Dear Editor,
Well, the 26th edition of the Ministry of Culture, Youth and Sport’s annual 3-Stage Cycling Derby has come and gone. What, might I ask, should any of the organisers be commended for after a quarter of a century of repetition? The excellent planning, prizes, hospitality? Can anyone please tell us about this fixation with cycling along the same course, year in and year out. Why no starts in George-town, or a circuit around the Homestretch-Hadfield Street axis in Georgetown?
How nice it would have been to have a race terminating along Main Street after a few laps between the Cenotaph and Lamaha Street, to the cheers of the crowd in a festive mood, with the Guyana Police Band in attendance. Did any of us spot a single banner along the course?
The race organisers, seemingly oblivious of the exponential increase in motor vehicles and the statistics for death and injuries, again chose to finish the first leg along Main Street, New Amsterdam, when for safety’s sake it could have turned onto the Palmyra access road to the Berbice River Bridge and ended well short of the bridge itself.
The second stage was seen off at the Rosignol Stelling, a heavily used road because of the traditional market day, with traffic extending as far away as D’Edward Village. It could just as conveniently have started at the D’Edward Village entrance to the bridge.
The media coverage was nothing short of derisory. No one was seen to fall or suffer a puncture, but I saw both. An amputee holding his own, from start to finish was ignored. There was no ambulance or persons trained to come to the aid of victims of a crash visible.
Come on Hector Edwards.
Aubrey Bryce, aged sixty-two years, a Guyanase of no mean accomplishment, who is recognised in Canada as qualified to coach was barely noticed by the race organisers. No invitation was extended to this legend of road-racing to hold a single clinic.
What degree of recognition and hospitality did we extend to the several Surinamese and the lone Trinidadian cyclists? What did the Minister of Sport, Dr Frank Anthony and his Director of Sport, Mr Neil Kumar know of their presence and how were they catered for?
Cyclists varying in age, from sixteen to sixty-nine years, rode either 1, 2 or all three stages. Taking into consideration the prevailing international rules and regulations, why could not more than two categories of riders have been catered for? Was it lack of money?
There is no person alive who has ridden in this annual event more times than Jonathan Crevalle. Here he was again, returning to our shores at his own expense to ride. No mention of this either by the organisers or the press corps. There was not a single tribute to absent friends like James Fowler, Troy Humphrey, Jason Cho-wee-nam, Kenton Sanmogan, Paul Reid, Leroy Abel – all killed on the roads of Guyana..
I trust no one will bleat about expense. Remember that former Auditor-General Anand Goolsarran once found an enormous sum had been spent on the repair of a single state-owned motor car when it ought to have been scrapped.
Our young men and women daily risk their lives, training along dangerous stretches of roadway, some unable to afford adequate nutrition or the astronomical costs associated with the sport.
What do they want? Not the grudging and patronising gestures which we have grown accustomed to, but vibrant stewardship from the office of the Director of Sport with a start being made with the resurfacing of the inner circuit of the National Park, monthly medical check-ups, gratis, for all registered cyclists at a place of the Minister’s choosing, and an assured calender of races.
While we are about it, does the public realise the monstrous wrong being perpetrated upon the youths of New Amsterdam and neighbouring villages on both banks of the Berbice River by the selling-off of the only place where there is access to a swimming pool and indoor conveniences for several disciplines. Once managed by Bermine, this recreational hall on the corner of Ferry Road and Strand, is still owned by the people of this country and is to be sold off in the name of something called privatisation.
Yours faithfully,
Lloyd Williams
