Now I know why the pros fit cantis for Paris-Roubaix if there's even the slightest rumour of a hint of a chance of rain.
This is the cantilever brakes on Roger Hammond's Giant lined up against the team bus before the start of P-R 2008, which, contrary to all forecasts, were rendered unnecessary by the warm and dry weather. I didn't take a picture of Fabian Cancellara's modified Speedplay pedals; that would've been another excellent hint to ignore. For it wasn't mud-clogged brakes and gears that got to me - although tedious, it wasn't much effort to clear everything of mud after every pave section - but mud-clogged Speedplay cleats.
This is the section, about 40km in, where I had to put both feet down. The pictures don't look too bad, and it certainly was rideable, but not once you'd come up behind people who'd fallen off or others who were already walking.
As late as Thursday before the event, I considered taking either my steel Serotta Fierte 'Cross frame or the cute little Glider Boxercross I'd recently built up, but decided against it. No, I decided to stick with the bike that had already been over the last 140km of the course in April. I knew that my Legend would be comfortable and unshakeable and able to cope with the wet conditions. Even if I had taken one of my 'cross bikes, I probably would've stuck with the Speedplay road pedals and my Rocket 7s. I've recently begun commuting in my Rocket 7s: with eSoles, they are simply the most comfortable shoes I own and to earn their keep, they've got to be used for more than just the odd race in dry weather. Fortunately, they stand up to the abuse of my commute and have now survived several hundred metres of walking over muddy cobbles.
Riding 40km with my feet just perched on tennis ball-sized lumps of mud over the pedals was agony. All the muscles around my ankles and lower legs were soon screaming with the effort of stabilising my feet and it wasn't long before something was up with my left knee. And over the cobbles, other parts of my body soon paid the price for bearing most of the body weight that would otherwise have been borne on the pedals. At the third control, just before the Arenberg forest, I decided that I wasn't soft, but I wasn't stupid, and called our support van driver who said he'd meet me at the next control.
The cleats needed a complete overhaul. It took me hours to disassemble, clean, and re-attach them. Once that mud dried, it was like concrete!
If I hadn't had an easy out, I could've continued and completed the course; at the very worst, I could've stopped at the mechanics' booth at every control to take my cleats apart to give them a thorough clean. It would've taken a long time, but I would've got through it. But this wasn't a once-in-a-lifetime crack at a sporting achievement for me. I rode over all but the first four and final three pave sectors back in April. Back then, I stopped after Carrefour de l'Arbre; a strong, little coffee was the first distraction, and then the support van was there, and I thought it would mean more to wait to do that ride into the Roubaix velodrome on the day of the sportive, with crowds and fanfare.
But on the day of the sportive, as I set out from the third control point, intending to at least ride through the Arenberg forest before navigating (with my trusty Garmin Edge 705 hallelujah!) a pave-free route to the fourth control where the support van would meet me, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of despair and the sort of deep loneliness that only seems to come upon one when in a crowd of strangers. At the entrance to the Forest, I looked at the photographer, and at all the people around me, and it suddenly seemed a bit - well, cheesy isn't the right word, but it just wasn't right.
I've since thought a lot about what this event means to me and what accounts for my fascination with the race run over this course. I can't contemplate the races of these regions of France and Belgium, without also thinking of the economic, industrial, and political hisory of this landscape, and of course of the horrors of the First World War. It just reeks of hardship and sacrifice, and noble, hard work; not in a miserable way, but rather in a nearly-impenetrably solid, pragmatic, just-get-on-with-it sort of way.
We passed the Canadian War Memorial on Vimy ridge on the coach ride to Compiegnes. I couldn't bring myself to look at it. I am a pacifist, but am terribly emotionally affected by war memorials. My sadness is mixed with huge gratitude and a measure of shame when I consider how veteran and departed soldiers have shaped the world I now live in with their actions, which I doubt I would be capable of emulating.
And I've come to think that, subconsciously, I didn't want to finish this ride. It shouldn't be easy for an overweight, middle-aged woman to ride Paris-Roubaix. It's almost as though, once I do it, then the effort of the professionals every April will be diminished, no longer a big deal, what's all the fuss about?
At the risk of coming over all Rouleur, the Roubaix showers have become a little like a war memorial for me. When I was here in April, I was pleased to bits to get a photo of myself in Mr. Merckx's cubicle.
Last weekend, however, I showered,
dried,
and moisturised
in an altogether more sombre mood, my heroes' reputations intact.
And now, since I have them, here are some photos of how Joop fared:
