use to bang out a rhythm.
Sound modelling of the kind you can see here, however,
requires a rather different approach. At first glance, it’s
a metallic work of art: a self-contained car-part sculpture.
But it’s one with hidden musical talents; one that contains
six, seven or even eight instruments capable of creating
subtleties that extend deep into the science of sound.
Which brings us to the two musicians, Gernot Ursin and
Wolfgang Krsek, who, as well as creating this unique musical
object, also keep themselves busy working out how whales
talk to, insult and flirt with each other.
The two 43-year-olds, who live near Vienna, call themselves
Noisia and have been making music together since they were
teenagers. Self-confessed iconoclasts, they revel in setting their
1
NOTES ON THE
BEAT CAR
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2
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1 THE HI-END
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2 THE BULL’S NECK
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3 SCULPTURE INSTEAD
OF POWER
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7
4 POWER TUBES
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5 COCKPIT SEPARATOR
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6 CONSOLE, FRONT
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7 REAR PLATFORM
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8 SUSPENSION ARMS
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9 THE STRING WING
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51
ACTION
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own trends, refusing to bow to the music industry, shunning
CD releases and ignoring marketing to sell their success.
Their live performances, therefore, are rare and unique,
although they venture commercially into film scores,
documentary soundtracks and kitsch-free mood music. Where
conventional tunes end, Noisia have experimented further,
against standard tastes, yet their music isn’t hard on the brain.
It’s captivating, and full of surprising nuances and overtones.
But however determinedly radical Gernot and Wolfgang
like to believe themselves, nothing had prepared them for
their NASCAR adventure. It began with the delivery to Europe,
from the Charlotte-based Red Bull Racing NASCAR team, of
a chassis – Brian Vickers’ No 83 car. It was fully operational.
Well, almost: only the engine was missing, but that would be
sent along later. The trick would be to make a sculpture from
real, original NASCAR racing-car parts, and express the car’s
Red Bull Racing soul artistically. At the same time, it had to
be a mobile stage capable of creating the most amazing sounds.
The brief defied all engineering logic, as any racing car has
to be rigid. Getting it to resonate required the combined
52
imaginative power of an artist, a workman, a sound researcher
and a musician. Step forward Messrs Ursin and Krsek.
Now, all that remains of a once-handsome racing car is the
cockpit separator and front-wheel suspension; everything else
has been hacked away and rearranged. The manipulation of
obscure metal parts to create harmonious sound is one of
Noisia’s greatest skills; their dark arts lie in extreme welding
and high tension in their materials. The powerful thick ‘neck’
above the cockpit, made from fender sheeting, is the hub of the
sculpture and also its most important soundbox, along with the
driver’s area. Music is made by ‘playing’ the sculpture, with the
sounds being picked up by microphones and wired to a keyboard.
But what of the one obviously absent noise-creating component,
the throbbing heart of any NASCAR car – its engine? The more
our tuneful twins reshaped the original, the more they came to
realise its motor would be irrelevant. Without the V8 lump, the
front of the sculpture, made from exhaust pipes and manifolds,
leaves everything open. In this dramatic new context, the engine
could only ever have been the hunk of metal it really is. Besides,
an early plan to use the exhaust to create the ultimate trombone
ACTION
and organ sounds would have left the rest of the structure
having to deal with phenomenal vibrations (certainly nothing
as lovely as those The Beach Boys once eulogised).
Engine-free and horsepower-decoupled, however, it creates
a sound the Noisia boys swear by. (And it can still move, albeit
much more slowly than it once did, thanks to two electric
engines with rechargeable batteries stored under the cockpit.)
Like Brian Vickers’s No 83 car that roars around racetracks
in search of NASCAR glory, the BEAT CAR is truly an object
that has to be seen – and heard – to be believed. Its premiere
as musical and visual entertainment on the NASCAR stage is
pencilled in for July 26, at Indianapolis. It will appear both in
the fan area and on the revered Indy racetrack. After all the
technical and artistic challenges, all that’s left to do now is
give a public that’s truly spoiled when it comes to shows and
winning performances an experience they weren’t expecting.
The two-man, 10-instrument orchestra could also give a rendition
of The Star-Spangled Banner. (In fact, rumour has it, there’s
every chance this might actually happen…)
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THE AMERICA YOU CAN ’T HELP LOVING
THE NASCAR EXPERIENCE
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53
MORE THAN JUST
A GAME
Despite being one of the world’s poorest countries, the
Dominican Republic is a talent-cradle for some
of the hottest talents in US Major League Baseball – all
thanks to a street-craze sport known as vitilla
Words: Drew B Glazer Photography: Tara Darby
55
ACTION
T
hroughout this sprawl of
tenements, tangled power
lines hang like vines. Most
residents here, in one of
the capital Santo Domingo’s
poorest barrios, can’t afford electricity.
They grab what they can by splicing into
the mains lines – the resulting citywide
blackouts are legendary and frequent
in the Dominican Republic.
When I visit Villa Francia one night
in May, a DJ has found enough power for
his massive speakers to fill the area with
pulsing reggaetón. Several hundred people
are out and dancing – from noodly little
girls in tank tops to old men whose
wrinkled faces are hidden in the shade
of low-pulled baseball hats. But this isn’t
a dance party. The main event is a fiercely
competitive and uniquely Dominican
version of street baseball called vitilla, and
it’s about to begin. This asphalt pitch is
normally a busy junction, but tonight it’s
blocked to traffic with rocks and tyres.
The vitilla itself is the discarded
plastic top of a gallon watercooler bottle.
Good pitchers, like the trash-talking
hurler in tight jeans here, can fling the
plastic puck at great speeds, and when
they do, it buzzes towards the batter like
skeet. Some put such spin on the vitilla
that it drops over the plate like it’s
suddenly taken on water, or hooks to
the left as if pulled by a string.
The pitcher lifts his leg high, and
with a flick of the wrist, sidearms the
vitilla toward the batter – a man with
rosary beads, wielding a broomstick.
The vitilla soars on a level. But it
hangs over the plate just long enough
for the batter, a 27-year-old named
Carlos Sierra, to make good contact.
The sound of the wood striking plastic
is the clipped snap of a wishbone. By the
56
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58
way Sierra runs hard to first base, the
head-down charge of a bull, it’s clear
that this is anything but fun and games.
“This Carlos – he’s one of the best,”
a man wearing a tracksuit tells me as
he jabs an elbow into my ribs. He should
know. His name is Nelson Gerónimo,
and he’s one of the neighbourhood’s
dozen or so buscónes, or scouts. They’re
constantly looking to help elevate local
talent to lucrative Major League contracts,
for a cut, and are often the first contact
for professional scouts and agents. “Did
you see how hard he hit that? Did you
see how fast he swings?”
Exactly when this type of baseball
got started, and how it became a de
facto training programme for dozens
of penniless future stars, is hard to pin
down. But street folklorists I talked
to seem to agree it was sometime in
the 1970s, when these plastic caps
suddenly started popping up in the
rubbish. They made great baseballs
for the thousands of kids who couldn’t
afford hundred-dollar leather gloves
and bats, or even balls. “Up to then, we
used to decapitate one of our friend’s
sister’s dolls, pull the hair out, stuff
the hollow head with a cloth, and use
that as a ball,” Gerónimo tells me. The
47-year-old former player is leaning
with his hands on his knees, never
taking his eyes off the action.
Dominicans have played pelota, or
ball, for more than a century. Cuban
immigrants drawn to the Dominican
sugar industry brought the game with
them after learning it from American
sailors a few decades earlier. Baseball
has become by far the most dominant
sport in both Cuba and the Dominican
Republic. Unlike most places in Latin
America, Dominicans wouldn’t know
what to do with a football if it rolled
up and hit them on the foot.
“Everyone here put a ball and
glove in their crib instead of a baby
doll,” Gerónimo tells me.
Obsession has led to success. The
Dominican Republic has become the
go-to place for teams to find and sign
young talent. Nearly half of American
Minor League players are Dominican,
and some 90 players are playing at
an elite level in the Major League,
including some of America’s biggest
names (many of whom are now, sadly,
tainted by the seemingly neverending
steroid scandal): the hulking Red Sox
power-hitter David Ortiz; the swinging
savant Manny Ramirez, now on
suspension from the Dodgers; and ace
pitcher Pedro Martinez, whose rocketing
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fastball has turned some of the best batters
in the Majors into human windmills.
Poor American kids spend hours
honing their skills on the basketball
court, hoping it will lead to a professional
contract. Their chances are about as
good as getting chosen to fly the Space
Shuttle. But everyone here seems to
know someone who ascended from vitilla
to the Major Leagues.Like dozens of
other street ball players I talked to,
Carlos really expected to be one of them.
But now, here he is, showing me a trophy
from 1997 in his tiny but immaculate
apartment. It’s just upstairs from the
vitilla game. He lives there with his
wife, two young daughters and three
nieces and nephews, whom he supports.
“As long as I could walk, I played
vitilla and baseball,” says Carlos.
