How Captain Dondo Got His Name
by Captain Dondo, aka Don Cuerdon
It was some time in February or March of 1982 that I picked up a copy ofBicycling Magazineand read it for the first time in about six months—a long time for a life-long bike junky like me. I was preoccupied with pretending I was somebody I really wasn't—working on a master's of science in exercise physiology at the University of Illinois, Chicago, and contemplating a future as a research scientist. I saw a want ad in the back ofBicycling. It said something to the effect, "e;Wanted: Bike shop mechanic with two years experience. Good riding area. No rest room. West Hill Shop, Putney, Vermont
It took me all of about ten seconds to realize I'd rather be in Vermont doing anything than in Chicago doing what I was doing. So I called the University that day and dropped out. Neil said the job was taken, when I called him, but that he could offer me some part-time work if I was in the neighborhood. That was good enough for me. On April 1 I married who I thought would be me last wife (not my first), packed up the U-Yank and headed back East with her and our spaced-out cat, Rasta Punk Kitty. After a few weekends of me commuting from an old college friend's farm in Pawlet, Vermont, Neil decided he liked me better than the guy he'd hired on a trial basis, so he booted the other guy out and hired me full time. Little did I know that it would be the last firm decision I'd ever see Neil make (Um, uh, well, let's see, uh...)—except maybe for lunch orders at the Putney Co-op.
Betsy Bates, Neil's final wife and erstwhile bookkeeper, quickly took me under her wing and began to eradicate my nerdy, way-too-serious academic persona by adding "e;do"e; to the diminutive form of my name. Thus, "e;Dondo"e; was born. Neil was a master of subtle persuasion and I was a burnout from academia. So when he hinted that he'd like to computerize the store's inventory (an idea that was way, way ahead of its time in the bike biz), I wanted nothing to do with the project. I was anti-technology. Anything even remotely academic made my blood boil. Neil ordered a Heathkit computer anyway and assembled it at home. Then the sneaky bugger bought a Star Trek game for the computer. I got in the habit of staying after hours to play the game. The first question the game asked was, "e;What is your last name?"e; Not being a last name kind of guy, I typed in "e;Dondo."e; The next question asked, "e;What is your command, Captain Dondo?"e; The hook was set.
Neil next bought a word processing program, upon which I began writing the Putney Bicycle Club Newsletter, a two-page, stream-of-consciousness sort of thing that my nerdy old self found difficult to sign. So I signed it "e;Captain Dondo."e; The newsletter was distributed to our customers and club members, including Ed Pavelka, who was the editor of Velo-News back when it was headquartered in Brattleboro, just a few miles south of Putney. Ed suggested I write some how-to stuff for Velo-News. Neil let me use the shop computer after hours. I don't think the computer had anything to do with my marriage going south just thirteen months after it started. But it was a strange coincidence. I buried myself in bike racing for the summer, then cyclocross through the fall, then drank my savings, then realized I couldn't afford my $285/month attic apartment in Brattleboro any more.
Russ Remy came to my rescue and invited me to move in with him in his Keene, New Hampshire, home. Russ was a confirmed bachelor who'd tried marriage for three years, then avoided it like the plague for ten years after. He was also just getting into bike racing. I coached him in cycling. He coached me in divorce. We got along. But Russ wasn't into cats. He'd strangled the last one that lived at his house early one morning when he stepped in a fresh pile of intestinally processed cat food with his bare foot. Said pile was in the shower, not in the litter box. So Rasta Punk Kitty was not a good candidate for living long with Russ. I'd already had his claws and testicles removed (Rasta's—not Russ's) in an effort to mitigate his wild behavior—but he was still out of control.. I can still smell his whiz in my guitar case fifteen years later. Anyway, Rasta went to live with George Kitz, another West Hill devotee who also chose marriage as a hobby rather than a lifestyle. George had to sell Rasta with his house because the old boy went completely feral (Rasta—not George).
I cut my hair short, began reading "e;Soldier of Fortune"e; magazine and wearing camouflage fatigues. They were interesting times. With women, cats and housing out of the way, I buried myself in riding and working at the shop. It was a great time to be a mechanic. Those were the days before Wheelsmith, so I spent many peaceful hours gazing out the shop window and building "e;stock"e; wheels. Back then you could even service derailleurs and bottom brackets instead of just tossing them away. And in my spare time I invented the mountain bike, right after I discovered the one Jim Langley had left behind before he went to work for a real shop in. But I digress. When Pavelka moved on to Bicycling Magazine, I followed, passing the West Hill baton to Brian Stickel, who went on to become Managing Director for NORBA—the fool. Now, suddenly, it's ten years later and I've forgotten how to fix bikes and don't really know how to write. Carlotta, my final wife, has been ghost-writing my stuff for years. But you didn't hear it from me. I miss grinding parts cleaner into the chainring cuts in my knuckles. That, and lying about when we expect the next bike shipment.
Note: After disappearing for years, rumor has it that Captain Dondo has been seen cycling in the Putney area, and has resurfaced online.
