Issue 19
El Velódromo
By Max GustashawPhotos by Hatnim Lee
Five helmet-headed teenagers in blaring Spandex sit in the grandstands of the Velódromo Agustín Melgar, the cycling stadium built for the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City. The rain has just begun, highlighting cracks in the concrete track and leaving just the lime green and battleship gray of the bleachers to separate it from the sky. Once a destination for record breakers in the 1970s and ’80s, the track has fallen into disrepair and random use—the grandstands are crumbling, the paint is peeling, and the hallways to the track flood in heavy rains. Along the outside cling the bleak offices of the delegation’s sporting programs and pay-to-use bathrooms. Today a big-top circus is planted out front, with two spider monkeys blocking access to the cyclists’ entryway. “It has its charm,” one of the teenage girls concedes.
As many as 40-million people inhabit the 7,000-foot valley cradling Mexico City, and with around 40 riders practicing throughout the week, track cyclists in the Federal District are perhaps one in a million. A typical practice includes guys and girls ranging from 12-and-gangly to too-old-to-ask with graying hair and slight paunches. Some train for races that begin with the dry season in October or condition for road competitions, while others compete for entrance to the CNAR, Mexico’s intense national athletic development center, a seeding ground for national teams. Adolfo, a sturdy 21-year-old power lifter and track-cycling novice, shows off a medal he won in bench-press; victory here is his next goal. Gerardo Garfias, a zesty 48-year-old triathlete who looks 27, began riding the track a few years ago when he was out of work and looking for something to do in the afternoons. “The rush of adrenaline is unlike any you’ll find in other types of cycling,” he says. Before long, Gerardo became one of the five fastest riders in Mexico City and earned the nickname Líder (meaning, of course, leader).
In designing stadiums like Velódromo Melgar, the ’68 Olympic campaign wanted to portray Mexico as an advanced first-world nation able to finally play host to the world. And though it was a proud season in the country’s history, the enthusiasm did not last upon a backdrop of corruption and ambivalence that have long been a part of the city’s bureaucracy. The foremost track architects in the world, Schürmann Architects of Germany, designed and built the original track of the African wood Doussie Afzeiba, and it lasted three decades before it was replaced in concrete by a Mexican contractor. “I have visited the tracks on different occasions and have seen how they ruined the Olympic track by changing the construction and form,” Ralph Schürmann says. “They never listened to our advice.” The new track allowed the city to host three Union Cycliste Internationale World Cups between 1999 and 2001, but the lack of government funding for maintenance has left the track’s surface too worn for official UCI events.
“This is the story of the velodrome since it was built,” says the waggish and lighthearted Rafa Bejarano Ortega, who coaches the band of riders alongside 12-time Mexican cycling champion Alberto Miranda Mancera. “It’s the story with many things in Mexico.” He continues, “If I give you some money for a project, the first thing you do is…” He makes a motion as if taking a dollar bill off a stack and slipping it into his pocket, turns his palms up and shrugs.
In a dark corridor of shattered windows and graffitied walls beneath the velodrome’s grandstands, Joaquín Garcia Cortés, five-and-a-half feet of beige jumpsuit ending in a head of slick, graying hair and a seismic brow, reveals a gold-tinged smile. Behind him, a steel door leads to a stable of 25 Campagnolo-outfitted bikes he rigorously maintains, ranging from 10 to 30 years old. Unfazed by funding woes, he points out that he buys his own tools, asks riders to contribute tires to cover wear, and resists painting over the graffiti, insisting he’ll have to do it again before the paint dries. Meanwhile, he makes sure everyone is up to date on registration—each rider’s credencial helps allay the program’s costs by 100 pesos every month.
On my way out, Daniel, a tall mountain biker who is into reggae, tells me, “To us there’s nothing strange about this building because in this city, there are so many places just like it.”