“Everyone wants to arrive at the day
when all the other kids see you on
television and see you as a hero.
Everyone hopes to play in the US.”
Hunger cut short Carlos’s dream
10 years ago. The way he tells the story,
he was one of the best hitters in Villa
Francia. But his family, like most others,
needed extra income. He quit school –
and baseball – to work at a corner shop
and sell empanadas on the street.
“People everywhere in the country
are trying to find a way to leave their
59
“FOR MANY, VITILLA
SERVES AS AN
EMOTIONAL ESCAPE
FROM HUNGER
AND POVERTY”
economic problems behind,” he says. And
for many, vitilla at the very least serves
as an emotional escape from nagging
hunger and poverty. Still, last year,
Carlos and his neighbourhood team
managed to make some money from
the game by beating hundreds of other
players in the first national vitilla
tournament, and walked away with
50,000 pesos, or about US$1,400 –
not to mention a little bit of glory.
“Wherever I go now, they call out
my name,” he says, scooping up his
daughter, who had her arms around his
legs. “I was at a mall far from here a few
months ago. And I heard someone say,
‘Is that the vitilla champion?’”
For some perspective, I rang an expert
on Dominican baseball – Professor Allan
M Klein of Northeastern University in
60
Boston, USA, who is working on his
fourth book on the subject.
“The Dominican Republic is the only
country I’ve run into where there’s zero
correlation between education and
opportunity, so baseball becomes a very
legitimate resource,” Klein says. “You
don’t go to school, because there’s no
point in going to school. I’ll tell a black
kid in a rough US neighbourhood, ‘I know
you want to go in the NBA, but you’d
be better served getting a bachelor’s
degree’, because we live in a country
with a relationship between education
and opportunity. But here, for a good
reason, baseball becomes a rational
response to an irrational problem.”
Beyond players, there’s an entire
baseball ecosystem that pervades the
Dominican Republic. It includes trainers,
scouts, agents, managers, coaches,
predators and parasites – all of whom
hope to win the lottery of latching onto
a successful prospect. Every Major
League team has an academy here now:
promising teenage prospects are plucked
from ghettos like Villa Francia, put in
dormitories, fed well, and trained into
moneymaking, wiry baseball machines.
It’s a rare opportunity, though maybe
the best, to climb out of poverty here.
My new friend Nelson, by many
accounts, is a benign force. He’s someone
who has channelled his love of the game,
not lust for money, into coaching
neighbourhood players and organising
vitilla tournaments, maybe helping one
of his kids become a millionaire – and
making a little scratch himself. Like
many people I spoke to, he swears that
ACTION
LIVING THE DREAM
From the Dominican streets to the green grass of America
ADDITONAL PHOTOGRPAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (3)
vitilla helps develop Major League skills.
He spends most afternoons and evenings
hunting around the city for good games.
“The vitilla is lateral, so it’s harder
to hit. It’s the best training for hand-eye
co-ordination. If you can hit a vitilla,
you can really hit a baseball,” he says.
In vitilla, like in the hard streets of
Santo Domingo, you adapt to the tough
terrain – or lose. So kids who move up
are masters on a tight lawn, deep green
and flat, where it’s easy to spot the ball.
And the gloves they are given make
the ball stick like Velcro, compared
to the bare hands they’ve used to stop
a speeding ball. And imagine the power
behind a solid maple bat, compared to
the splintered and skinny broomsticks…
I want to see the next level of play –
young teenage players with promise who
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61
“IN VITILLA, LIKE IN
THE HARD STREETS
OF SANTO DOMINGO,
YOU ADAPT TO THE
TOUGH TERRAIN”
62
ACTION
were plucked from street games and
informal neighbourhood leagues to train
in elite academies. So the next day,
I tag along with Luis Scheker, a baseball
scout based in Santo Domingo for the
Seattle Mariners. We’re driving east
to San Pedro de Macoris, a city about
an hour away, nicknamed the ‘cradle
of shortstops’ because it has produced
a fleet of players who have excelled at
baseball’s most athletic position. Along
the coast road, windswept coconut palms
are framed by a choppy grey sea.
“We’re getting more and more
interest from the Major Leagues to
find better talent,” he says chewing
a wad of tobacco, a habit he picked up
while playing for a Minor League team
in the US more than a decade ago.
“We prefer 16- and 17-year-olds, before
they develop their style. Sometimes
we visit as many as seven baseball
academies each day.”
T
oday, we’re headed to what
is called, in Spanglish, ‘un
showcase’. Dozens of pro
scouts like Scheker were
called by the manager of
a respected baseball academy to see his
new crop of players. Like a swarm of
mosquitoes, they buzz from showcase
to game, looking for fresh young blood.
By the time we arrive at the
crumbling arena, the sun is high and
hot, but players from Los Rookies
baseball academy, in immaculate white
uniforms, are showing the skills that
they’ve spent their young lives honing.
The owner of Los Rookies hands each
scout a roster listing prospects’ height,
weight, where they were raised, and
best attributes. The scouts pore over
every statistic. They wield stopwatches
and radar guns, measuring milliseconds
that, literally, could determine whether
a 15-year-old will become a millionaire.
“The time it takes for a Major League
player to field the ball, scoop it from his
glove and throw it is 2.1 seconds,” Scheker
tells me, looking up from his clipboard.
“I will only consider someone who can
do it faster.” Scheker doesn’t seem all
that interested in today’s showcase. With
a wad of tobacco bulging his cheek, he’s
looking everywhere but at the players.
It’s hard to tell if he’s unimpressed or
attempting a poker face to avoid tipping
off competing scouts. He won’t say.
One player caught my eye. He was
well over 6ft tall, with the taut posture
of a bamboo shoot. But while most of
the other players were darting around
in a manic fury, he relaxed placidly
on a bench in the shade. The stakes
were so high, but this young man,
Deion Sanders Herreria, was so calm.
“There’s no pressure here,” he assures
me. “God is watching me today.”
Maybe it’s the confidence that comes
with being named after fleet-footed
Major Leaguer Deion Sanders – who
also, incidentally, was an even better
professional American football player.
The Dominican Deion Sanders
plays baseball five hours a day, seven
days a week (more, probably, than the
American one ever did). To unwind on
most afternoons, he’ll play a pick-up
game of vitilla until dark. It’s clear that
he’s one of those who has gone all-in for
a shot at the Majors: he dropped out of
school years ago and refuses even to
consider the possibility that he might
not sign a Major League contract.
“You have to fight to get into
the Majors,” Deion says, allowing his
mouth to stretch into a smile for just
a fleeting moment. “Look at how
many players there are here.”
The director of Los Rookies calls
Deion’s name, and he sprints to his
place on top of the gently sloping
pitcher’s mound, hoping it’s just his
first stop to the top of the world.
As he stands on the sidelines taking
notes, I ask Scheker if he runs into many
kids like Deion – those who don’t have
a back-up plan. He spits and shakes his
head. “Most people are like that,” he
says. And he blames his entire country
for expecting too much from baseball
for too long. “Honestly, I think it’s
a sacrifice to society. More than
anything, these kids are identifying
with distant heroes – the successful
ones. And now, we Dominicans don’t
have anything else that we’re good at.”
But for now, all that matters is striking
the plastic vitilla with the broomstick
bat. Carlos’s team are vying for another
chance at glory in the Red Bull Classico
de Vitilla tournament that runs from
September 1-October 14. Tonight, they
want to prove they’re still up to the task.
Carlos is up to bat again. He takes
a few practice swings and blows a quick
kiss to his pudgy one-year-old daughter,
who’s in the crowd, dressed in pink.
The pitcher looks behind him, checking
the player on second base. He winds
up, and releases the vitilla.
Carlos swings hard. And when the
wishbone cracks again, he runs like
hell, as if he’s fleeing something.
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63
ACTION
A Secret
History
It’s all here: the turning points and best bits from
England’s epic 2005 Ashes win, plus the contest’s history and
statto-silencing trivia to keep you credible in the retelling
Words: Lawrence Booth
64
LUCK OF THE ENGLISH
Any long-suffering England
fan – the vast majority, then
– will tell you that the rub
of the green had been going
with Australia ever since
1989. Then, after lunch
on the first day of the third
Test at Old Trafford, Dame
Fortune performed one of
her nimble U-turns. England
had reached 110 for one
when Glenn McGrath found
the outside edge of Vaughan’s
bat… and Adam Gilchrist
helpfully tipped the catch
around the corner. Next ball,
McGrath uprooted Vaughan’s
off-stump, only to wince
as if he’d just been served
a warm beer at the sound
of Steve Bucknor’s cry of “no
ball”. Vaughan, in the 40s
at the time, eventually made
166, and when Australia
clung on for a tense draw,
they were now not thanking
luck, but another word
sounding rather like it.
WAS IT A BIRD…?
Australia couldn’t remember
what it was like to follow on.
