Thursday, April 26, 2012

This Is The Road To Huy

For information, this entry has very little to do with two wheels, but I wanted to write it, so I did.

4.15am is an unreasonable time of day to get up whatever the motivation, but when it’s for recreation, it’d better be bloody good. The reason for such an early start wasso I could travel to a small, nondescript, industrial Belgian town, like we all do for a day trip. My trip wasn’t completely pointless as I was visiting a bike race to get a taste, watch it and write about it.
The M11 and M25 were unusually free-flowing, even for ridiculous o’clock, and I arrived at Ebbsfleet International station in a light drizzle, weather that was forecast as the best to be expected throughout Northern Europe, just as well my water proofs were in my rucksack. I checked in and went through the airport style security check, luckily my new jeans didn’t fall down when I took my belt off.
On arrival at my pre-booked seat, I found an Arabic looking gentleman asleep and snoring loudly in my place. I decided to leave him to sleep and sat down, having retrieved my headphones so I could listen to some music, though before I did, I stared out of the window at the Kent countryside and listened to the idiot in front of me. I’m not normally disparaging on here, but this man deserves it. It seems that he and his companion, a slightly large woman in her late twenties, were heading to Brussels for some sort of governmental conference. This young man, similar in age to the woman, skinny, dressed in a suit and constantly looking at his phone whilst she was talking to him, had an incredibly high opinion of himself, been everywhere, seen and done everything. I wanted to hit him and felt smug when he commented on a Police dog waiting for us at Brussels. I was able to correct him on its breed, “Oh, he actually knows,” I saw him think, as I undermined him in front of his slightly overwhelmed colleague. I then strode off up the platform.
I love travelling, just the act of going somewhere beyond routine, captivates me and a train is a good way to do it. You can sit and literally watch the world go by, the only stress being that which boarded with you and the distant fear of derailment and consequent death. For me it’s a chance to do stuff I don’t normally: read a book; listen to my iPod; nothing. Seeing tiny French villages flash past, spotting the small market square, a war memorial, perhaps a cafe, is a privilege, a brief glimpse of the soul of each community. Like looking into the eyes of a stranger.
I can speak a very tiny bit of French, which, it became apparent, is the language of Brussels, even though it is situated in a sea of Flemish. Luckily the woman at Hertz car rental spoke perfect English, and gave me the keys of my Fiat 500, the reams of useless paperwork which always accompany a hire car, two cards and strict instructions on how to use them to get in and out of the car park. By the time I got to the car I had lost one of the cards and was stranded, frustrated and mumbling a stream expletives. This phase of the day was going well, I cursed.
Eventually I escaped into the Brussels traffic, staring frantically at my sat nav, waiting for it to locate me and send me on my way. Eventually it did and I was negotiating my way through the bustling streets of Belgium’s capital, getting caught at what I decided was an unreasonable number of red traffic lights. Onto the autoroute, it was time to get used to my car. 
It was white, comfortable, small, and the buttons for the electric windows were in a strange position on the center console. When trying to pull away, it seemed to want to control the engine revs itself meaning it needed a fair bit of gas to get going. The 1.2 litre engine sounded like a cat trying to intimidate me by purring, the gearing was difficult to get used to, and I noticed that it was running at about 3250 rpm at 70mph, which is less stressed than my 2 litre Mazda 5, a car I can justify hating.
The Belgian auto routes are OK, considering my proximity to the capital, there was little traffic and, though they have regular warnings of speed cameras, I didn’t see one. The day felt autumnal, the over looking trees were just coming into leaf, but their colour gave the hint of brown, the atmosphere not helped by the greyness of the sky, though it didn’t rain. I headed south towards Namur, a town I remember riding through on my motorbike in 2006, then turned east in the direction of Liege, leaving the road before I got there at the second junction for my destination, Huy. I’d taken the second exit as I figured there were less likely to be bike race related road closures. In fact, there was no sign of the race and I managed to get into town un-hindered, the only indication one of the top World Tour races was in town, were the tell tale black arrows on yellow signs which were evident as I drove into town.
If you want to read about the race it's my previous entry (or check here) but when it was over I wandered back down the hill and across the bridge to the Fiat parked outside a tatty supermarket and by a bus stop. En route I passed a group of teenagers, the boys carrying a crate full of empty Jupiler bottles. They were laughing and joking, the girls, lagging behind, giggled, all of them happy, comfortable and well-behaved.

