This wasn't a problem last July, when Audrey competed against the clock at the Encino ( Calif.) Velodrome. She covered 24.8 miles in one hour, a U.S. women's record, and set additional records at 20 miles and at every mile from two to 15. "At 25 miles an hour you get dizzy," she said. "Can you imagine what it was like going that fast, around and around for 162 laps?"
For better or worse, her husband Scott has been the greatest influence in Audrey's life since they met in 1958, when Audrey was 15. He made her a surfboard that year and surfing was her sport until 1960 when he made her a skateboard and she promptly broke her ankle. When it healed Scott and Audrey went out and bought themselves a couple of bikes. Eight months later Audrey entered a 25-mile time trial against 100 men, and beat half of them. When they got married in 1963, Scott was doubly involved—emotionally and mechanically. Sunday is race day, and on Saturday morning he starts getting Audrey's bikes ready, sometimes not finishing until 4 a.m. Sunday. Scott is a fine cyclist in his own right, but most of his recent leisure time has been spent as Audrey's equipment manager, and he only uses his bike to commute the 12.5 miles to San Diego, where he works as a researcher for Solar, a division of International Harvester. Scott has a Ph.D. in aerospace and mechanical engineering science. Indeed, science plays almost as large a role in Audrey's life as cycling: her father, Dr. Fred B. Phleger, who is at Scripps Institution of Oceanography, is a leading authority on foraminifera, while Audrey has a degree in zoology and for a time worked as a lab technician at the University of California at San Diego.
The McElmury garage, where Scott works on his wife's machines, looks like a small bicycle factory. Six or seven bikes are suspended from the rafters. Scott buys rims, spokes and hubs and makes all of Audrey's wheels, 19 of which dangle from the walls, as do 40 or 50 chains. Four or five dozen tires protrude like snakeskins from chests and drawers, and lately Ian has been hanging out in the garage, ruining his clothes on the greasy chains and shinnying up to the seat of Audrey's racer.
Ian is a tough-looking, fireplug-shaped little kid. If there's such a thing as a born athlete, he's it. Until he got too big he often went along on 25-mile training rides, riding in a seat above the front wheel. Before he was born, Audrey read a book entitled Let's Have Healthy Children and, as a result, bought a huge incubator and began making a gallon of yogurt a week. Unlike the store variety, McElmury yogurt contains no emulsifiers or preservatives.
A McElmury breakfast is not for the squeamish. The eggs, for example, are fertile, and supposedly contain more iron than yours and mine. The milk isn't pasteurized—an obnoxious process that destroys protein and natural hormones, Audrey explains, assuring the horrified of a local law requiring raw milk to have a lower bacterial count than pasteurized milk. Ian, Scott and Audrey drink a minimum of 18 quarts of milk a week, either straight or in an exotic, home-made mixture they call tiger's milk, which makes fewer concessions to the palate than the commercial product. Audrey's contains raw and powdered milk, orange juice, soy oil, raw eggs, powdered calcium gluconate, yeast, desiccated liver and bananas, the latter masking the flavor of the two previous ingredients. A taste for Audrey's tiger's milk is acquired. "Take a normal 2-year-old and you couldn't make him drink it because the yeast tastes so bad," Audrey says. Ian ain't normal. He is the youngest health nut in Southern California, the health nuthouse of the world. "Ian want tiga muk," he screams regularly. "Ian want tiga muk. Give Ian tiga muk in a bottew." He will guzzle blissfully for a few minutes, then begin thrusting his bottle at guests. "Drink, drink, drink," he orders, and if they refuse he starts throwing surprisingly hard roundhouse punches to their legs.
Ian's precocity and Audrey's achievements may have nothing to do with their superdiets. Still, he doesn't ride a bike or lift weights—yet—and his mother points out that she has broken every one of her personal records since becoming sold on health foods. Audrey should be at her peak around 1972, and it would be a shame if women's cycling weren't an Olympic sport by then. (There are seven men's events.) Who knows? Maybe the sport could win even wider representation. Can't you just see a husky little kid on a tricycle being cheered across the finish line at Munich waving a bottew of tiga muk?