One or two of their number
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (4), PA (2), REUTERS (1)
THE
ASHES
‘RIGHT!’ SAID FRED
When did England really
believe they could win the
2005 Ashes? Forgive the
precision, but it may have
been at the end of the 13th
over, after tea on the third
day of the second Test at
Edgbaston. Australia, chasing
a target of 282, had moved
easily to 47 without loss
when Michael Vaughan threw
the ball to Andrew Flintoff,
who had already made 68
and 73, and claimed three
first-innings wickets. It was
a mere hors d’oeuvre. First,
he bowled Justin Langer with
his second ball. Then, he
gave Australia captain Ricky
Ponting the kind of workingover that makes grown
men stare long and hard
in the mirror, having him
caught behind for a duck.
The crowd erupted – then
spent the rest of the match
on the edge of their seats.
England won by two runs.
ACTION
heard, except it was Flintoff,
embarking on one of the
great spells of Ashes bowling.
Having already snared
Ponting for 35, he removed
Damien Martyn for 10,
Matthew Hayden for 138,
Simon Katich for one and
Shane Warne for a duck, in
a Herculean spell of four for
30 in 14.2 overs. Amazingly,
England ended up with a sixrun first-innings lead. But
there was still work to do.
KP GOES NUTS
Usually, the period after
lunch is a bit like sleeptime at nursery school.
Everyone’s a little tired from
the morning’s show-and-tell,
and the egg and cress sarnies
are weighing heavily in the
had even forgotten the law
existed. Now, on the third
morning of the fourth Test in
Nottingham, they were 163
for seven in reply to England’s
477 and copies of Wisden
were being brandished
accusingly. Ever the chancer,
Gilchrist slashed at Flintoff,
then swivelled around to see
Andrew Strauss airborne
at second slip and leaping
leftwards like a salmon.
Miraculously the ball stuck.
All out for 218, Australia
did indeed follow on for the
first time since 1988-89, but
they then managed to give
England a fright as they
chased 129 for victory, with
the hosts in trouble at 57 for
four before limping home.
Without Strauss’s impression
of Superman, England might
not have made it at all.
THE 13TH LABOUR
OF HERCULES
To the fifth and final Test at
The Brit Oval, and England
needed only a draw to regain
the urn for the first time
since Mike Gatting could
still see his toes. But when
Australia reached 281 for
two in reply to England’s
373, south London looked
nervously to the skies for
salvation. Sure enough,
a distant rumble could be
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tummy. But on the last day
of the 2005 Ashes, Kevin
Pietersen said no to his packed
lunch when England tottered
into the break on 127 for
five. Two quick wickets,
and bragging rights would
be Australia’s once more.
Instead, Pietersen launched
a stupendous assault on
Brett Lee, plundering his first
three post-lunch overs for
a monumental 37. Australia
wilted, Pietersen finished
with 158, and a nation
took leave of its senses.
THE SECOND COMING
If there was a more popular
figure in England after the
Ashes triumph than Andrew
Flintoff, no one could name
him. Cricket, we were
65
ACTION
AIRMAIL TO
AUSTRALIA, PLEASE
Contrary to popular myth,
Fred’s team-mates did rather
more than water Tony Blair’s
flowerbeds at No 10 with
a liquid not usually found
in a watering can. For
a start, they became the first
‘identifiable’ people other
than the Royal Family to
appear on British stamps
(handily, they cost 68p
each – the price of a letter
to Australia). Vaughan, like
Sir Winston Churchill and
Nelson Mandela before him,
was granted the freedom
of Sheffield; Ashley Giles
became an honorary citizen
of Droitwich. Simon Jones
was chosen as the poster
boy for Jaeger’s menswear;
Strauss did a deal with
Heinz. Pietersen settled for
a £55,000 diamond pendant
from Burrells. Whether they
benefited the British economy
is another matter: trading on
the London Stock Market on
the last day of the series was
said to be 20 per cent down.
TYSON KNOCKS
OUT AUSTRALIA
Aside from 2005, what
of some of the earlier classic
Ashes contests? Most cricket
fans remember the time
England’s short-sighted but
66
‘WHEN TYSON EMERGED FROM
THE LAND OF NOD, THERE WAS
“A NEW LIGHT IN HIS EYES AS
IF A SPARK HAD BEEN KINDLED
DEEP DOWN INSIDE HIM”’
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rather rapid fast bowler
Devon Malcolm was felled
by a South African, only to
stagger back to his feet with
the words, “You guys are
history,” and proceed to bowl
England to victory with nine
for 57. But the original piece
of concussed fast-bowling
retaliation took place at
Sydney in December 1954,
after Northamptonshire fast
bowler Frank Tyson had been
knocked to the ground by
Australia’s Ray Lindwall.
Once Tyson – helmetless in
those days, remember –
emerged from the land of
nod, his captain, Len Hutton,
detected “a new light in his
eyes, as if a spark had been
kindled deep down inside
him”. Sure enough, Tyson
claimed six Australian
wickets as they were skittled
for 184 to lose by 38 runs.
‘LARWOOD CHEERED
DOWN UNDER’ SHOCK
Harold Larwood was the
Nottinghamshire miner bestknown for leading England’s
dastardly Bodyline attack
during the 1932-33 Ashes, and
taming Don Bradman, who
finished the series averaging
a mere 56 – loose change
for a man used to trading
in double-hundreds. You
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (3), ALLSPORT/HULTON (1), PA (1)
regularly assured, was the new
football, which presumably
made Flintoff the new David
Beckham. Actually, Fred
was more popular than
Goldenballs himself. A survey
by CoolBrands made him the
‘coolest celeb’ of 2005 and
nominated the Ashes win as
its ‘coolest moment’. Flintoff’s
recognition went from the
sublime to the ridiculous.
He was awarded the freedom
of Preston, which meant he
could legally drive a flock
of sheep through his home
town. He had an ice-cream
named after him – Freddie’s
Glory – complete with
patriotic St George’s cross.
Rumours that he only just
failed to turn water into
wine remain unconfirmed.
ACTION
might have thought that the
Australians regarded Larwood
as the devil’s spawn for
following the orders of his
snobbish upper-class captain
Douglas Jardine and banging
in short ball after short ball
at the bodies of the batsmen.
But their ingrained love of
a battler expressed itself
the day Larwood hit 98 as
nightwatchman in the fifth
and final Test at Sydney to
help set up England’s eightwicket win. Walking off
after falling two short of
what would have been his
only Test 100, he was
applauded all the way to the
pavilion. When the selectors
rewarded him for his hard
work by, er, never picking
him again, Larwood emigrated
to Australia, where he
eventually died a surprisingly
popular man in 1995.
THAT OTHER
INNINGS IN ’81…
Every English schoolboy
knows about Ian Botham’s
149 not out at Headingley in
1981, and plenty of them
claim to have been there. But
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‘BOTHAM’S
SIX SIXES
REMAINED
A RECORD
IN A SINGLE
ASHES
INNINGS
UNTIL KP
TRUMPED
HIM WITH
SEVEN IN
2005’
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the only downside about an
innings that still causes Allan
Border and Dennis Lillee to
wake up in the middle of the
night sweating furiously, was
that it relegated a far better
knock to the shadows. Two
Tests later, at Old Trafford,
Botham smashed 118 off 102
balls, provoking The Times to
ask – in no way hyperbolically
– whether he had just played
the greatest innings of all
time. Botham’s six sixes
remained a record in a single
Ashes innings until Pietersen
trumped him with seven in
2005. But perhaps not even
KP could have humiliated the
great Lillee, as Botham did, by
forcing him to take evasive
action as a straight drive for
six whistled over his head.
Worth a DVD all by itself.
WAS BRADMAN A CHEAT?
Don Bradman was the world’s
greatest-ever cricketer and
probably the world’s greatestever sportsman. Quite frankly,
England were stuffed – and
that was when everything
went their way. When things
didn’t go their way, well,
life ceased to be a laughing
matter. In the first Ashes Test
after World War II, Bradman’s
status as God’s right-hand man
was starting to be questioned.
His health and form were
poor, and England arrived
down under hopeful of
respite. Then, on the first
morning in Brisbane, it
happened. With Australia
already in some trouble,
Bradman appeared to be
caught by Jack Ikin at
second slip from the bowling
of England captain Wally
Hammond when he had 28.
The bowler appealed. The
umpire shook his head.
England fumed. “A fine
bloody way to start a series,”
seethed Hammond. Bradman
felt so guilty that he went
on to make 187 and England
went on to lose 3-0. So much
for the good old days…
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67
ACTION
The
Lady
is a
Champ
Meet Ashley Fiolek,
unassuming inspiration to
millions and mischievous
new poster child of a
traditionally male sport.
And she’s profoundly deaf
Words: Gretel C Kovach
Photography: Valerie Phillips
68
69
ACTION
T
hey should know better, but even major
sportswriters do a double-take when they
see the life-size blow-up of Transworld
Motocross magazine propped in Ashley
Fiolek’s training room. No, the reigning
US women’s champion, the first female
motorcycle racer to grace the cover of the
States’ MX bible, is not the blonde babe in the Santa Claus
bikini adorning the masthead of the December 2008 issue.
