In one story, he blew a rim in a bike race, borrowed a bike to finish, and only after not only finishing the race but also closing a bar, realized his leg wasn't quite right. It had pieces of spoke from the shattered wheel embedded in it.
In another legend, he passed some roadies in full racing garb on their high-dollar carbon fiber mounts going up a hill. Once a serious racer himself, he rode his steel frame to the summit, rolled a cigarette and waited. One of them told him he shouldn't smoke if he's a cyclist.
According to the legend, he said something to the effect of, "You have to be faster than me before you can lecture me about smoking."
I met up with the Three O'Clock Ride last weekend a little late. This ride attracts colorful characters, pretty much to the exclusion of all other types, so it wasn't until we were eating at an Italian joint in the river market this guy wanted to go to that I realized this wasn't just a guy named Victor, this was the Victor. Hand rolled cigarettes and all.
I saw and heard nothing that day to make me doubt the stories I've heard.
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