Paris – Roubaix – Amateur Version – June 1997

Part I:

I know this is going back a long way, but I simply had to put this down in print while I was in the writing mood.

Preamble:

The Paris-Roubaix Classic (PR), was first run over 100 years ago and was set up to publicise the completion of an outdoor velodrome in Roubaix, a town in north east France, quite close to the modern Belgian border.

When the PR first began most of the roads in that region of France were of Napoleonic vintage, constructed using granite blocks roughly 6 inch cubes, the notorious pavé. Most of the pavé roads have been paved over since the last World War and the stretches of pavé that remain are now protected and spread over a wide area. Recent PR organisers have had to search far and wide to include as much pavé as possible, which has resulted in the race becoming longer and longer over the years.

Currently, the total race distance is about 255 kms (about 160 miles)*, whereas a direct route between the two cities today would be less than 100 miles.

The first half of the race takes place on beautifully maintained, largely flat modern roads and is quite a rapid; then the stretches of pavé begin. There are some 26 sections of pavé in total and their lengths vary from as long as 3.7kms to as short as 100m.

To mark your card, so to speak, the Paris-Roubaix Classic is also known as “L'enfer du Nord” (The Hell of the North), for reasons that, I hope, will become clear.

The Route:

PR97 started at Compiègne and included the now infamous Wallers-Arenberg forest, as well as stretches of pavé at Orchies, Landas, Saméon, Mouchin and Bachy.

Pre-race Training:

I was going to give you a long spiel about my pre-race training here (mile after mile of cold winter rides), but what the hell. Bearing in mind some of the comments I’ve received recently, I’ll just get on with describing the event itself.

Anti- pavé bike preparation:

The Paris-Roubaix is a road race, and in the opinion of many cyclists, should be ridden using a road bike. Many of the amateur PR participants now use mountain bikes installed with suspension, soft gel seats and special soft handlebar grips. These ‘Softies’ are looked upon with great distain by us ‘Roadies’, but truth be told, they’re the clever ones; racing cycles are really not designed for pavé!

I had decided to use my reserve bike, a second-hand Peugeot racer. I wasn’t about risk the destruction of my favourite triathlon bike; research had shown me that the PR is notorious graveyard for bikes. I had read horror stories of vast stretches of pavé being littered with the detritus of dead and mangled machines (and riders too, I suspected); littered with bits broken off or shaken loose by the terrible pounding the pavé dishes out.

One of our group, Ian, a three-time PR veteran and by far our strongest rider, told us that in the previous year’s race the front forks of his mate’s bike had snapped clean in two on the very first stretch of pavé. His mate had suffered two hurts; one when he was bundled out of the race, the other when he’d come into intimate, face-first contact with granite pavé!

I modified my bike in two ways:

· I fitted a pair of padded handlebar grips – which incidentally, still adorn the old bike to this very day

· I bought a few of pairs of rough-terrain tubs (all-in-one tyres and tubes), as recommended by Ian. I also brought along my spare front wheel – just in case

PR97:

Our group consisted of eight riders and a Support Tem various that included wives and children; about fifteen in all. We registered for the race the night before and set up the bikes ready for the great test the following day.

The PR97 registration pack included a little medal souvenir and a Race Card which outlined the feeding stations, village names and distance markers and locations of the control points (where the card is stamped as proof of completion for those being sponsored). There was even a ‘secret’ marshalling point towards the end of the race to ensure that everybody completed the whole race and was not tempted to cheat by catching a lift with a passing Samaritan!

We stayed overnight in a modest B&B; I didn’t sleep very well and saw race day dawn with a beautiful sunrise.

We split into two groups based on our relative cycle-fitness and strength; I was in the faster group. The ‘B’ group set of with the early starters - 05:30 hrs. My group arrived in time to see the others off, then milled around for a couple of hours, beginning our race at the latest possible moment - 07:30 hrs.

Our thinking was that this would give us the chance to catch the first group towards the finishing line and all ride in together - it sort of worked that way too.

The first half:

Beautiful weather helped us on our way. We were heading more-or-less consistently NE and we had a glorious warm tailwind all the way. I kid you not, a tailwind! How lucky was that?

The smooth near-empty roads were a joy. This was the first time I’d ridden in France, and despite the fact that we were riding of the ‘wrong’ side of the road, things were going splendidly.

Route markers showing ‘PR97’ and a directional arrow pointed out any turns; only the larger towns and villages, and of course the feeding stations sported Race Marshals. The stencils worked really well and we made sure that everyone in the group kept a good lookout at forks in the road or at major junctions.

As expected, we swept past many dozens of riders in the early stages and soon found ourselves in a large group of some 30 or 40 Frenchmen. We started hammering along at average speed well in excess of 25 miles per hour.

I couldn’t believe how joyous this was, I was strong and fit, and we were tearing along the open roads of France at a massive lick. I took many a hard turn at the head of the group and we bowled along like this for mile upon mile. I was exultant.

Every now and again, Ian, a Rumpelstiltskin on my back, kept warning me to calm down, there was a long way to go. He kept saying “Take it easy, we haven’t reached the pavé yet.” But would I listen? Would I heck!