Fiolek is the other blonde, in the large action shot, tearing
it up on the 250cc Honda with the number one between the
handlebars, mud flying off her boots from deep in a turn as
she stares intently from behind her goggles at the path ahead.
A spray of long flaxen hair escaping from the rider’s helmet
and hot pink accents on her gear are the only hints that an
18-year-old wünderkind from Florida who took the Women’s
Motocross Association title in her rookie year as a pro is the
new feminine face of this oh-so-macho sport. What’s more,
Fiolek earned the highest compliment in US motocross, the
title of Fastest Female, without being able to hear the roar
of her engine or the approach of her competitors on the track.
Despite the added challenge of being born profoundly deaf,
winning the 2008 national championship appears to be just the
beginning for Fiolek, and women’s motocross, as she races ahead.
In the last year, Fiolek was one of the first group of women
invited to participate in the Summer X Games motocross
competition, and she became the first woman to be hired by
a factory team, the Honda Red Bull riders. With a lucrative salary
and sponsors from other major companies like T-Mobile, Fiolek’s
years of hard work are paying off into a viable career – a feat
matched in the US by only a handful of elite racers.
Fiolek shot out of the 2009 WMA racing season in the lead
and held her position through the early rounds. She took first
overall in round one, on May 23, at Glen Helen Raceway in
San Bernadino, California, and followed with three more
wins, including a perfect sweep of the day’s races at High Point
Raceway, Pennsylvania, on June 13. Miki Keller, who founded
the WMA in 2004, says that the current season will most
likely be the most competitive in the short history of women’s
motocross. “The stakes are higher. The women want it,” he says.
Their audience is getting bigger as well, thanks in no small
part to Fiolek, who has earned the respect of motocross racers
and fans by using the spotlight to promote the sport. But that
hasn’t tempered her passion for making competitors eat her dirt
on the track. She took to motocross because it offered her the
opportunity “to be able to ride, to feel free”, she says in sign
language as her mother, Roni Fiolek, interprets. Winning helped
too. “I just kept advancing since I was a little girl, and I fell in
love with it. I’m very competitive,” she adds, smiling sweetly.
Even when there’s no trophy at stake and no adrenaline-tinged
taste of a potential win on her lips, Fiolek is clearly savouring
every minute. On a sunny afternoon, she took a spin on a small
pit bike around her family’s backyard track, at their spread near
St Augustine, Florida. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt without
helmet, the motorcycle appears to be an extension of her body.
She commands it with a slight shift of weight or tilt of her
head, her thighs absorbing the shock of each return to earth
in synchronicity with the machine’s suspension. Fiolek knows
this track so well, she could probably run it blindfolded.
She launches off a tabletop jump, sand spitting from her
back wheel, and then throttles out of a deeply rutted turn. She
chugs around, standing on the footpegs, then circles around
71
ACTION
and around in the sand, digging deeper under a cloud of
exhaust until she grows dizzy, laughs at herself, and pops
a wheelie on the way back to the front porch.
Later, the Fiolek family’s live-in mechanic, Cody Wolf,
summed up the secret of her success. “She rides it just like
a boy,” he says. “No offence, but some girls just don’t look
comfortable.” He signs the words to her as he speaks,
explaining what he means: “You ride the motorcycle; the
motorcycle doesn’t ride you.” She nods. But with Ashley
Fiolek on the bike, riding like a girl in women’s professional
motocross has taken on a whole new meaning.
F
iolek’s natural form is a reflection of experience – she
started riding motorcycles at about the same time as she
learned to walk. At first, she was propped near the handlebars
while her father, Jim Fiolek, steered, and mum followed on
a four-wheeler. She got her own motorcycle at the age of
three, complete with training wheels, and began racing
at seven, competing against the boys until they outgrew
her petite 5ft 2in (159cm), 50kg frame.
The Fioleks could tell Ashley was different from other
children, but that never stopped them from encouraging her
to become a motorcycle racer. As a baby, Ashley wouldn’t
flinch at loud noises, but they soon realised that she wasn’t
mentally disabled like the doctors first suggested. In fact,
Ashley is so profoundly deaf that she would hardly hear
a jet engine if she were standing next to it.
The Fioleks moved to Florida in 1998, when Ashley was
still in her early years of schooling, so that she could attend
72
the Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind, but refused
to treat her as if she had a disability. When other parents
wouldn’t let their deaf children have driver’s licences, Roni
Fiolek rolled her eyes. She loved seeing her once-clingy little
girl find her stride. “She was always real shy at first. But when
she started riding she became a different person. You could
see her confidence grow,” she says.
She learned to shift gears by the crescendo of vibration
from the engine. To this day, she occasionally slams it into
neutral by accident, an error that has sent her flying over the
handlebars. On the track, she must hold her line until she is
certain that no one is in her path, looking for their shadows
or messages from her mechanic flashed on a board from the
pit. Fiolek makes it look easy, but Sarah Whitmore, her close
friend and fellow pro racer, knows better.
“She’s an inspiration,” Whitmore says. “I don’t know how
she does it. It’s amazing that she feels her bike and knows
when to shift instead of listening for it like everyone else does.”
Astonishingly, her disability has only once caused a crash
she might otherwise have avoided, when she lost sight of a boy
she was racing and started to exit the track. She found him
when he came crashing down on her after a jump, bending her
handlebars and battering her arm. But the advantages of being
deaf have outweighed the drawbacks during competition.
“They can’t come up behind her and rev their engines to scare
her, because she doesn’t hear it. And she doesn’t hear other
people say, ‘You can’t do this or you can’t do that because you’re
a girl,’” her father says. “We make sure she doesn’t hear that.”
Fiolek was just 13 years old in 2004 when she won the most
prestigious US amateur motocross championship, at country
singer Loretta Lynn’s Tennessee Ranch, and was named America
“I THOUGHT
IT
“SHE WAS
REAL SHY
WOULD
BE
SO
COOL
AT FIRST. BUT WHEN
TO HAVE RIDING
A GIRL
SHE STARTED
WHO
COULD
SURF,
SHE
BECAME
A
JUST
LIKE
THE
BOYS”
DIFFERENT PERSON”
ACTION
“I’M ALWAYS DOING
SOMETHING STUPID
BEFORE THE
RACE, TRYING TO
STAY CALM”
Motorcycle Association (AMA) Youth Motocrosser of the Year.
She went on to win 12 more amateur titles before turning pro.
She’s found mischievous ways of dealing with the pressure
that comes after years at the top of her discipline, settling her
nerves with pranks before a race, like stealing a rival’s helmet.
During last year’s national series, Fiolek, or ‘Rude Pea’ as she’s
been known since childhood, grabbed her five-year-old brother
Kicker’s bicycle and rode it down a 30m jump, her knees
knocking against the handlebars as the tiny wheels spun
out of control and she crash-landed in a bleeding heap at the
bottom, laughing. “I’m always doing something stupid before
the race, trying to stay calm,” she says. Two days later, still
wounded from gravel embedded in her skin, she won the
national cup, beating five-time champion Jessica Patterson.
Under the stewardship of MX Sports, which acquired the WMA
National Championship earlier this year, the women’s motocross
series finally ended its hand-to-mouth existence when it was
fully integrated into the AMA Pro Motocross Championship.
“The girls worked harder all the time to prove that it’s not all
just for fun, to show the sponsors we were serious,” Fiolek says.
“It’s a man’s sport” – but, at last, it’s paying off for women.
Miki Keller says that Fiolek was a major force in expanding
those opportunities. “Her dedication to racing, her work ethic
and her results, combined with her tremendous PR, knocked
down that wall. She broke down that barrier where there
hadn’t been a woman on a factory team. Now, we’re hoping
that it opens doors for the rest of the riders.”
Fiolek remains a woman in perpetual motion. Her fitness
trainer is helping her get stronger so that one day she might
become the first woman to qualify to race against the men in
the pros. Meanwhile, an international posse of women racers
is keeping her busy. In the opening round of the FIM Women’s
World Championship, in Bulgaria in April, Fiolek took third,
despite competing on a borrowed bike and coping with the
effects of a seven-hour time difference between the United
States and Europe. It was a result that left her “pumped”.
W
hen we meet, Fiolek is back in the States for the first
US race of the 2009 season for the Honda Red Bull Racing
team in the AMA Pro Motocross Championship, on May 23 at
the Glen Helen track in San Bernardino, California. Last year,
she was the class of the field, but Fiolek isn’t looking back to
last year’s championship win – she’s too busy getting faster.
Fiolek is known for shooting first out of the gate to seize the
holeshot. But she is always looking ahead to the next bend in
the road, because it’s the turns where you win or lose, she says.
