A note from the editor: This essay was written by a good friend who is currently defending our country in Iraq .  "BeeJay" is one of the local legends who in his own right, is a very competitive fierce sprinter.  Beejay I can't wait until you are back and we can cruise the Litchfield Hills once more, Greg

I dropped down the sharp slope out of the complex I recently moved into, and as the frost in the air nipped at my ears and bit at my fingertips I forgot about my pedagogical mission of ascertaining what exactly are the fiduciary duties one partner owes another. I had stopped, several years ago, preplanning my rides; these days I just get on my bike and head out the door staring at my watch as the minutes pass like seconds and the hours seem too few, always wishing I only had more saddle time, and less time saddled with the tedious words of countless judges. For certain, the only precedent that remains the same is the precedent which holds that law students at Notre Dame will see very little of the Fighting Irish and, students at Quinnipiac University will have very little time exploring the rural Connecticut country side – especially on a bike, unless, of course, they do not plan to return the next year. Nevertheless, the bike is my sanctuary, it is my path to sanity, and I attempt, as often as possible, to visit it.

I began competitive cycling when I was eight years old. It started at the local BMX track in Bethel Connecticut. Soon, I would discover the joys of road riding and before long I was in my dad’s garage with a wrench in one hand and a willingness to lighten my stead in the other. Rear rack? Who needs it? Reflectors? The benefit of cars seeing me at dusk is not worth the cost of the decreased aerodynamics and the added weight. After all if it was lighter I could go faster, if it was sleeker I could go faster, and ultimately faster was all I wanted.

On many mornings before school I would lay my cycling clothes out on my bed so that I could come home and jump on my bike as soon as possible, and get far enough away so that I would not have to succumb to the five minute rule that ends too many childhood games short of completion. I sped away to freedom; I sped from the shout of one of my parents  –  “Five more minutes!” Typically, this meant that I had time to complete three or four more downs in a game of touch football, or a couple for tosses in a game of pickle, but while on my bike I was often out of earshot, and free from the encumbrances of the “five minute request. 

I recall one of these escapes vividly. I was racing down Route 7 in Brookfield CT; unbeknownst to the traffic around me I was thirty seconds in front of the pack, and closing in on Sean Kelly, the great Irish champion, rapidly, who was still 30 seconds in front of me. Victory was in my grasp; I was certain that I would catch Kelly before he entered the Rouboux velodrome and I would become the first American, at 13 years old, to win the famous French classic known as the Hell of the North, but as fate would have it I did not catch Kelly that day, and instead I caught the edge of a sharp rock, and as the air wisped out of my tire so too did the air wisp out of my chance of victory. For some reason, probably related to the fact that I was an awkward 13 years old boy, I carried my bike over my shoulder the same way that cycle-cross racers do instead of rolling it down the street. I carried it to the only place I knew of that could help me – Fred’s Pro Bike Shop. 

I dismounted my trusty stead, a Shogun, which I bought from my future employer in Bethel Connecticut, and began walking to Fred’s Pro Bike Shop. Fred, at the time, was in his early sixties, and something of a legend. He was short, maybe 5’6”, but he had a big barrel chest and the muscle in his legs remained impressive. He had raced in Europe on the German National Team. In fact, it was even rumored that he raced in the Munich Olympics, but that was only a rumor. He was a tough guy. My father told me that he was a soldier in Rommel’s army and after defeat he walked home from Africa to Germany with a cigar box, which contained all of his personal belongings. Just as I managed to get across a busy stretch of road where there was a highway interchange a big yellow station wagon rolled up behind me, and a tall skinny man with no hair on his head got out. He was wearing painter’s pants and a white t-shirt, which evidenced the fact that the painter’s pants were not for show. On his head sat a cycling cap; he was not exactly wearing the cycling cap; it just sat there on his head holding onto nothing, and as a big truck roared past, and the breeze cooled the sweat on my chest, the cap remained on his head. He wore it like the legends I read about in the cycling magazines. To this day I try, in vain, to wear the cycling cap just like he did that day, but I never seem to get it right.

He said, “Hey kid, wadda-ya carrying your bike for.” I told him the entire story, leaving out only the details about me rapidly closing in on Sean Kelly in the Hell of the North. He offered to give me a lift to Fred’s Pro Bike Shop, and although I knew I should not dare get into a car with a stranger there was something trustworthy about this old man; in fact, there was something telling me that he possessed a wisdom of cycling that I could only dream of achieving. So, I tossed my bike in the back of the big yellow station wagon and I hopped in.

