Brent Bender
If you ever wanted to know the pain, struggle, and utter joy of following the path of racing as an amateur cyclist in Europe, Cobblestone Dreams is your chance to live all that the path encompasses.
Andy Bennet has found himself at a crossroads in his life. Compelled by an unknown, inner desire for cycling which he can’t quite understand, he finds himself chasing his cycling passion on the cobbled roads of Belgium. Andy’s path to and in Europe is full of trials and tribulations of the body, mind, and soul. Discover his journey of not just a dream of racing in Europe, but the path of discovery into what fuels the inner fire of his desires.
Cobblestone Dreams is Brent Bender’s first major venture into the realm of novel-writing, but he has been an avid writer most of his life. Taking his passion for the bike and writing, he presents the inner workings of cycling in words. Brent enjoys bicycle racing, riding, and the thrills of driving his body beyond its known limits.
“Andy, that was amazing!”
Tony Stewart seemed more hyped than usual, which is amazing for a man who drinks more coffee than water. To me, it wasn’t amazing; it was one place too little. I longed for a top-three placing at USCF collegiate championships, but to come that close, I might as well come in dead last. Tony patted me on the back, handed me a cold bottle of water and a washcloth, and began to address me and the rest of the Appalachian State University Cycling Team.
“Now I know you guys are happy with this result, but we really could have pulled off something much better! Andy Bennet, Andy Bennet, when will you learn that racing isn’t about who is strongest, but who is the smartest with the strengths they’ve got? I saw you covering way too many attacks at the start. If you had waited, you would have made the winning break and possibly given a rest to your teammates a better placing.”
He was right; application of gray matter didn’t happen quite like I had wanted. I started the race and wanted to prove my place, flaunt my power, and ride like a king. Instead, I watched the winning break roll away and I was helpless to stop it. Still, I gutted it out to make a go of it all to the end and slipped away from the group to solo in for the fourth place. This result plus the criterium and team time trial, and the ASU Cycling team came out with a second-place overall in the Division One conference. Not too bad at all.
I looked at my transparent reflection, my forehead pressed against the glass, as the blurred vision of the endless landscape lulled me. I always enjoyed the travel; it was my time to think and reflect.
Twenty-one years of existence, two years of college, and six years of cycling. I had no idea where my life was going, but I felt a hunger inside. I tried to place what it was exactly and it hit me … the bike. At the ripe young age of fifteen, I happened upon a special place, the Lehigh Valley Velodrome. My best friend Alex Gardner wanted to see his brother Tyler race at the velodrome during the premier Friday Night Racing. It was there I was hooked, secured by an unknown force whose grip was as real as steel. I watched as riders literately flew mere inches from me, pushing the air so hard my hair brushed my face as I stood against the track wall. The lights, the crowd, the speed, the tactics … I was amazed, truly stupefied. There seemed no real logic to it all. Only one winner out of fifty riders! Then there were the blazing speeds, one gear, and no brakes! How was this possible? One doesn’t just go that fast, bumping that many riders, have no brakes, and be a normal person. I was right about one thing.
I stood wide eyed all night, trying not to even blink so I wouldn’t miss a revolution of a solitary pedal stroke. My hands were so sore from banging on the bleachers that I had blisters the next morning. I knew then I had found something special and signed up for the track’s development program the very next day. It was the start of something great.
My bike and I were inseparable. On Friday nights when other kids were out with friends at the local football game, I was racing track or driving to a race for the weekend. Most of my friends just thought of it as “that sport where you shave your legs” or “Oh, you do BMX, cool.” I remember a pretty young girl I met at the mall one night. She giggled and smiled; the talk was good. Then she asked, “So what do you like to do?” Eagerly I replied, “Oh, I race bikes, it’s so much fun! I love it!” I saw her eyes widen in interest as she leaned forward with sparkling eyes and voluptuous lips. “Oh, I love bikes! The speeds they go are amazing! Guys look so sexy on motorcycles!” Click, click, went my brain and I uttered hesitantly. “Oh, that’s not what I do. I race bicycles.” That pretty much killed the interest right there. I didn’t care; it was my passion.
From the track I started to race on the road, and then later picked up cyclocross and mountain biking to break up the harsh northeast winters. I enjoyed those days with relentless lust, just me and my bike, riding open roads. It was my freedom, my escape and I loved it.
The years went by fast and there was much success and failure. I found myself in great form the years I had the will to actually apply myself. There wasn’t much pressure from my parents to do cycling or to succeed at it. I was left to my own accord and pursuits, so all my motivation came from within. Seven years later, almost every one of my friends I started racing with have stopped riding or even quit cycling. I watched as they developed a bitter taste for a sport that had once brought them so much love.
I never put much thought into doing other things with my time. The bike gave me everything I wanted from life, but recently I am feeling conflicted and utterly confused. I feel this hunger inside me; it’s being feed, but it wants more.
I watched the sun slowly faded into flickers of crimson and maroon as it retreated into the earth. I was exhausted from the weekend’s races and travels. Sleep came expediently.