As for her career, there seems to be no stopping her. Fiolek
suited up and hit a private track near her Florida home one
morning for a pre-season workout that went like this: launch
15m off a jump, circle around the track past a haunted old
motorcycle shack, gun it in a turn and pivot around a pond,
body leaning almost horizontally, narrowly missing a stand
of pine trees. Repeat without stopping, lap after lap.
Twenty minutes later, Fiolek pulled over to catch her breath
as heat radiated from the burning engine. “I feel fast; good,”
she told Wolf, signing the words. “I think this is the fastest I’ve
ever ridden.” Given her track record, probably not for long.
;`jZfm\idfi\f]=`fc\bËjnfic[Xknnn%Xj_c\p]`fc\b%Zfd
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:_Xdg`fej_`gXknnn%dfkfZifjjdo(%Zfd
75
UNLEASH HELL
THE NEW
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ODYSSEY
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© 2009 Callaway Golf Company. Callaway Golf, Big Bertha, Big Bertha Diablo, the Chevron Device, Odyssey,
#1 Putter in Golf and White Hot XG are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Callaway Golf Company.
*Requires purchase of a Big Bertha Diablo Driver from participating authorised Callaway Golf Preferred Retailers.
Only on selected Odyssey WH XG Models. Redeemable at point of purchase only; 26/05/09 - 12 /07/09; subject
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WHEN YOU BUY A
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DIABLO DRIVER
The refreshing health drink.
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A REFRESHING BOTTLE
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Enjoy Carpe Diem Kombucha any time of day – you could even make it a daily
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Stimulates metabolism, promotes digestion, purifies skin, detoxifies & revives,
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More Body
& Mind
Everything you can’t afford to miss this month
78 HANGAR-7 INTERVIEW 80 GET THE GEAR 82 TOP GOLF COURSES 84 LISTINGS
88 NIGHTLIFE 94 BULL’S EYE 96 SHORT STORY 98 MIND’S EYE
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MORE BODY & MIND
The Hangar-7 Interview
Eugene Laverty
Eugene Laverty looks like the proverbial
kid in a sweet shop. He strolls around
Hangar-7, at Salzburg airport, in silent
admiration, gazing at the jets, biplanes
and supercars with the look of that
sweet-toothed child left to contemplate
a counter of sugary bonbons. Not that the
23-year-old from Toomebridge in Antrim is
a stranger to speedy technology as a rising
star of motorcycle racing and a contender
for this year’s World Supersport title. But
when he spots the Toro Rosso Formula
One car that Sebastian Vettel piloted to
victory in last year’s Italian Grand Prix, he
lets out a low whistle. “I’d love to take that
out right now,” he says with a mischievous
grin, “and drive it down the runway a few
times.” He looks up hopefully. “Just open
the gate and let me go.” Maybe later,
young man. But, first, some questions…
So, the F1 cars caught your attention…
Every time I see a Formula One car, it
takes my breath away. They have a big
impact on what we do. F1 technology –
the electronics in particular – always
drips down into bike racing.
You’re pretty fast yourself – and in the
hunt for the World Supersport title…
Well, I’ve won three of the first seven
races this season. It’s between me and
one other rider, Cal Crutchlow. [Pauses]
We’ll see. It will be tight.
You come from a motorcycling family.
Your dad was a road racer, and your
two elder brothers are in the sport…
I was three when [brothers] Michael and
John put me on a motorbike, a little
motocross thing. I was still riding a
bicycle with stabilisers at the time. They
paved my way, really. They went into
racing before me. By the time I got on
a bike, they’d done three seasons. That
helped. When I started, people kept
an eye on me. I got opportunities early.
You’ve rather jumped ahead of your
brothers since. Is there much rivalry?
None at all. Michael is actually joining
me in World Supersport for the second
half of the season. That’s great. He could
be standing on the rostrum next to me.
And he’ll be on a similar level of bike,
so I’ll use him almost like a team-mate,
as someone to bounce ideas off.
78
You could have used a track friend
in June at the American round of
the championship. You had a last-lap
clash with another rider that could
have been nasty, didn’t you?
Yeah. I’d led all race and there were
only a couple of corners left. It wasn’t
a passing place. He [Ten Kate Honda
rider Kenan Sofuoglu] was out of
control. There’s no way he’d have
stayed on if he hadn’t hit me. It wasn’t
a fair manoeuvre. I’ll get him back…
Really? How?
Well, nothing outside the rules. More
of a warning – if you try something
like that, I’ll hit you back twice as hard.
Sounds like things get fraught. Can
you leave these battles on the track?
I’m fine after a race. The main thing
in America was that I finished second,
and the championship leader third, so
I closed on him. I take the positives.
You managed to stay on the bike
that time. What’s your worst crash?
I had a bad one pre-season in 2004.
An inexperienced rider took my line
into a corner. I hit him and took us
both down. My right boot got caught
under my footrest with the weight of
both bikes and the other guy on top. We
slid into the gravel. When I got up, blood
was spurting out of my foot and up past
my waist, like a scene in Kill Bill.
What was the damage?
I’d ground away the top of two toes.
They repaired pretty well.
Crikey. Have you ever thought you
were going to die on the track?
In my second year of racing when I didn’t
have a good understanding of the bike
and lost it into the first corner at Brands
Hatch. I hit the lip of the gravel trap
with both ankles. That flipped me and
sent me cartwheeling. As I was bouncing
from head to feet, I was thinking,
‘Something’s going to go wrong here.’
But you walked away…
Not really. I could have broken my neck.
As it was, I damaged ligaments in both
ankles. I couldn’t walk for two weeks.
That was OK. It meant I was off school.
Do you need fear to be a good rider?
Definitely, although it’s more about
having a wise head. There are guys
I race with who have no fear. And with
that comes a lack of common sense.
Talking of wise heads, your sporting
hero is Lance Armstrong…
An exceptional character. His dedication
and determination are second to none.
How about heroes in your own sport?
It’s impossible not to admire Valentino
Rossi. He’s been at the top for so long
that it’s hard to see what motivates
him – yet he keeps winning.
Presumably you’d like a crack
at MotoGP yourself…
Of course, but only on a competitive
ride. If, in five years, I’ve been in MotoGP
for a while but I’m not getting a chance
on a top bike, I’ll move on. Winning is
what counts. If I win the World Supersport,
I could be in World Superbike next
year. I think that’s realistic.
Lastly – you’re 23, you travel the
globe and you ride bikes for a living.
Do you have the best job in the world?
Yeah. It definitely beats nine-to-five.
=fccfn<l^\e\Xj_\Ycf^j_`jnXpk_ifl^_
k_\j\XjfeXknnn%\l^\e\cXm\ikp%Zfd
WORDS: CHRIS LEADBEATER. PORTRAIT: PHILIPP HORAK. ADDITIONAL PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (1)
A wizard on two wheels talks speed, power
and revenge among one of the world’s best
collections of dream machines
‘There are guys
I race with who
have no fear.
And with that
comes a lack of
common sense’
Get the Gear
Smooth Ride
It’s Tour de France time: here’s how to ape your two-wheel
heroes, with a little more style
COMPILED BY: TOM HALL. PHOTOGRAPHY: KINGSLEY BARKER
:cfZbn`j\]ifdkfgi`^_k1
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80
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81
MORE BODY & MIND
Open
Invitation
Most classic sporting venues are out of bounds to the average
punter, but golf is a wonderful exception to the rule
+8`cjX:flij\#KlieY\iip
The course used for this year’s Open is,
without question, the most picturesque
on the current rota – and that’s some
feat, considering most of it was under
concrete and used as an airfield during
World War II. The Turnberry Hotel
stands proudly on a hill, looking down
on the links and across to views of Mull
of Kintyre, the Ailsa Craig rock and the
famous Turnberry lighthouse. Some
holes run right along the beach and
are extremely exposed to the elements.
Rates are cheaper if you stay at the hotel
– £170 for a round rather than £210 –
and you get preferential tee times%
Turnberry, Ayrshire, KA26 9LT
www.turnberry.co.uk
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If you fancy following in the footsteps of
Tiger, Padraig and Sergio at this year’s
Turnberry Open, there’s nothing stopping
you – as long as you’ve got a handicap
certificate, and you’re not wearing a T-shirt
or jeans, of course. Oh, and take that cap off
before you go into the clubhouse – you can’t
drink in the spikes bar looking like that…
(K_\Fc[:flij\#IfpXcKiffe
Troon boasts the longest and shortest
holes on the Open rota: the 599yd sixth,
and the world-famous 123yd eighth, the
Postage Stamp. The hole gets its name
as a result of the miniscule size of the
green. Americans should be confident
of posting a good round; US players have
won all six Opens held here since 1962.
A round is £160 on Monday, Tuesday or
Thursday; £175 on a Sunday. Handicap
minimum: 20 (men); 30 (ladies).
Troon, KA10 6EP
www.royaltroon.co.uk
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The Old Course is oldest in the world at
600 years of age, and has hosted a record
27 Opens. It’s not particularly long,
and its barren vista looks benign, but
appearances are deceptive: woe betide
82
anyone who finds one of its infamously
deep bunkers. Demand is high, but you
can turn up and take your chances in a
daily ballot for the next day’s play. Your
best bet is to call the reservations office
on 01334 466666 for more details. The
course is closed on Sundays (when the
place effectively turns into a public park).