Sat in the car, watching the wipers scrape their way across the windscreen, I considered the numbers of people I’d seen lining the race route, and I expected the traffic to be heavy, but the hour it took to travel about 5 miles got me anxious about making my train in Brussels. It took about an hour to cover the five or six miles out of town and onto the motorway, where the tension dissipated and I managed to get going at speed.
I had considered not filling the car up with petrol as the gauge hadn’t moved at all during the journey, but when it dropped one blob on the digital readout, I decided to stop at a motorway service station. It was full in an instant and I was pleased that the total cost was only €18, and that included a Snickers. It may not be a good motorway car, but at least it’s frugal.
It was hammering with rain when I the bright flicker of brake lights appeared through the gloom. I was on the outskirts of Brussels, and not far from my destination, but time was running short if I wanted to catch my train. Stationary for minutes at time, the sound of rain banging on the roof above me, I took a moment to ring my wife and rant about the traffic. The train was the last Eurostar service of the day and if I missed it I would lose the non-transferable fare, have to pay for a hotel, and pay the fare for whatever train I could catch in the morning. I was not happy, even if my wife was more sanguine.
As it turned out, a little frantic and barely acceptable, let alone legal, driving saw me throwing the car keys at the bloke in Hertz car rental office, then running to join the Eurostar check in queue about two minutes late, with many other similarly flustered looking people also complaining about the traffic.
The journey was uneventful: I downloaded and sorted my photos, managed to write a paragraph or two about the race, and chatted briefly to a young lady who had been to Belgium to see if she was good enough to get herself on a dance scholarship. Mostly I stared out of the window, watching the light seep away through thick grey clouds, leaving behind only the sound of rain splatting on the windows as we sped across Northern France. Expecting all the other passengers to get up and of the train, I nearly missed my stop at Ebbsfleet station because they didn't. Indeed, only about four others alighted there, and I was soon back in the car driving home where, having spent all day travelling to and watching the race, I watched it on a TV and struggled to write some words, any words, about it which made sense. It had been a long, busy day and, as I hadn't had time for a beer in Belgium, I made time for one before bed.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Long Live The Queen

Le Carrefour de l’Arbre is a cobbled farm track which indirectly links the two villages of Camphin-en-Pevele and Gruson, near Lille in northern France. I imagine on most days it would be deserted, alone and unseen from no more than a few metres across the flat agricultural landscape, especially when the crop is high. You’d definitely see tractors or other farm vehicles bouncing over the uneven pavé, maybe you’d see the odd walker strolling, perhaps with a dog, there may even be a cyclist going who-knows-where, clattering noisily over the widely spaced and uneven stones. All in all though, I guess it’s a quiet place, foreboding under the heavy skies of winter, joyous when the skylarks sing above. This is one of many such quiet tracks in this part of northern Europe, though this and some others are lovingly maintained by a dedicated group who are committed to their upkeep. Why? Because this is hallowed ground. For these are the cobbles of one of the World’s most famous and arduous bicycle races: Paris-Roubaix. The Queen of the Classics. The Hell of the North. 

