Through all its decades, naming sponsors, troubles, and triumphs, the race resurrected this year as the Philadelphia Cycling Classic has hooked generations of road cyclists. I’m one of them.
Courtesy Philadelphia Cycling Classic, Whit Yost
Whit Yost has been in love with pro cycling since watching Lance Armstrong win the 1993 US Pro Championship in Philadelphia. He’s “raced” on the cobbles of Belgium, helped build a European professional team, and traveled from Malaysia to Mont Ventoux as an assistant sports director. Nowadays, when he’s not teaching, adulting or playing D&D, he writes about cycling for Bicycling and other outlets. This is his first story for Escape Collective. The resurrected version of the race takes place this Sunday, August 30.
For me, it all started with Ken.
Ken was — in most aspects — what you probably think of when you imagine a stereotypically angry, snobbish, and condescending bike mechanic. He worked at the shop (Steve’s Bike & Fitness) where I bought my first mountain bike (a black and blue Schwinn Woodlands) and where I later started working (for $4 an hour spent breaking boxes, pumping tires, and cleaning up after the shop cat, Murphy).
Ken had a trust fund (we believed) which meant he could afford expensive bikes and components. It was through him that I learned about the merits of Klein, Fat Chance, and Shimano XTR. It also meant he could afford to be a total asshole to anyone who annoyed him. (Including me. Sometimes.)
Nonetheless, Ken took me under his cranky, greasy wing and taught me about things like the hidden singletrack behind the Norristown state hospital and the finer points of Mavic rims.
Racing a NORBA National in Helen, Georgia and other mementos of an ill-spent youth. Photos courtesy Whit Yost
Soon I started racing on my (second) mountain bike (a black and red Trek 930), and after a couple races along the C&D Canal during my sophomore year of high school, Ken thought I was adequate enough (I was never fast enough) to join a team he was putting together for the 24 Hours of Canaan in June.
June came, and a few days before we were supposed to leave Ken told me the trip was off. Someone had bailed, lost interest, or both, and it wasn’t worth driving all the way down there if we didn’t have enough riders.
I was devastated. It was 1993 and I was finally coming into my own (or so I thought) as a kid about to finish 10th grade. I was excited at the prospect of being away from home with just my mountain bike and some older dudes (who would probably let me drink my first beer).
“So I’m heading down to watch CoreStates,” Ken said, as if it would somehow quell my disappointment. “You should come.”
By CoreStates he meant the CoreStates US Pro Championships, the famous Philadelphia road race that each year since 1985 had crowned the US national champion. CoreStates Bank was the title sponsor at the time, so that’s what folks called it: “CoreStates.”
“What?” I responded, probably with a whine that certainly pissed off Ken. “Why would I want to watch a bunch of leg-shaving roadies ride laps around Manayunk?”
Manayunk, of course, is the neighborhood that’s home to the Wall, a super-steep climb in the middle of each of the race’s main circuits. Its difficulty was only surpassed by the intensity of the partying fans lining its sidewalks. After all, for most, CoreStates wasn’t just a bike race (or even a bike race at all) — it was an almost city-wide block party.
“Just shut up and come,” Ken said. “I’m bringing a backpack of beer. It’ll be fun.”
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