Minimum handicap: 24 (men); 36 (ladies).
St Andrews, Fife, KY16 9JB
www.standrews.org.uk
*K_\:_Xdg`fej_`g
:flij\#:Xiefljk`\
The scene of probably the biggest
meltdown in golfing history when, in
the 1999 Open, Jean van de Velde stood
on the final tee with a three-shot lead –
and ended up taking a triple-bogey seven,
at one point standing in the snaking
Barry Burn with his trousers rolled
up to his knees, wondering whether
to play the ball he’d just plopped into
the drink. There’s no more dramatic
hole in championship golf, and you can
test your own nerve on it. The round
costs £130 and online booking is easy.
Handicap minimum: 28 (men); 36 (ladies).
Carnoustie, Angus, DD7 7JF
www.carnoustiegolflinks.co.uk
St Andrews may boast the oldest
course in the world, but Muirfield is
home to the oldest golf club – a club, in
this case, being a collection of people.
The Honourable Company of Edinburgh
Golfers started out in 1744 and ended
up here after building Muirfield in
1891. The course is super-sandy, as it’s
balanced atop a reclaimed beach. When
Nick Faldo won the Open here in 1987,
he shot 18 consecutive pars in the final
round. Good luck trying to match that,
though you can try on Tuesdays and
Thursdays, 18 attempts at par costing
£175, while 36 will set you back £220.
Minimum handicap: 18 (men); 24 (ladies).
Muirfield, Gullane, East Lothian, EH31 2EG
www.muirfield.org.uk
-IfpXcCpk_XdJk8ee\j
Another famous short hole here: Lytham
is the only course on the Open rota to
start with a par three, though at 206yd
from the back tee, it’s far from easy. Ian
Woosnam did birdie the hole at the start
of his final round at the 2001 Open, only
to discover on the second tee that his
caddie had put too many clubs in his
bag, incurring a penalty. Eighteen holes
on a summer weekday will cost you
£137, which includes lunch. Handicap
minimum: 21 (men); 30 (ladies).
Lytham St Annes, Lancs, FY8 3LQ
www.royallytham.org
.IfpXc9`ib[Xc\
At seaside links, players are often tested
by high winds from the sea. No course
throws up a harder test than Birkdale,
though: uniquely for a course on the
Open rota, no two holes face exactly the
same way, meaning players struggle to
get used to the direction of any given
tempest. You’d have thought that bad
WORDS: SCOTT MURRAY. PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (7), CORBIS (3), ACTION IMAGES (1), RED BULL PHOTO FILES (1)
,Dl`i]`\c[
MORE BODY & MIND
weather would be an advantage for any
local player, but no British golfer has won
the Open here. In summer, a round at
Birkdale is £165 in the week and £195
on Sundays, but Saturdays, Tuesday
mornings and Friday afternoons are out
of bounds for non-members. Tee times
can be arranged by directing a letter, fax,
email or phone call to the club secretary.
Handicap minimum: 28 (men); 36 (ladies).
Southport, Merseyside, PR8 2LX
www.royalbirkdale.com
/IfpXcC`m\igffc
Only the North Devon Golf Club at
Westward Ho! is an older English seaside
links than Royal Liverpool, or Hoylake
as it’s usually known. The old-school
design of the course means there’s
plenty of room to spray it around with
your driver, but then, why would you
want to? When Tiger Woods won the
2006 Open here, he only took his big
stick out of the bag once in 72 holes.
A high-season single round costs £200.
Handicap minimum: 21 (men); 32 (ladies).
Hoylake, Wirral, CH47 4AL
www.royal-liverpool-golf.com
*
)
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+
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If Royal St George’s – aka Sandwich –
was good enough for James Bond in
Ian Fleming’s novel Goldfinger, it should
be good enough for you. But beware: it’s
tight and may leave you shaken rather
than stirred. This may explain why all
players have to have a minimum handicap
of 18. A round costs £140; a day pass
£180. Get on the phone in advance – and
if you want a caddie, give a week’s notice.
Sandwich, Kent, CT13 9PB
www.royalstgeorges.com
.
/
(';leclZ\C`ebj#IfpXcGfikilj_
0
Royal Portrush is not, unlike the previous
nine courses, on the current Open rota,
having only been used once when, in
1951, it became the only venue outside
Scotland and England to host the famous
championship. But it’s nevertheless
a must-play: recognised as one of the
greatest courses in the world, it’s worth
tackling to experience the outrageous
14th hole, known as Calamity Corner.
A 210yd par three, players have to find
a green at the far end of a gaping chasm;
if you’ve ever wanted to know what
playing on the moon is like, this is
probably the nearest you’ll ever get.
It costs £125 for a round and an extra
£60 if you want to play twice. Handicap
minimum: 18 (men); 24 (ladies).
Portrush, Co Antrim, BT56 8JQ
www.royalportrushgolfclub.com
83
MORE BODY & MIND
HOT
SPOTS
PHOTOGRAPHY: JIMMY WILSON/RED BULL PHOTOFILES (1), GETTY IMAGES (1), MARKUS BERGER/RED BULL PHOTOFILES(1), CRAIG KOLESKY/RED BULL PHOTOFILES (1)
It’s the height of summer, and
this month is really cooking
26 TRIX
10 – 11.07.09
ENNSTAL CLASSIC
15 – 18.07.09
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BKSA FREESTYLE
KITESURF
10 – 12.07.09
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BRITISH ENDURO
CHAMPIONSHIP
11 – 12.07.09
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kifg_`\jXjn\ccXjXefm\iXcc
gi`q\Xkk_\\e[f]k_\j\Xjfe%
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ADAC MX MASTERS
11 – 12.07.09
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fe\n_\i\>\idXeDXoEX^c
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FORMULA ONE GERMAN
GRAND PRIX
12.07.09
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84
SUMMER X GAMES
30.07 – 02.08.09
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FIA FORMULA 2
CHAMPIONSHIP
17 – 19.07.09
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RED BULL PRO
NATIONALS
18 – 19.07.09
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PIKES PEAK HILLCLIMB
18 – 20.07.09
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US OPEN OF SURFING
18 – 26.07.09
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RIDE WITH ROCZEN
15.07 – 31.08.09
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MORE BODY & MIND
RED BULL X-ALPS
19.07 – 10.08.09
SECOND ASHES TEST
16 – 20.07.09
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Xcjf^\kkfbefnfk_\ijbXk\ij
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RED BULL MOTOGP
ROOKIES CUP
25.07.09
WRC RALLY FINLAND
31.07 – 02.08.09
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UCI MOUNTAIN
BIKE WORLD CUP
25 – 26.07.09
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RED BULL CITY
BEACH JAM
26.07.09
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NASCAR SPRINT CUP
26.07.09
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RED BULL LORD
OF THE STREET
31.07.09
CHRIS PFEIFFER IN
KOSOVO
26.07.09
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COS CUP SERIES
31.07 – 02.08.09
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RED BULL STREET
STYLE DELHI
01.08.09
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MAZDA LONDON
TRIATHLON
'1 – 02.08.09
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RED BULL SK8 MISSION
03 – 06.08.09
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NIGHT
SPOTS
Summer’s not just
about sunshine: it’s
one big party from
sunset to sunrise
THE GARDEN FESTIVAL
03 – 12.07.09
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PHOTOGRAPHY: JAMES PEARSON-HOWES (1), GETTY IMAGES (1), LUISA FERREIRA (1), DIETER WUSCHANSKI (1)
MONTREUX JAZZ
FESTIVAL 2009
03 – 18.07.09
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KILLA KELA
08.07.09
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RED BULL MUSIC
ACADEMY WEEK
08 - 12.07.09
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TRÆNA FESTIVAL WITH
WHITEST BOY ALIVE
09 – 11.07.09
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EXIT FESTIVAL
09 – 12.07.09
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MORE BODY & MIND
MYSTERY JETS
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SPLASH! FESTIVAL
10.07.09
LOOP 3.0
10 – 12.07.09
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LEON WARE
10.07.09
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SINDEN
10.07.09
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GRANDMASTER
FLASH @ POOLBAR
FESTIVAL
10.07.09
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DISCONAUTICA
FESTIVAL
10 - 11.07.09
CANNES
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RED BULL MUSIC
ACADEMY STAGE @
OXEGEN 2009
10 – 12.07.09
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DAEDALUS
11.07.09
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BONOBO
12.07.09
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FEST VAN CLEEF
12.07.09
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SANTIGOLD
13.07.09
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87
MORE BODY & MIND
Party time
Cinema
Paradise
FILM
FESTIVAL
CANNES
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PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (6)
For 12 days every year, the Cannes Film Festival is the
world’s party centre: the benchmark for the French Riviera.