If you were to walk along the Carrefour de l'Arbre on the morning of the second Sunday in April you would see little different from any other day. There will be fabric advertising barriers fluttering in the spring wind on the right-angled bend half way along, and outside the Restaurant de l’Arbre there will be sponsor’s flags and perhaps an intimidating looking doorman. There are likely to be a few small groups of people setting themselves up for the day ahead. Deck chairs erected at prime viewing points, the odd barbecue if the weather is favourable, packed lunches, flasks of coffee and bottles of beer. Some will be wearing cycling jerseys or cloth cycling caps - casquettes - their peaks turned up, emblazoned in the colours of their favoured rider or team. But it will be quiet still. Stand a moment and you will feel the atmosphere whipping across the cobbles like the breeze which bends the short green shoots of winter wheat that surround you. There is soul here. There is history to be revered and you will feel it. Do not compare this to standing in a football stadium hours before kick-off, or even in such an atmospheric place as Lord’s Cricket Ground at 9am on the Saturday of a Test Match. This is so much more intense for so much longer before the event. This place brings flutters of excitement for hours, the depth of anticipation building to a crescendo before, at last...
First run in 1896, Paris-Roubaix is one of the five Monuments of road racing, one day races which have entered into legend and captured the hearts and imaginations of fans. Many of the top riders of history have tackled and failed to conquer these races. The careers of those that win are defined, reputations and fortunes made. Roubaix is a small town just outside the city of Lille in the industrial north of France, the French part of Flanders. It was born after two Roubaix businessmen decided a road race from Paris would be the ideal way to publicise the Velodrome that they had constructed in their home town. They initially proposed holding the race on Easter Sunday, but relented under pressure from the church, and the first race happened two weeks later, though the event did take place at Easter during subsequent years. In the modern, globalised world of cycling it has found its place on the second Sunday of every April, the last race in a series of cobbled events in Flanders and the only Monument in France.
The race’s history is littered with legend and stories of derring-do, but also of luck and tactical nous. Last year was a victory for tactics: everyone feared Swiss rider Fabian Cancellara following his strong showing in the preceding weeks, so no-one was willing to help him bring back the break away. It was left to Belgian, Johan Van Summeran to ride into the velodrome alone and lift the mounted cobble stone which acts as a distinctive and very apt trophy. In one of those legendary rides, Cancellara had shown his strength the year before, attacking with 40kms left to race. He rode on alone for a victory so remarkable it sparked accusations that he had an engine fitted somewhere on his bike! Cancellara would have been one of the favourites for the this year’s race had it not been for a quadruple fracture of his collar bone sustained during last week’s Tour of Flanders, a race won by the man the pundits predicted as his main rival, Belgian Tom Boonen.
Belgians have dominated the race throughout it’s history, winning 54 editions of Paris-Roubaix, and Boonen started this year’s race hoping to join his compatriot Roger de Vlaeminck as the only men to have won the race four times. De Vlaeminck’s wins came in the 1970s, during a period of 10 successive Belgian wins, including those by the great Eddy Merckx. Despite all that Belgian dominance, only two men have won three consecutive races; Frenchman Octave Lapize in 1909, 10 and 11, and Francesco Moser of Italy from 1978 on.
The race now winds through the countryside, seeking the stretches of cobbles that give the it its character, though it wasn’t always like that, initially it was run on main roads, though those of the day were either muddy tracks or cobbled. After World War 2, as France began rebuilding herself, these stretches of cobbles were replaced by asphalt and the race was in danger of losing the very thing which made it special, as the number of kilometers on asphalt increased. At one stage local towns wanted nothing to do with it, thinking that its passing would only highlight their old and rutted streets, so if the race was due to pass through, they would Tarmac over the hallowed cobbles. Now it is the very opposite. Town Mayors regularly contact the race and the keepers of the cobbles, a charity called Les Amis de Paris-Roubaix, telling them of new found cobbled roads. The stretches of pavé are cherished by the race and les amis, who not only find new stretches, but maintain the ones the race already uses. Only this year, one of the hardest, roughest pieces of road, where the race can very definitely be lost, if not won, was under threat. It was feared that the Trouée d’Arenberg had become so covered in moss to be unsafe for the riders to pass, especially if wet. Step in les amis de Paris-Roubaix, who scoured and cleaned the road, ensuring its 2.4 kilometres remained among the 51.5 of cobbles in the 257km race.
Over the last 116 years Paris-Roubaix has only been suspended for the World Wars, and it was after the First War it assumed one of its alternative names, The Hell of the North. In 1919 a group of race organisers and journalists set off to check what was left of the route. What they found was a scene of such utter destruction and horror, with the legacy of human death and deprivation, the stink of broken drains and rotting animals thickening with every kilometer they travelled north. The epithet l’enfer du Nord was given to what was witnessed that day, but soon became synonymous with the race itself, where the riders finish the day covered in mud and grime, with broken bodies and machinery: perhaps the race is the nearest thing you can get to war in sport. 