Our first ‘revitaillment’ (feeding station), was about 2 hours into the race and we stocked up on food and water, checked the bikes and ourselves and continued; the whole stop took no more than a couple of minutes. I did a quick check of my trip computer and was pleasantly shocked to see that we had already covered over 50 miles at a very respectable speed. What was all the fuss about?

I continually checked the welfare of my mates and had some pleasant, if stilted conversations with the French guys riding with us. The group by this time had swelled enough in number to be called a peloton. I was the only French speaker (of sorts) in our team and found myself acting as interpreter along the way. A wonderful time was being had by all. Then my problems started!

The Heat:

As the sun climbed inexorably higher into the clear azure skies so did the temperature, (no apologies for the flowery script here Rory & Matt – you know who you are). I have no idea how hot it was on the roads that afternoon, mid-30s at least I would say, but I was emptying my water bottles faster than the refuelling stations could fill them. I often had to cadge drinks from fellow riders along the way. I was getting hot – disturbingly hot, and we still hadn’t reached the first stretch of the notorious pavé.

About the 75 miles in we found ourselves in quiet countryside; gently rolling, tree-lined roads and hedgerows, you know the type of thing. Every time the trees fell away, the shadows disappeared and the temperature soared. I could feel the back of my neck burning.

At the next major feeding station I borrowed a tea-towel from our support team who were managing to follow us along with the race organisers as spectators and emergency back-up. I doused the towel with water and tied it loosely around my neck for protection.

The towel worked for a while, but ominously, by about 90 miles and despite regularly pouring water down my throat and the back of my neck, I had stopped sweating; a very bad sign. My stomach ached and a headache started thumping. No matter what I did, I simply couldn’t swallow enough water to cool myself down; I wasn’t even thirsty. All signs of heat exhaustion.

Then we struck the first bit of pavé. Oh, my God!

Pavé:

The first stretch wasn’t particularly long, a few hundred metres, but it sloped slightly downhill, causing the bikes to gather speed worryingly; you daren’t touch the brakes on that sort of surface. As it happens, this turned out to be the only stretch of pavé that wasn’t completely horizontal – you can’t use the term ‘flat’ to describe pavé. Potholes of varying depths and long areas of rutted baked hard mud where the pavé block disappeared entirely, were irregular features of pavé, (nothing about pavé is regular).

Before starting the race we’d been told by anyone who knew anything about it that the best way to tackle pavé was to put the hammer down and try to ‘float’ over the surface. Someone actually said “Just trust your bike and run with it,” – yeah right!

Let me try and paint the picture for you:

· Just imagine you’re sitting on the handle of one of those roadside pneumatic drills, you know, the ones that cut through concrete like butter. Got that?

· Now imagine the drill is being controlled by a lunatic who’s playing Bucking Bronco and is desperately trying to dislodge you

· On top of this you’re not wearing any protective clothing - I mean there are no padded cycle shorts

· Now try and imagine that at the same time all this is going on, you are gripping tightly to the collar of a ravening bull mastiff; let go of the collar and it’ll have your face off

· Now try putting up with all this for anything up to half an hour at a time, then you realise it’s going to be thrown at you without warning for the next seven hours!

Got the picture? No you haven’t!

I know I’ve been going on about pavé for a little while now, but it is the defining feature of the Paris-Roubaix, why it continues to be a challenge, and why it is known as L’enfer du Nord!

After coming to a skidding stop at the end of the first pavé stage, I turned to look at my mate, Grahame, another PR virgin. I could see he felt the same as me, totally dumbstruck. I think we both actually felt like bursting into hysterical laughter, but I simply didn’t have the energy; neither did he by the look of him. I flexed my fingers which had already started cramping up; my grip on the handlebars had been vicelike. I knew I was in trouble.

One of the nearby French riders we’d become friendly with broke a spoke on his rear wheel; our first sign of the mechanical havoc that we’d heard about in the build up.

Riding Tips – Pavé:

Tip #1: Don’t!

Dinner Stop:

The course resumed on proper roads a good few miles, and Grahame and I slowly relaxed, it wasn’t all that bad really was it? We could cope. Two more pavé segments came and went without incident. We were certainly not getting used the pounding our bikes and bodies were receiving, but we were still in one piece, which is more than could be said for our new French friend. I kid you not, but on the second pavé segment, he lost another spoke from the same wheel which by this stage was wobbling like a child’s loose milk tooth! We all seriously doubted that his machine would last the course.

All this time the temperature rose inexorably higher as did my core body heat. I was deteriorating fast and my position was desperate. My bike speed had dropped and constantly found myself dropping away from the bunch.

About 120 miles in, we reached the main lunchtime feeding station and I knew it was all over for me; I was finished.

I literally fell off my bike, left it where it was, stumbled into the relative cool of the food hall and collapsed in a heap against a delightfully cool stone wall.

The other three members of my team stood over me offering me support and fluid but I couldn’t even summon up the energy to drink. Totally bereft, I told the guys to continue without me. I was done.

All I could think of was that I had failed. The infamous L’enfer du Nord, had claimed another victim. I held my head in my hands and felt like crying.

To be continued..............