Every time I tell this story I have to shrug and walk myself through the same incredulity. You see how hard it must be to convince strangers to help you on the street. Cardboard signs soliciting spare change for all kinds of tragedies and lies- homeless vet, lost wife and kids, car broke down. Jän’s sign would, if he had to make one, call for sympathy, yet who would believe it? The events of his life are simultaneously unbelievable and tragic:
1. Jän raced throughout his teens to earn a pro contract with Saturn, at eighteen, circa 1990
2. Jän was struck by a motorist and severely injured in the Tour of Mexico
3. Saturn terminated the contract because his knee would not fully recover, starting a downward spiral life of crime no education hopes smashed on the streets for years addicted to crack working at Dominoes Pizza hookers $17.43 do you want hot wings with that TOUR DE FUCKED.

I first meet Jän when he stops by our shop to get a bike tube. He’s got a Dominos jacket on, khakis, pant leg strap. He’s sweaty, breathing hard, sort of wild-eyed. That jacket is loose and clownish and has grease stains.
“You guys have a cool shop,” he says.
I hand him a 700 x 23 presta. I notice the bike.
“That a Dutch delivery bike?” I ask.
“Yup. Check it out.” He moves the handle bars to show that the front rack doesn’t move with them, but does that Euro thing where it stays level, confidently cradling two extra larges with toppings and a two liter of Coke.
“Dominos is going eco-friendly huh?” I study the urban machine.
“I told ‘em, ‘pay me whatever you pay your drivers, I’ll do it faster. No insurance costs either.’ Didn’t believe me but I did forty five my first day. Easy to park, no tickets, never needs gas,” he says matter-of-factly, “people tip more when they see the bike.”

Jän tells his story, as he’s told many times. Over years, he’s developed a resolved tone; he pauses and looks at the horizon when his frustration beads up. He knows he is easily mistaken. However well he can explain his bad luck, his crime is a scarlet letter that precedes him wherever he goes. No ex-pro racer would deliver pizza in the Tenderloin district. Upon closer inspection, you see time in jail, periods of being institutionalized, dark contempt. Of course his irony is multiplied by the naïve, Colorado-cyclist mail-ordering cycling enthusiasts that must write him off as a street junkie, the lazy homeless. Never mind that Jän was placing in UCI worldwide tours and negotiating offers from professional cycling teams before turning twenty years old. Now he pedals pizza daily, dodges traffic, avoids Jesus freaks and generally makes moderately sized efforts to mind his own business and get over the MINOR SETBACK that ruined his life.
I worked with Jän for a summer at the Dominos on Hyde and Geary. While part of me genuinely enjoyed nightly tips and the freedom of working outdoors, another part of me documented Jän’s plight. Like many recovering addicts, he has made a certain peace with his past. Breaking windows and instigating fights with motorists is the path to jail and misery, prolonging his life’s cruel lesson. He doesn’t look for recognition, doesn’t brag. He is resigned and practical. He fixes his flat tires; no team of Mavic mechanics replace his wheel anymore. He fights the urge to relapse and lash out, but it’s hard. He visibly fidgets and longs for the escape and flight that both racing and drugs provided.
Jän rides in Cat 1-2 fields occasionally, when certain promoters and race officials personally recognize him and let him register. It’s understood that he deserves a break, yet technically it’s not allowed because of license rules. Jän can still lead out a hundred-man field of pros, amazingly. He pulls out before the race finishes, satisfied with a small nostalgic sprint or two. Jän does this once or twice a year, showing up not like an aspiring come-back story or nod to his past, but like paying visit to the deceased. He disappears afterward, quietly. To anonymously slay the Cat 1-2 field may seem useless, but it brings back his strongest memory of respect. Just behind his wheel there is a demon momentarily defeated.