I tossed and turned all night with anticipation of the morning training ride. The light on the answering machine blinked red; I had one message and it was short: “Six a.m. Saturday – Mac’s Milk – don’t be late”. I was finally going to ride with the legend that is Jose Martins and that night I didn’t sleep a wink.

Fresh off his gold medal win at the BC summer games, Jose was an absolute force on the bike. Renowned for his killer intensity, he fought tooth and nail to impose his will. He took great pleasure in ripping the legs off anyone willing to ride with him. Brash, terse, confident – and those were his good qualities – Jose was notorious for extinguishing any sense of camaraderie in a group ride. My coach had trained with Jose and wanted me to do the same. I saw Jose almost every day in the Base gym where I swam. He barely gave me any notice.

I arrived at Mac’s Milk 10 minutes early and stood by my bike ready to meet Jose. He was right on time. As he approached I prepared myself for an introduction and a bit of small talk. He didn’t slow down. Instead, he blew right by me and came within inches of rolling right over my foot. What the hell? I jumped on my bike and scrambled to catch up. I gave chase almost certain he would eventually sit up and let me latch on. Not so. That was the closest I got to him all day. Steadily he rode away from me before finally disappearing into the horizon. I did the 70 km loop on my own. We never spoke a word.

The following Thursday evening I came home to see the red light flashing on the answering machine. “Six a.m. Saturday. Mac’s Milk – don’t be late”. The balls on this guy, I thought. I wanted his respect so I arrived early, this time remaining in the saddle spinning easy in anticipation of the freight train that was on its way. Right on cue, Jose appeared and continued to ride right through. I jumped into his draft and quickly welded myself to his wheel, then I hung on for dear life. We rolled a big gear in a pace line of two. I fixated on his rear wheel and refused to let the separation grow to anything more than six inches. Not twenty minutes into our ride I heard hissing from my rear wheel and knew I had a mechanical. I shouted up, “Hey man, I’ve flatted,” and pulled over to get busy changing tires. I looked up to see Jose riding away into the horizon. You’ve got to be kidding, I thought to myself. Another ride with Jose – solo. I was starting to really not like this guy.

My first encounter with Jose Martins had happened several years earlier during military officer basic training – boot camp. I was a recruit and he was an Army physical education instructor. There he stood in front of our platoon with hands on hips, well supported by a pair of heavily muscled clean shaven legs. Not an ounce of fat on his body, he routinely flashed his sardonic white-toothed grin that one quickly learned had nothing to do with his being a pleasant guy.

I was at Mac’s Milk the next Saturday, and for many more Saturdays after that. He tortured me over several years and I am better for the experience. Somewhere during all those painful miles I have to believe that I earned Jose’s respect, although he never said so. Better than that, I became the athlete and rider that I had always respected and for that I tip my hat to my cycling mentor. Twenty plus years have gone by and I lost contact with Jose. Recently, and much to my surprise, I saw that a “Jose Martins” had opened a Facebook profile. I had to know: “Hey brother,” I wrote, “Is that really you – it’s been too long?” His reply: “Yeah. What do you want?” I love that guy.