Our man in Cannes, Chris Sullivan, had AAA passes
RED BULL X-FIGHTERS
MADRID
16 – 17.07.09
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DOUR FESTIVAL
16 – 19.07.09
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BENICÀSSIM
INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL
16 – 19.07.09
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RED BULL BC ONE CLUB
TOUR INDIA
16.07 – 01.08.09
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NUKE FESTIVAL
17 – 18.07.09
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MELT! FESTIVAL
17 – 19.07.09
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MOVE D
18.07.09
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MORE BODY & MIND
HUMAN ELEMENTS
19.07.09
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RADIO SLAVE
20.07.09
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SATURN NEVER SLEEPS
22.07.09
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JUNIOR BOYS
24.07.09
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BEAT PATROL FESTIVAL
24 – 25.07.09
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CAMP BESTIVAL
24 – 26.07.09
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LUX
LISBON
World’s Top Clubs
Let There
Be Light
As it rapidly approaches its
10th birthday, this temple of
nightlife has yet to lose its sheen
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PHOTOGRAPHY: LUISA FERREIRA (3), GETTY IMAGES (1), DIETER WUSCHANSKI (1). ILLUSTRATION MANDY FISCHER
FÊTE BLANCHE
24.07.09
Resident Artist
Coco Loco
SEÑOR
COCONUT
SANTIAGO
Smog, sea-urchin innards and
tailors: Chile’s capital is a city
of extremes, as Señor Coconut,
a Latin electronic musician
and Santiagan by choice,
explains to Florian Obkircher
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91
MYSTERY
JETS
NEWCASTLE
The Green Room
The Magical
Mystery Tour
London-based band Mystery Jets have shaken off
stereotypes, record label trouble and fashion faux
pas to be in Newcastle for Evolution Weekender
festival. Tom Hall went to meet them
92
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MORE BODY & MIND
FUJI ROCKS
24 – 26.07.09
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THE NOVA JAZZ
& BLUES NIGHT
25.07.09
PHOTOGRAPHY: JAMES PEARSON-HOWES (3)
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MICHAEL MAYER
25.07.09
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JAMES PANTS
26.07.09
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ALEXANDER ROBOTNICK
27.07.09
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RED BULL SOUNDCLASH
29.07.09
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SUNDAY BEST WITH
MAURICE FULTON
02.08.09
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93
MORE BODY & MIND
Bull’s
Eye
ILLUSTRATIONS: WWW.CARTOONSTOCK.COM (6), DIETMAR KAINRATH (1)
We like to offer food for
thought in The Red Bulletin,
so we hope this month’s
cartoons are to your taste
94
You Tell
The Story
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Red Bull X-Fighters
with
Underage Festival
with
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PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES (1), RED BULL PHOTOFILES (2), RED BULL (1)
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MORE BODY & MIND
A story by Anthony Peacock
Ultimate Sacrifice
ILLUSTRATION: ADAM POINTER
When someone is searching for absolution,
complacency can be a cardinal sin
“Forgive me, Father…”
Father Damian Humphris reluctantly
drifted out of his reverie about playing
rugby at school in Ireland and shifted
his not inconsiderable bulk into a more
comfortable position – if ‘comfortable’
were ever a word that could be used
to describe the oaken confines of a
confessional, particularly one that had
been installed in St Joseph’s Catholic
Oratory when it was built in 1723
and never touched since. It was as if,
Humphris reflected, the man of the cloth
on the inside was the one actually doing
the penance, rather than the absolution.
Inwardly chuckling at his bon mot,
Humphris turned his attention to the job
in hand, or, as novice Father Timothy
would have called it, his ‘punter’. This
was just another indication that the
Catholic Church, along with the rest of
the world, was in the grip of a dumbingdown of culture that had no respect for
tradition or eloquence. Give it a few more
years, reflected Humphris dogmatically,
and the novitiate won’t even include
Latin. However, the 72-year-old priest had
long since given up making long-term
forecasts as far as his own continued
earthly existence was concerned.
There was at least nothing wrong with
his eyesight. The traditional wooden
grille separating confessor from confessed
had been broken at the bottom left-hand
corner for years, normally allowing those
granting absolution to have a glimpse
96
The ginger beard
was twitching
rhythmically – the
man was sobbing
of part of the bottom jaw of the forgiven.
“As far as peep shows go,” Father Timothy
had remarked breezily last month after
his first morning on confessional duty,
“I’ve definitely seen better.” No doubt he
had! And this was part of the problem
that the Catholic Church, and particularly
St Joseph’s Oratory, faced as a whole.
But what faced Father Damian
through the hole in the grille was part
of a dirty, stubbly, ginger beard. Not
one of the regular homeless men that he
recognised, but, in this area of London,
they came and went all the time.
“...for I have sinned.”
The visitor was well-drilled,
enunciating the ancient formula easily
enough, despite having obviously taken
onboard enough liquor to make the first
of his sins self-evident. Maybe there was
something in Timothy’s idea to install an
anti-halitosis filter over the grille after
all. But, enough about wretched Timothy.
Concentrate, Damian. Father Humphris
studied the patch of beard more closely,
for it was obvious to him now why this
man was so proficient in the act of
contrition. He spoke with the trace of an
Irish accent that was not dissimilar to
his own. And what was taught in austere
Irish Catholic schools was never forgotten.
Even rugby, as Father Humphris had
been reflecting just moments earlier.
“Tell me how you have sinned,” intoned
Humphris, feeling like an orchestral
conductor summoning up the opening
bars of a distinctly over-played symphony.
“I have been drinking,” said the man.
This was hardly something out of the
Book of Revelation as far as Father
Damian was concerned, and he mentally
opened the penance account at 10 ‘Hail
Marys’. Actually, make that 15: the man
had clearly been drinking a lot.
“I have to drink,” added the visitor. “I
cannot face my sin without drink, for I’m
a sinner; an impure man unworthy of
God’s forgiveness; unworthy of God’s love.”
“Are you truly sorry?” asked Humphris.
“Will you try not to drink again?”
“I shall try not to,” replied the
penitent. “For I am a slave to God.
And all I ask for is forgiveness.”
Humphris discreetly looked at the
glowing phosphorescent hands of his
watch in the gloom. It was 10 past seven.
In 20 minutes, the Fathers of the Oratory
would be gathering around the refectory
table for their evening meal. It was roast
lamb tonight – his favourite. There
would be roast potatoes and creamed
spinach too, with some claret and lively
conversation. Father Augustine had a
guest up – a visiting Benedictine monk
from Italy named Teodoro, who loved
to make jokes about the British and
their choirboys. It was never as ascetic
a lifestyle as people always believed,
and, for the portly Humphris, dinner
was as solemn a ritual as Vespers. He
needed to get the Slave to God absolved
and on his way again as quickly as
possible. The past two hours in the
confessional, during which Humphris
had dealt variously with an adulterer,
a drug-user, a liar, a blasphemer and
an onanist were beginning to result in
a fiercely localised cabin fever – not to
mention a painful cramp in his left buttock.
“Have you any other sins to confess?”
“I have many more sins Father. This
is why I drink. I have stolen – lots of
things. I have been fighting. I have hurt
people. I have no money of my own, no
house and no job – this is why I steal. I
am a failure, Father. I have failed God.”
To his alarm, Humphris noted that
the patch of ginger beard had started
twitching rhythmically. Quietly but
unmistakably, the man was sobbing.
With the sinking feeling that this could
take far longer than expected – why did
the complicated ones always come in
last? – the priest patiently asked his
MORE BODY & MIND
lachrymose visitor exactly what he had
stolen. There was something about the
man’s patent distress, maybe also the
fact that he was a fellow countryman –
that diverted Father Damian’s thoughts
briefly away from roast lamb.
“Some money, from a handbag,”
said the man, his crying more audible
now, “some credit cards from the same
handbag; some china from a house,
which I sold – Crown Derby, they said
it was; and, this morning, I stole a car
– a Renault, I think it was.”
The guidelines in this instance were
very clear. While confession was a direct
discourse between man and God, if
there was still a chance to remedy the
sin, then absolution could not be granted
– although, admittedly, the man on the
other side of the grille seemed to be
getting more and more emotional, and
God seemed to have little to say to
Father Damian at the moment.
Probably drugs as well as drink, thought
Humphris. Very sad. Clearly an intelligent
man with a good Catholic education,
now reduced to addiction and theft.
“You must return the car to its owner,
if you know who that person is,” said
Humphris in a patrician manner. “If you
do not know who that person is, then
you must go to the police.”
“But do you forgive me, Father?” said
the penitent, with a note of what sounded
suspiciously like hysteria in his voice.
“Not until you have returned the items
you have stolen, if you still have them,”
said Humphris sternly, wondering exactly
where this conversation was going.
“I cannot forgive you now. Come back
tomorrow once you have done that. If
you are truly sorry, then you must do
something about it, rather than just say it.”
“But Jesus forgives, doesn’t he?” cried
the man in the confessional, almost
petulantly. “Jesus always forgives.”