We rolled into the parking lot of the bike shop and as I pulled my bike out of the car he stepped towards the entrance just as Fred came out the door. “Hello champion” Fred said to the tall skinny bald man, with his thick German accent sounding jovial. I never heard this man jovial before. To him life was hard, and he was hard too. He seemed to think that everything was a piece of sh%t. His wife once said to a mutual friend of ours, “His tombstone is going to read, ‘Here lies Fred Krancher – a piece of sh$t.’” The champion said hello back and it occurred to me that I did not know his name. I walked over to were the two were standing and said, “Thanks for the lift mister, my name is B.J. Haas.” He stuck out his hand, and introduced himself, “Frank Meartens, no problem”. The two old men spoke for a few minutes as I went inside with my flat tire.

Fred sauntered in moments later and told me that Frank was actually François Meartens, the three-time winner of the Tour of Somerville, and the multiple national road, criterium, and time trial champion. Belgian born, and Belgian tough, this man was the real deal. I was in awe.

Hannah, Fred’s wife, wrote up a receipt for me as Fred fixed my flat tire. I, of course, did not have the money to pay for it so she gave me a bill, and asked me my name. I told her, and she said, “How you spell BJ?” I thought the answer was quite obvious and just stared at her for several seconds. It did not occur to me that she did not realize they were just initials for Bryan ______ Haas. She then began to do something that has changed my Hancock to this day. She spelled my name on the receipt phonetically – Bee Jay. I instantly acquired an affinity for the new spelling. To this day, in cycling circles I remain Bee Jay.

As time went on I got to know Fred better, and I spent many miles alongside him learning about drafting, and sprinting – never climbing, not with Fred. The years went by, and before long I was putting in more and more miles, but, again, not with Fred. He had grown old. Instead I spent many of my days with two other local legends, the man who gave me that lift years before, François Meartens and Jimmy Fraser (also a multiple national road, criterium, and time trial champion). I grew to love the sport. I think that to some extent the bike saved my life. Just as I was discovering the freedoms of cycling I was also discovering the freedoms of adolescence and I spent too many hours with the wrong crowd. Fortunately, a solid family and two solid wheels underneath me steered in the right direction. 

I began racing in earnest when I was 15. The first year was rough; I had great difficulty finishing any races at all. Yet my father continued to drive over hill and dale as I pursued my dream of catching Kelly. Slowly I got better, and by the time I graduated from high school I was a Cat 2, and racing almost full time. I knew I would never be a true professional yet I was not sure what I wanted to do. I waited tables, and I worked in almost every bike shop in Fairfield County, I worked for Spinergy Wheels, but mostly I raced my bike. My first year racing as a senior was tantamount to my first year racing as kid. I almost never finished a race, but a persevered, and I managed to win some races here, and some races there, but very few. I quit racing three times between the ages of 18 and 24.

I quit the last time in 1997. I decided that it was for good this time, no more testosterone-laden rides. No more taking from people, no more skipping weddings to race and birthdays to train; instead it was now time to give something back.

I joined the United States Army Reserves. None of my friends could believe it. In the autumn of 1997 I left for basic training in South Carolina. Afterwards, I found myself at the United States Army Center for Military Intelligence at Fort Huachuca Arizona. Something was still troubling me, however. Something remained absent. While there I visited, Bisbee Arizona where I once raced, and I realized what was wrong. I understood why I quit. I forgot about that kid on Route 7 so many years before. I forgot about dreaming, I forgot about that sweet spot – you know the one, when you are banking through a cambered turn, and you, your bike and the road become one, if even, for just an instant. 

I returned home in the spring of 1998, and started college, and decided to keep riding and racing. After a year or two I downgraded to Cat 3. I wanted to drink beer. I wanted to relax and dream about the classics and the Tour again. I wanted to be one of the cheering fans and not one of the cheered. Cycling was my outlet; I made a decision that it was not a hobby but a lifestyle. It was something I could not live without. I fell in love again, this time not with my bike but with my girlfriend. Nevertheless the bike remained my sanctuary, and it remained my link to sanity.

Not long ago I looked out over the landscape. I saw gentle rolls in the land, nothing that amounted to a hill; the rolls had just enough elevation change to prevent the word plain from being used, and not quite enough to bring the word undulate to mind. I passed through small villages and by even smaller houses. Children played by the roadside, and stopped as we passed just long enough to give thumbs up and wave hello. I waved back, never in my life feeling so proud to be an American. The celebratory nature of our passing made my heartbeat a little faster and my ego swell a little bigger. The children were cheering for us as we passed. I was not thinking about cycling. In fact, I was not even on a bike as I passed through the countryside.

