By Rob Quinn
How I saved the greatest U.S. Cyclist in the world.
One thing I remember from my Journalism classes was a good headline is imperative to pique the interests of your reader. For instance, if the headline said “How I talked a tough guy out of kicking my new friend’s ass” it might not track so well. But I’ll bet no matter what. I’ve got your attention.
Dateline 1979. The High School crew was still intact in spite of the fact that we had scattered to colleges around the Midwest or beyond! The one dude that studied in high school went to Notre Dame!
The ones that went to the University of Wisconsin inMadison exhibited the greatest changes. Long hair and altered liberal outlook and high-quality Columbian weed obtained on Mifflin Street. Go Bucky!
Some of the crew stayed back in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Not bad duty with a robust college scene of a state university, a private university and a large tech college. Their thinking was “I got great waterskiing, great skiing and at least 20,000 college girls in town to chase, a rippin 18 year-old legal bar scene with a home court advantage that included boats, river houses and job connections…why move?
Not me. I was starting to wear my welcome out in the River City so going away to a different city was akin to joining the Army before arrest. By estimate I had used 5 of my 9 lives in the “608”.
Get out while the gettin is good.
During Thanksgiving break of my sophomore year I met up with “the crew” on that notorious party night. The Wednesday night before the holiday. “The crew” was in full force at our buddy Chris’s college pad before we hit the bars. Now that I look back, a special window of time, re-connecting with classmates who were venturing out to the real world, but still had ties to the home town. I was a Sophomore at The University of Wisconsin, Eau Claire. I Had solidly found my groove as a media major. I hosted an evening radio show on UWEC-FM, a big full powerful FM the school operated, that made me sorta-kinda famous on campus. This launched me into a career and addiction to media that still love today.
When I moved into the dorms that Fall, I just had the mother of all knee operations–radical ACL, meniscus removal and a patella realignment. For 16 months I learned to navigate college in a cast that went from my hip to my toes. If you met me for the 2 years college, I was the guy that was always on crutches. If we were at a bar and it was my round, no problem, I could carry a pitcher of Walter’s beer and four glasses through a crowded tavern without ever spilling a drop. With the recent “Dear Rob” letter received from my girlfriend at ASU (that would later be Mrs. Quinn) I was in a position to meet a lot of new friends. The University of Wisconsin Eau Claire has one of the largest nursing schools in the Midwest. Quality medical care usually was available to a guy that always seemed to be on one leg.
I rehabbed my knee like a demon.
I realized that bike riding was going to be key in digging myself out of this big hole. My German surgeon leveled with me. “If you change your life and avoid aggravating this repaired joint, you can still have an active life as an adult. Ride the bike”.
I was truly an anomaly in Eau Claire. A weightlifter riding a racing bike around the foothills wearing wool Pro-togs and a UWEC-Football sweatshirt. Red bandana and Varnets. On my second big ride a guy threw a beer bottle at my head at 10:00 AM on a Tuesday. But all of a sudden I was a “cyclist”.
Imagine my surprise when our host, Chris, for the little pre-bar get together said we had a guest! A guy who was married to a local girl, was in town from their home in Europe, where he was a professional Cyclist.
People got paid to ride bikes in Europe? It gets better. The word was this guy made $18k a year to ride his bike. That’s what accounting majors were getting if they moved to Austin, Minnesota to work at Hormel. This was real money. Who was this guy?
The crew assembled and the important question ricocheted off the walls…”what ya benchin?”, “How are the party’s at Uof M?” “Are ya deer hunting on break?”.
In walks Greg. 20 years young. Married with a kid having just finished his first pro season and ready to throw down / escape the in-laws (although they are great people) and basically act like a normal 20 year-old dude in a college town.
10 years of retail experience at my dad’s sport shop had unknowingly made me a very good observer of the human experience. 140 pound Greg came into the room full of 220 pound, beef fed Wisconsin knuckleheads. His confidence was supreme. He navigated the room like a politician, remembering everyone’s names and where they went to school. When he looked into your eyes he had a special quality that demanded your attention. He was smart, well read and one thing for sure, he was ready to party down with his new crew of 20 new best friends. The beers and shots flowed. I was keeping an eye on things and doing the math. Our new friend was getting MESSED UP at a pace that would make seeing Bar-time mathematically impossible.
This was THE WARM-UP. Not the main event. Especially with the UW Madison boys breaking out the Columbian high test. Onward Christin Soldiers. We shall overcome.
