Beautiful and horrible, steel and stones

What is it about cyclists that drive them to take something that is already difficult, and make it even more so? Adding kilometres, subtracting gears, finding the worst roads and heading out in conditions more suited to a cup of tea in front of a movie. It’s a hard-wiring thing, I’m sure.

Paris-Roubaix of course needs no introduction and its place as the toughest road race over the worst ‘roads’ is well deserved. I’ve now ridden the hallowed pavé dozens of times, and there is definitely a perverse pleasure taken from being beaten to a pulp over the course of four or more hours, in conditions that have ranged from pleasantly sunny to freezing, howling wind and pouring rain. Actually the day it rained on us for most of the ride to the velodrome still ranks as my favourite ride ever. Damn you, hard-wiring.

If there’s a camera about, hide the suffering and look smooth

As much as I love the city of Lille here in northern France and its surrounding roads, I’m getting to appreciate that I don’t live here. Sure, having World Tour races and a couple of Monuments on your doorstep every spring is pretty cool, but the temptation to ride the cobbles and kassien regularly would overwhelm me and my bikes and body would be in constant need of repair. Yet I’m drawn to this region almost every Spring and there is no better place to be for a cyclist who thrives on the best racing period of the year.

Dom went full retro with wool jersey, toe-clips and Brikos

A week or so before my arrival, my good friend and host and fellow cobble-addict William casually informed me that our first ride would be Roubaix. No problem. And we’d be doing it on retro bikes from the 70s and 80s. Ok then. Maybe I’d be able to ride one of his modern Cyfac fleet, as I wouldn’t be bringing a retro ride. Dream on. The beautiful old F Moser that shares my room at his house would be my steed. Looks about the right size, equipped with Campagnolo gruppo and downtube shifters, how bad could it be?

Buck keeps it authentic with his Hinault and Mondrian kit a la 85

We would be joined by a couple of internet friends, one I’d met and ridden with on several occasions, Rick from Sydney who has been living in Cairo and now The Hague. He was fortunate enough to not own a retro bike. Buck from the USA is an eye surgeon in the military and currently resides in Germany. William’s friend Dominque would complete the multicultural posse (William is Irish but has lived in Lille for 15 years, resulting in a bastardised accent if ever you’ve heard one).

Rick had the best day of all, smashing the sectors and proving how much better modern bikes are

A nice shakedown on smooth roads to sort out the bikes and position would be the best way to start such a ride. Or we could just meet at the entrance to the Trouee d’Arenberg, the most treacherous and rough sector of them all, and go from there. Of course that’s what we did, despite my protestations. A couple of rolls up the road into the village and the bike felt like it was set up pretty well, except for the brakes being on the wrong side of the bars for me. We loaded our jerseys with food and spare tubulars, rugged up against the chill and got up the required steam for the Trench. About 50 metres later the brutal cobbles had claimed the bike’s only bidon cage, meaning a bottle would have to be carried in my already overloaded jersey. When I checked over the rest of the bike I saw the saddle twisted 45º and sliding down inside the seat tube.I pulled it back up and it vacated the frame altogether; there was only about a centimetre inside the frame, and it was still too low for me to pedal comfortably. William suggested in no uncertain terms that maybe I should’ve checked that the day before. Too late for that now, I’d be riding the business end of Roubaix with a to-low saddle.

Ride the crown? Not today…

On the smooth roads there wasn’t much of an issue, spinning easily with slightly bowed legs and able to get to the dt shifters. On the pavé though it was a battle to keep momentum, even more so than usual. It seemed like my power source was turned off as soon as the thin tyres hit hard stone, and every consequent sector saw me being reduced to almost walking pace. Mons en Pevele, one or the three 5-star sectors, is never one I enjoy, and this day it almost reduced me to tears as it basted me slowly, like a dead animal in a slow cooker. This was not fun, and I genuinely feared I was blowing both my knees to pieces, as well as all the usual bits that get destroyed even on a good day. If there was a sag wagon I would’ve crawled in long ago, but of course there wasn’t, which now I’m kind of glad for.

The final cruise home was when I started to appreciate what we’d just done

The third of the 5-star sectors and where the pro race is often decided, the Carrefour de l’Arbe, is one I usually get right and has become ‘my sector’ on previous rides. I don’t know what it is but the rhythm and speed comes to me here. I knew that this day wouldn’t be like that, but somehow it still wasn’t as bad as most of the lesser-rated stretches we’d covered earlier. With only the smoother surface and wide gutter of Gruson to do, the pain and mental anguish that had accompanied me for the previous three or so hours evaporated, and the final 20km back to Lille transformed my opinion of the worst ride I’d ever done to one of the best. Even if I wanted to walk a lot of it, and cry for most of it.