The sport grew heavy on my heart once again. It was too painful to think about meeting Jimmy and Frank at Washington Depot for a ride over the mountain, and to sip some coffee while dunking a biscotti into it. It was too painful for me to think about home, and it was definitely too painful to think about those magical days of endless miles on the bike. The army convoy continued to pass countless jubilant children and their parents for another day, before we eventually arrived deep into the heart of Mesopotamia, deep into what is now called Iraq. I needed my sanctuary and I needed to keep my sanity, but I did not know how, my bike was 10,000 miles away.

 It is the end of the summer now, and months in the heat and sand have passed. I have finally begun to thumb through some of the articles in Velo News that my friends have sent me. Lance has just won his fifth Tour de France. I dream of returning home and buying a new bike – my dream bike, I dream about going on the Washington Depot ride with Frank and Jimmy again. My dreams do not need to be of winning races; instead just an easy spin with “Muns” will suffice. When I was on the precipice of insanity, I again found my sanctuary where it had always been, in loving the innocence of the sport, in loving the anticipation of the ride; if not actually riding today the fondness for which I remember of my time on the bike will get me through until tomorrow. It will keep me sane today.

Yr. Obt. Serv.

First Lieutenant Bryan J. Haas

B Company 325^th Military Intelligence Battalion

Somewhere in Iraq

A note from the editor: This essay was written by a good friend who is currently defending our country in Iraq .  "BeeJay" is one of the local legends who in his own right, is a very competitive fierce sprinter.  Beejay I can't wait until you are back and we can cruise the Litchfield Hills once more, Greg

I dropped down the sharp slope out of the complex I recently moved into, and as the frost in the air nipped at my ears and bit at my fingertips I forgot about my pedagogical mission of ascertaining what exactly are the fiduciary duties one partner owes another. I had stopped, several years ago, preplanning my rides; these days I just get on my bike and head out the door staring at my watch as the minutes pass like seconds and the hours seem too few, always wishing I only had more saddle time, and less time saddled with the tedious words of countless judges. For certain, the only precedent that remains the same is the precedent which holds that law students at Notre Dame will see very little of the Fighting Irish and, students at Quinnipiac University will have very little time exploring the rural Connecticut country side – especially on a bike, unless, of course, they do not plan to return the next year. Nevertheless, the bike is my sanctuary, it is my path to sanity, and I attempt, as often as possible, to visit it.

I began competitive cycling when I was eight years old. It started at the local BMX track in Bethel Connecticut. Soon, I would discover the joys of road riding and before long I was in my dad’s garage with a wrench in one hand and a willingness to lighten my stead in the other. Rear rack? Who needs it? Reflectors? The benefit of cars seeing me at dusk is not worth the cost of the decreased aerodynamics and the added weight. After all if it was lighter I could go faster, if it was sleeker I could go faster, and ultimately faster was all I wanted.

On many mornings before school I would lay my cycling clothes out on my bed so that I could come home and jump on my bike as soon as possible, and get far enough away so that I would not have to succumb to the five minute rule that ends too many childhood games short of completion. I sped away to freedom; I sped from the shout of one of my parents  –  “Five more minutes!” Typically, this meant that I had time to complete three or four more downs in a game of touch football, or a couple for tosses in a game of pickle, but while on my bike I was often out of earshot, and free from the encumbrances of the “five minute request. 

I recall one of these escapes vividly. I was racing down Route 7 in Brookfield CT; unbeknownst to the traffic around me I was thirty seconds in front of the pack, and closing in on Sean Kelly, the great Irish champion, rapidly, who was still 30 seconds in front of me. Victory was in my grasp; I was certain that I would catch Kelly before he entered the Rouboux velodrome and I would become the first American, at 13 years old, to win the famous French classic known as the Hell of the North, but as fate would have it I did not catch Kelly that day, and instead I caught the edge of a sharp rock, and as the air wisped out of my tire so too did the air wisp out of my chance of victory. For some reason, probably related to the fact that I was an awkward 13 years old boy, I carried my bike over my shoulder the same way that cycle-cross racers do instead of rolling it down the street. I carried it to the only place I knew of that could help me – Fred’s Pro Bike Shop. 

