Whenever I hear Juliet ask Romeo her famous question, "What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," I immediately become angry at William Shakespeare for asking such a lame question. Then I remember that it's not Will but Juliet Capulet doing the talking, and once again WS captures my admiration for his genius for characterization, for only a fourteen year old girl in love with her daddy's enemy could be so naieve as to deny the power of a name.

I, too, was fourteen when names first made an impression in my life. My father had taken me to the 12 Hours of Sebring, a sports car endurance race held in Central Florida which began the world sports car championship series every year. In 1963 public drunkeness and debauchery had not yet become acceptable, but no one at the Sebring race knew that as near nakedness and complete intoxication were the norm. I must congratulate my dad, I think, as he did not take the obvious opportunity to preach at me on the evils of loose living, but instead concentrated on enjoying the scenery and the race in front of us. Sports car racing was serious business in those heady days, and Ford, recently rebuffed by Ferrari in a buyout attempt, had just begun their campaign to get even, using Caroll Shelby as their front man. Ferrari showed up in force also, led by John Surtees, Lorenzo Bandini, Umberto Maglioli, Nino Vacarella and at least ten more factory drivers.

A twelve hour sports car race is a test for both cars and fans, one which Ferrari won that year, and my father and I returned to Sebring many times after that, drawn by the point counterpoint of the shriek of the Ferrari twelve cylinder boxer engines and the Ford 427 V-8 side oilers. We were drawn back too by the drivers. In those days, no one knew what the drivers looked like, at least fourteen year old Americans didn't, so I was held in place by their names, those incredibly magical sounding exotic names that were burned into my mind forever. Even today they remain fresh and retain their hold on me.

So imagine my surprise and delight when as an adult thirty-five years later, I was once again captivated by racers from Europe, but this time those men rode bicycles. When the bike bug bit me in 1992, it had a dirty aspect, and I rode off road exclusively for nearly ten years, as I had no interest in road biking or road racing. I knew of Lance Armstrong and the Tour de France, but I really wasn't impressed, not yet anyway. However, eventually I began riding a road bike as a way to maintain fitness, and I gradually became interested in road bike racing but only the TOUR.

When I first realized the magnitude of what these guys were doing, I was shocked. Gradually, my shock became admiration, and then Bug Number Two bit, and I was hooked by all of it, all forms. Immediately I was drawn in by the spectacle, the color, the suffering, the beauty, and, yes, the sounds of the riders' names. I felt like I had come full circle, only now it was Paolo Bettini, Servais Knaven, Koos Moerenhout, Unai Etxebarria...even George Hincapie beckoned.

So, Juliet, what's in a name? Everything. Names have the power of the people who own them. Names can reach through time and render up another reality. Names fire our imaginations and stir our spirits. I have never seen Umberto Maglioli's face, but I have sat in the seat beside him as he drifted his Ferrari through the esses in the middle of a smokey Florida night. Yes, thanks to modern technology I am familiar with the faces of most of my biking heroes, still hold me in place. It's their names that I shout out as I win another stage of the Vuelta of Tampa Bay.