We piled into our trucks (pre Uber) and met at the mecca of all from La Crosse, a joint named John’s bar. One-part Tavern, One-part night club, and two parts double fisted Western Wisconsin. A Mississippi River bar that’s seen 50 years of beers, tears and back ally fights. God bless Johns Bar. As a mouthy 18 year-old construction worker, I received a 14 stitch baptism in back of Johns. We can all earn a Master’s in something!
The crew hit John’s bar like a tornado. This was a group of popular and athletic college boys that just hit town. The atmosphere was electric. Our new friend had now become the life of the party, gladly taking part of every shot / shotgun that came his way (dangerous stuff at John’s bar at 10:00 PM).
Always the guy with his eyes open, I grabbed my buddy Chris and said, “You are responsible for your friend. There is no way he can hang at his pace and I’m not leaving early”.
Then this.
Please let me introduce you to Dave Nicolati. Like all Italians from the river town of Genoa, he was a tough as nails farm boy with some really bad-ass credentials as a Heavyweight Wrestler. He was an All-state middle linebacker and basically an MMA fighter before there was such a thing. He stayed on the farm after high school and started to participate in a new sport; coming to town on weekends and beating the living shit out of college boys in the bars on 3rd street.
Fate is a funny lady. In the end she usually delivers what we deserve.
La Crosse has always been full of pretty girls. A combination of the Nordic blood lines, white collar economy and three colleges has, in my opinion, loaded that valley up with a degree of good looks usually reserved for the Aspens and Santa Barbara’s.
As Fate would have it, our extremely inebriated new pal had intentionally or unintentionally brushed and fallen against the absolute wrong person in John’s Bar that night. Yep, Dave Nicolati’s girlfriend Tonya who started the volley with a slap that would have felled most 140 pounders with 10 shots in their gullet. Our new friend threw in a “See you next Tuesday” and it was on.
I heard a commotion and knew who was probably involved.
I’m not sure if any of you are familiar with the old Beetle Baily cartoons? When “Sarge” used to hold Beetle up by the neck before he transposed him into a pile of sand with a single punch?
I assessed the situation. Our new pal was in serious trouble. A punch from the Italian stallion could fell a 300lb Railroad worker. Our friend, impervious to the situation was talking shit to the toughest guy in Western Wisconsin while being held six inches off the ground by his neck. I’m impressed!
I was not about relive my 14 stitch baptism (still visible today!) and jump into the fray for a guy I met three hours ago, but he was going to get seriously injured if he did not shut up. But we needed to sidetrack Mr. Nicolati.
I held two “Aces”. Dave knew who I was from The Sport Shop, Quinn’s University Sports Shop; 30 years on Main street. I’m sure my dad sold him his first jock strap, as he had to everybody in a 50 mile radius.
The second was a name …Dave Trasoni… The biggest and most respected name in Genoa. An icon. He had 10 sons. I had the extreme pleasure of learning the ropes on how to be a construction laborer by working side by side with Big Dave, a living legend, who at 70 could out work a 21 year old when the work was hard. On rainy days he and I would sit at Dells bar and Dave would tell me stories and ask me questions that a grandfather (who I never had) would ask. I had a reputation has a hard worker with a big motor and I had earned Big Dave’s respect. Some things are better earned than bought. Dave’s advice was “Go to college, working with your back is a hard life”. I enrolled the next day. I later found out Dave had sent all 10 of his kids to college on a construction workers salary.
Right before a “shot heard round the world” was about to be delivered I grabbed Nicolati’s arm as our new friend warned Dave about the ass kicking he was about to get, ”once you put me down”. This guy in the face of ruin had showed no fear, and was actually poking The Pit Bull.
Nicolati’s first reaction was to react to the interloper like he had 100 times before, with a right cross.
Our eyes locked. In a nano second I said “this is Rob Quinn, I’ve been working with Dave Trasoni so hear me out”.
A pause. A key name was dropped.
“This guy you got is a friend of friend…he drank too much too soon and I’ll take responsibility for him from here out, can you cut him and me a break. Please”.
The assumptive close. Thank you and please being the two most important phrases in the world.
Dave Nicolati released our new friend from his much-deserved ass whopping.
Now I had to grab our new friend by the scruff of his neck, drag his still offended ass across the bar and deposit him with Chris saying, ”It’s time to get your boy home”. A cab was summoned. A $20 bill was pressed into the driver’s hands and we proceeded with one of those great nights with the crew.
Our new friend went on to become one of the greatest American cyclists of all times and a good dude when our paths would cross later in life. But that’s a whole other story…To be continued.
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