I dismounted my trusty stead, a Shogun, which I bought from my future employer in Bethel Connecticut, and began walking to Fred’s Pro Bike Shop. Fred, at the time, was in his early sixties, and something of a legend. He was short, maybe 5’6”, but he had a big barrel chest and the muscle in his legs remained impressive. He had raced in Europe on the German National Team. In fact, it was even rumored that he raced in the Munich Olympics, but that was only a rumor. He was a tough guy. My father told me that he was a soldier in Rommel’s army and after defeat he walked home from Africa to Germany with a cigar box, which contained all of his personal belongings. Just as I managed to get across a busy stretch of road where there was a highway interchange a big yellow station wagon rolled up behind me, and a tall skinny man with no hair on his head got out. He was wearing painter’s pants and a white t-shirt, which evidenced the fact that the painter’s pants were not for show. On his head sat a cycling cap; he was not exactly wearing the cycling cap; it just sat there on his head holding onto nothing, and as a big truck roared past, and the breeze cooled the sweat on my chest, the cap remained on his head. He wore it like the legends I read about in the cycling magazines. To this day I try, in vain, to wear the cycling cap just like he did that day, but I never seem to get it right.

He said, “Hey kid, wadda-ya carrying your bike for.” I told him the entire story, leaving out only the details about me rapidly closing in on Sean Kelly in the Hell of the North. He offered to give me a lift to Fred’s Pro Bike Shop, and although I knew I should not dare get into a car with a stranger there was something trustworthy about this old man; in fact, there was something telling me that he possessed a wisdom of cycling that I could only dream of achieving. So, I tossed my bike in the back of the big yellow station wagon and I hopped in.

We rolled into the parking lot of the bike shop and as I pulled my bike out of the car he stepped towards the entrance just as Fred came out the door. “Hello champion” Fred said to the tall skinny bald man, with his thick German accent sounding jovial. I never heard this man jovial before. To him life was hard, and he was hard too. He seemed to think that everything was a piece of sh%t. His wife once said to a mutual friend of ours, “His tombstone is going to read, ‘Here lies Fred Krancher – a piece of sh$t.’” The champion said hello back and it occurred to me that I did not know his name. I walked over to were the two were standing and said, “Thanks for the lift mister, my name is B.J. Haas.” He stuck out his hand, and introduced himself, “Frank Meartens, no problem”. The two old men spoke for a few minutes as I went inside with my flat tire.

Fred sauntered in moments later and told me that Frank was actually François Meartens, the three-time winner of the Tour of Somerville, and the multiple national road, criterium, and time trial champion. Belgian born, and Belgian tough, this man was the real deal. I was in awe.

Hannah, Fred’s wife, wrote up a receipt for me as Fred fixed my flat tire. I, of course, did not have the money to pay for it so she gave me a bill, and asked me my name. I told her, and she said, “How you spell BJ?” I thought the answer was quite obvious and just stared at her for several seconds. It did not occur to me that she did not realize they were just initials for Bryan ______ Haas. She then began to do something that has changed my Hancock to this day. She spelled my name on the receipt phonetically – Bee Jay. I instantly acquired an affinity for the new spelling. To this day, in cycling circles I remain Bee Jay.

As time went on I got to know Fred better, and I spent many miles alongside him learning about drafting, and sprinting – never climbing, not with Fred. The years went by, and before long I was putting in more and more miles, but, again, not with Fred. He had grown old. Instead I spent many of my days with two other local legends, the man who gave me that lift years before, François Meartens and Jimmy Fraser (also a multiple national road, criterium, and time trial champion). I grew to love the sport. I think that to some extent the bike saved my life. Just as I was discovering the freedoms of cycling I was also discovering the freedoms of adolescence and I spent too many hours with the wrong crowd. Fortunately, a solid family and two solid wheels underneath me steered in the right direction. 

I began racing in earnest when I was 15. The first year was rough; I had great difficulty finishing any races at all. Yet my father continued to drive over hill and dale as I pursued my dream of catching Kelly. Slowly I got better, and by the time I graduated from high school I was a Cat 2, and racing almost full time. I knew I would never be a true professional yet I was not sure what I wanted to do. I waited tables, and I worked in almost every bike shop in Fairfield County, I worked for Spinergy Wheels, but mostly I raced my bike. My first year racing as a senior was tantamount to my first year racing as kid. I almost never finished a race, but a persevered, and I managed to win some races here, and some races there, but very few. I quit racing three times between the ages of 18 and 24.

I quit the last time in 1997. I decided that it was for good this time, no more testosterone-laden rides. No more taking from people, no more skipping weddings to race and birthdays to train; instead it was now time to give something back.

I joined the United States Army Reserves. None of my friends could believe it. In the autumn of 1997 I left for basic training in South Carolina. Afterwards, I found myself at the United States Army Center for Military Intelligence at Fort Huachuca Arizona. Something was still troubling me, however. Something remained absent. While there I visited, Bisbee Arizona where I once raced, and I realized what was wrong. I understood why I quit. I forgot about that kid on Route 7 so many years before. I forgot about dreaming, I forgot about that sweet spot – you know the one, when you are banking through a cambered turn, and you, your bike and the road become one, if even, for just an instant.