... Crowds of people mill around, some watch the big screen, others scan the horizon for the TV helicopters which buzz above the distant trees and fields, a tell tale sign that the race is approaching. Gendarmes stand in ones and twos, chatting amongst themselves. The promotional caravan has passed, leaving behind coloured plastic trinkets, thrown from contrived vehicles by bored but attractive young women. The only traffic on the pavé consists of the advance party: photographers motorbikes, the odd team car stops on the main road, preparing bottles and spare wheels for their riders. Kids gather round hoping to cadge a souvenir, with similar thoughts their Fathers look on, Mothers gaze around, pretending to be interested. Now Gendarmes speed along the cobbles, standing on the foot pegs of their off road motorcycles, blowing hard into whistles, warning of their coming. Now the atmosphere is tense. Unlike other years, we know what is happening as the screen is showing the race as it unfolds. As they get nearer it seems strange seeing on the screen just what is kicking up the plumes of dust we see across the fields.
Boonen, seeking to cement his place in cycling legend, is off the front having attacked with 50 kilometres to go and, as he enters the start of the Carréfour, some 2 kms away, he has about 55 seconds of a gap over his pursuers. If he pulls this off it will remarkable.
More frequent now the traffic passes, headlights shine brightly through the dusty murk, the odd drop of rain begins to fall; horns blare, a woman puts her hands over her ears. I’ve moved and can no longer see the screen, I don’t need to. Above the cloud of brown dust two helicopters swoop, noisily dipping and diving, their noses point to the ground as they race to find the next vantage point for the viewer sat in his living room, gripped by the drama. The side of the road is crowded now, two or three deep, all of us peering down the road, trying to see through the wall of humanity and between oncoming vehicles, cameras primed.
Boonen powers on
Then he’s there. His face crusted with dust, his mouth open, gasping, eyes show concentration and fatigue. The crowd lean into his space, shouting their support, he can’t fail to hear, to be spurred on by them. He slows, leans his bike round the corner, then is gone towards his glorious fate. 

Other riders approach, the line of spectators at the roadside ripples like a Mexican wave as they lean back, avoiding the riders who pass so close you have to try not to touch them. No other sport allows such closeness to its heroes. This happens over and over, the cheers and support imperceptibly diminishing as the lower order rides by, their commitment no less than Boonen himself, their position not reflecting the work they have put in. Ramon Sinkeldam and Reto Hollenstein ride past us. Dusty and tired, they glance up at the giant screen to see Boonen, hugging his Directeur Sportif, victorious, in the Roubaix velodrome 15 kilometers down the road. They ignore the winner and ride on, like the fans ignoring them, drifting away to their cars. Both finish together, outside the time limit, their day’s ride will count for nothing. No one will remember their heroics.
Paris-Roubaix is an anachronism, a contradiction; modern bicycles worth thousands ridden by modern athletes, thunder across roads from another age, accompanied by literally hundreds of cars and motorbikes full of people, who broadcast the day’s events across the World as it happens. That this race has remained, survived, through globalisation, modernisation and in spite of sense is glorious. It remains a challenge that thousands come to witness and fewer battle through, giving their all, like Hollenstein and Sinkeldam, to play an often tiny part in the history of a truly great event. If this race is the Queen of the Classics, long live the Queen.

British rider Ian Stannard powers on

This is the unedited version of an article which appeared at