With the relieved air of a maths student
whose favourite equation has just popped
up in an exam, Father Humphris realised
he was back on safe ground. At theological
college, he had written a paper on the
notion of universal forgiveness, so he
explained patiently (although some would
have called it patronisingly): “Of course
God will always forgive. But universal
forgiveness is based on suffering and
sacrifice. Just as God sacrificed his only
son on the cross to pay for the sins of
man, you too must make a sacrifice to
atone for your sins. This is where we get
the idea of penance. But I cannot give
you your penance until you have made
practical amends for your sins.”
“That’s why I’m here, though!” shouted
the man to the unseeing confessional,
ginger beard twitching uncontrollably.
“I’m trying to make amends for my sins!
I have so many! I need to be cleansed!”
“Tomorrow,” said Humphris firmly,
relieved that he could finally legitimately
conclude the interview and scurry across
the road to the light and warmth of the
refectory, where the lamb would be
waiting and Teodoro the monk would
no doubt be in the middle of some
mildly ribald joke about the sins of the
flesh. “We will talk about your sins
tomorrow. In the meantime, go to the
police. And get some rest,” he added, in
a more kindly tone. “I think you need it.”
“But you can’t just send me away,”
sobbed the man. “I have other things
to tell you. I have seen the devil walk
through my body. I have killed a man
and tortured a soul. Do you remember
the last Pope Pius, Father?” pleaded the
man, his hands now scratching the
grille. “He said that the mistake people
always made was thinking that the devil
was a deficiency, not an efficiency. It’s
true!” The rest was indistinguishable
as he broke down once more, sobbing,
“Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...”
Had this chap really
killed a man?
And was he actually
possessed?
Ever the pedant, Humphris briefly
contemplated informing his interlocutor
that it was actually Pope Paul VI rather
than Pope Pius XII who had spoken of
the devil’s efficiency, in order to break
the silence if nothing else. But then he
thought better of it. What he needed to
do instead was go and speak to Father
Augustine and the others urgently. They
would have to call an ambulance or social
services for the poor fellow, and the lamb
would just have to wait awhile. Yet as
he was wondering exactly how to broach
this delicate manoeuvre, there was the
unmistakable groan of creaking wood as
the man got up and the ancient structure
of the confessional rearranged its shape
into single occupancy. “Thank you, Father,”
he said indistinctly, before his footsteps
echoed across the church’s old flagstones
and the massive door banged shut.
Humphris sat for five minutes in the
darkness, not sure what to do next. The
encounter had shaken him, in particular
the way that it had turned from simply
being the drunken confessions of a
homeless man involving drinking and
car theft – a more or less everyday
occurrence – into something altogether
more sinister. Had this chap really killed
a man? And was he actually possessed?
Father Damian realised with an
unaccustomed shock that he was afraid,
or at least disturbed. While never the
most gregarious individual, he suddenly
felt the urgent need for human company,
to talk with Father Augustine – even,
Heaven forbid, with young Timothy. He
manoeuvred his bulk out of the cramped
confessional and shuffled quickly across
to the church door, his familiar walking
stick for once hardly touching the ground.
When he got to the door, he stopped
abruptly. What if the lunatic was still out
there? What if he came back? Nonsense,
he thought to himself, and pushed it
open angrily. Outside, everything was
calm. A light rain began to fall and a
couple giggled as they walked past on
the pavement. Across the road Father
Damian could clearly see the cheerful
light of the refectory. It was a typical
city street scene. With a relieved smile,
the priest headed beatifically towards
his eagerly anticipated dinner...
The couple, who just minutes earlier
had been giggling, were now leadenfaced with shock. She was the one who
saw most of it, as he had been leaning
forwards to open their umbrella. The car
was definitely a Renault Clio – she was
sure, as she owned one herself – and it
drove straight at the old man, who flew a
sickening distance through the air before
landing violently on the church steps.
She told the police that she ran over to
the car and said to the driver something
like: “You’ve just killed him.” But she
couldn’t remember anything about what
the man looked like, apart from the fact
that he had ginger hair.
One thing she recalled perfectly,
however, was his reply, perhaps because
it simply didn’t make sense. “I didn’t just
kill him,” said the man, before putting
the crumpled car into gear and driving
off. “I killed him 10 minutes ago. I even
tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.
All I asked for was forgiveness. That’s all.”
About the author
Anthony Peacock spent his early life
travelling between England and Italy,
and has never really stopped travelling
since. A creative individual, he is
nonetheless stymied by his inability
to write a decent autobiography.
Even in three sentences.
97
MORE BODY & MIND
Change the
Record
Stephen Bayley asks
a fundamental question:
just what is wrong with
not liking music
I know a good way to start an argument.
I tell people the truth and say, “I don’t
like music.” This reliably causes an
incredulous hick-blink, and they respond,
“Don’t be ridiculous! You must mean you
don’t like certain types of music. There
must be something you like.” There
isn’t, and I say so. Then we are off.
Music gets on my nerves. I seriously
dislike all forms of it. ‘Pop’ is no longer
a meaningful term, but contemporary
music, in any style, I find depressing –
far from energising, I find it enervating.
Whatever it is, I have an immediate
response: “Please turn it off. Now.”
The idea of going home and listening
to music – still more of going to a
concert – is, to me, incomprehensible.
I have three unused iPods. I have
never used the CD player in my car,
although I admit to having Radio 3 on
permanently while driving and when
I’m in my office. But this is nothing
to do with listening to music – it’s just
that I enjoy the occult civilising effect of
Radio 3’s intellect permeating the dross
and clutter of modern life. The writer
Jan Morris thinks similarly: when she
leaves the house, she leaves the radio
playing classical music, since her belief
is that a little Bedrich Smetana has a
purifying effect on the environment.
It would certainly get rid of me.
But I don’t find classical music any
more pleasing than whatever it is you
call non-classical music nowadays. And,
for the sake of argument, I should explain
that this is not a statement made from a
position of invincible brute philistinism
and feral ignorance: my knowledge is
actually above average. I can tell you the
BWV number of obscure Bach cantatas
and know all the words to the famous
Bimba, Dagli Occhi Pieni di Malia aria
from Madame Butterfly. There’s that
Wesendonck Lieder by Wagner, which
is an amazing sonic diagram of sex.
Hildegard of Bingen? My kind of girl.
All this I know, and still I couldn’t care
less. If I never heard any music again, it
wouldn’t bother me. I mentioned this to
Paul Robertson, the violinist leader of
the Medici String Quartet and a specialist
in the relationship between psychiatric
therapy and music. He was unflustered
by my outburst and looked at me calmly,
but concernedly, as you might an axemurderer in the brief moment of quietude
after the event. He said to me: “It’s not
that you don’t care about music. It’s quite
the opposite. You clearly care rather a lot.”
Music and the mind is a subject that
has exercised imaginative therapists for
years. How exactly is it that something
abstract conveys so much meaningful
emotion? Why does one sort of molecular
vibration evoke grief; or another,
happiness? What is it about hertz that,
quite literally, moves us to tears? In my
case, tears of frustration. Answer this
and you are on the way to the absolute
fundamentals of aesthetics.
Inevitably, creative artists provide
a rich source of case study material. The
painter J A M Whistler called his moody
Thames-scapes Nocturnes in a direct
reference to the musical form.
Wassily Kandinsky, who was perhaps
the very first ‘abstract’ painter, lived
with a condition called synaesthesia.
This meant that when he heard a sound,
he saw a colour or a shape. Such things
hint at the strange mechanism of the
brain. The novelist Anthony Burgess
was a virtuoso pianist: he used to do
a party piece where you showed him a
painting and he would then play it on
the piano. This was somewhere between
utter bollocks and completely amazing.
Something in music reflects the
architecture of the brain, perhaps even
of the soul. The terms we use to describe
emotional states find a ready crossover
into musical types: a fugue is a mood
and we all know what harmony and
discord mean. I, for one, often improvise.
Who has not struck a wrong note? The
significance of music may be based on
some fundamental physiology: we hear
in the womb, but our other senses are
less engaged during foetal development.
We can shut our eyes, but not our ears.
Mendelsohn said, “Music is too precise
to be expressed in words.” Certainly,
something about its mechanical patterns
and mathematical structures seems to
engage directly with the mind. Maybe
Jan Morris’s leaving the music on in her
cottage is justified by recent research
by Gordon Shaw of the University of
California, which seemed to suggest
that listening to Mozart makes you more
intelligent. I’m not certain what listening
to Flo Rida Ft Kesha does to you.
The Music of the Spheres is one of the
most beautiful concepts in that strange
area that links science and philosophy
with literature. Dante used it as a graphic
of all creation; the astronomer Kepler
thought the intervals and proportions
of planetary movement were a reflection
of life. And me? Still doggedly unmoved,
but I do have something surprising in
common with Manfred Eicher of ECM
Records. He says the most beautiful
sound in the world is… silence.
Stephen Bayley is a former director
of the Design Museum in London
and an award-winning writer
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