Waiting for Paris-Roubaix. A day of cycling in the Hell of the North.

Road. Trail. Track. Fell. The surfaces where you run define your training. Your appearance. Your body.

Road. Track. Trail. Gravel. Cobbles. The surfaces where you cycle define your training. Your appearance. Your body.

Pavement. Cobbles. Cobbles. Gravel. Pavement. Cobble. Cobbles. Cobbles. Track. The surfaces don’t define races. Riders define races.

In a world of cycling, the major tours compete in the endless pursuit of the perfect route to keep fans engaged for weeks, the Classics called themselves out of this game decades ago. The route, the elevation gains, the climbs, the places don’t matter. Riders make races. 

A countryside gravel road in the north of the French can become one of the most iconic segments of the sport. A straight in the middle of a forest. A velodrome in a small town. Routes and places don’t matter, but is it true? We wanted to see it with our eyes and no better place to do it than Paris-Roubaix.

As we drive across Belgium about to cross the border to France the landscape falls in darkness leading us to imagine what lies next to the road. Small hills make us dream about the Tour of Flanders that just happened a few days ago and saw Tadej Pogacar outperforming Mathieu Van Der Poel on his beloved cobbles. In less than 48 hours they will face each other again. Bienvenue en France. All the lights are turned off. Nobody seems to be out on this Friday evening. Most of the houses seem abandoned. Will there be life tomorrow? Isn’t this weekend supposed to be the biggest event of the year for this region? We are tired of letting our imagination fly free to define what lies in the darkness. We want to see the Hell of the North at midnight.

Bonjour,

Merci pour votre message. Nous ne proposons pas de service de location à la journée.

Toute l'équipe du magasin vous souhaite un agréable Paris-Roubaix Challenge.

Cordialement

Who wants to rent a bike to some amateurs who’s gonna destroy it on the cobbles? Seeing amateur cyclists approaching the forest of Arenberg or Carrefour des Arbre made us rethink our initial plan. Frames broken and flat tires only a few meters into the segment. Scared faces while trying to find the easiest line through the cobbles. But there’s no easy line. The bump between the cobbles makes you look like you are in a blender. At the end of the Forest you are in pieces. Their faces screamed “I survived”.

Watching a cycling race is not about watching itself but more about waiting. You wait. You wait. You wait. You wait. Some cars pass. You wait. You wait. Someone screams in the distance. You wait another bit. Cyclists pass as fast as they can. It’s over. There is no other sport where the ratio between waiting and watching the performance is this unbalanced. You pick one spot, maybe two if the course allows, and prepare yourself to experience a cloud of pure energy speeding through your eyes. For us it was the Forest of Arenberg and the Velodrome. The first is among the most iconic segments and likely where the first move from the top guys will happen. The second is the finish line where kings are crowded and pain ends.

The grey sky made everything feel at its place for a big day of cycling in the Hell of the North. After securing food and drinks at the local grocery store we made our way to the Forest. 4 hours before the expected passing time. People were disassembling their tents, opening the first beers and watching the race start more than 150 kilometers away. We got our spot on the fences, placed our flags and started to look around. The Belgians were already there drinking and listening to EDM music. A Catalonian flag was already swinging in the wind. People from all around Europe were gathering to cheer their heroes. The wait started. As humans we are impatient. We want everything immediately, especially in this era. We forget how easy it is to wait when you are with friends. 4 hours passed by easily talking with strangers about sport, drinking and laughing at stupid jokes. 

As the race went on it was clear that the main group would have caught the break away in the Forest and then there would be madness. Cars and motorbikes from the race organization passed by. The helicopters started to circle around above our heads. We could feel the excitement coming our way. Faces and bodies leaned on the fences to be the first to catch the riders. Locals arrived at the last minute making us feel like newbies. Then it happened.

Motorbike. Two riders. Mathieu Van Der Poel. Shouting. Tadej Pogacar. Allez Mathieu. Mads Pedersen. Vai Pogi. Jasper Philipsen. Quiet. That’s Milan! Giants speeded in front of our eyes. Faces with no fear. Someone running with his bike crashed on the side. Flags swinging. Fans running to the next segment in the desperate quest of experiencing 10 seconds more of their heroes. 10 seconds of adrenaline. 10 seconds of chaos

Riders in Forest of Arenberg

Another race starts then. The one of fans to be first wherever they wanted to go and to beat traffic. We packed our things badly and ran to our car. Riders at the side of the road were waiting for a lift from their teams - the Forest was too much for them. Our next stop was the Velodrome. We wanted to experience the coronation of the king in Roubaix.

In cycling, the waits are collective. Everyone waits for the same event. Everyone is together. Some will stand out from the collective and dictate the wait with music, chants or food that will catalyze others. At the Velodrome the wait is led by the big screens showing the race and live commentary hoping fans. Everyone shouted when Pogacar fell and Van Der Poel was able to go solo and secure his third consecutive win. When he enters the velodrome fans clap for their king. And then for Pogacar who is probably already thinking about next year's race. This felt as an anticlimax, since nobody was sprinting but then the madness started again. Small groups of riders entered the velodrome for the next 5 minutes looking to secure the best placement possible. The rules of road cycling didn’t rule the velodrome. Now it was on track. Riders slow down and look at each other trying to grasp the best moment to attack. The track became a regulated chaos with riders approaching the sprint, cheering after the finish line and lapping each other. The perfect last shot of adrenaline. This time longer and more confused.

Roubaix Velodrome

When the race is over, another wait starts. The wait to see the athletes going back to the team buses. Many have their aero body ripped off from falling. Faces don’t hide the pain from a brutal race. All the riders just pass by through the crowd as they are still in another dimension not being able to process what happened. Pogacar is escorted by the police. Van Der Poel looks satisfied. A mechanic complains while he cleans the riders’ bike. Teams’ cars started to leave and drive back to their homes waiting for the next race. We drive back home waiting to go back to our daily lives after a day of long waits.