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| The barren roads of Belgium, or Southern Cal on a cloudy day. |
There are two types of
cycling fans, those that love the stage races and particularly the Tour, and
those that favor the one day classics. I am classics man, and particularly the
double of the Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix. I find the mix of cobbled
roads, bad weather, unyielding terrain and crazed fans to be intoxicating. When
I need motivation, or when I want to really go hard, I picture myself in the
heart of Classics country, pounding away with the greats. Living in southern
California, this vision is often difficult to embrace since we have such
abundant sun and good weather nearly year round. So when the skies are dark and
the temp a bit cooler, I get into what I call a “Belgian” frame of mind and hit
the roads. Today was one of those days, and on my 50 mile commute to work,
complete with some bad roads and rolling terrain, I raced against five of the
greats.
Turning onto the frontage
road that hugs up against the foothills to the south, the roads are perfectly
conducive to my Belgian ideal. Rolling with no traffic, the gray skies and
whispy white clouds hung low in the foothills, giving an imposing and serious
look to what is normally a beautiful picture. The flat light giving everything
a dulled, tired appearance. In my mind, I was on the rural roads of Belgium, or
northern France, where the tough men prove themselves every April.
To make the vision complete,
I pictured five other riders. Of course the list started with Eddy Merckx the
three time Paris-Roubaix and two time Tour of Flanders winner (along with other
Classics and Grand Tours to boot). I also saw Roger De Vlaeminck, a three time
winner at P-R and winner of the 1977 Tour of Flanders. From more recent times,
I included Johan Museeuw, twice the victor at Flanders and P-R. From that same
era was Peter Van Petegem, who won P-R once and Flanders twice. Finally, and
still riding as strong as ever, there was Tom Boonen- a four time P-R champion,
three time Flanders champion and the only man to win both races in the same
season twice.
With myself tagged on, I
envisioned the six of us powering along the roads as it wound its way along the
hillside. Our group was controlled, no random flyers or unnecessary efforts,
but there was no letting off the gas either. We were 90 minutes from the line-
still plenty of time to hurt each other.
On some stretches, the open land to the north slightly resembled a Belgian landscape. A single line of barren trees provided a wind break for the farmers. The orange groves that lined
the road became crowds of people cheering us on. The orange fruit changed to
the famous Flanders flag that dot the landscape during the race. I heard the
screams of fans and saw their faces as they poured out their boundless
enthusiasm for what we were attempting to do. They understood that we were a
group of champions, and that whoever would take the victory would be considered
the true King of the Cobbles. While in reality the road is quite smooth, I took
every opportunity to ride on the cracked, bumpy sections. This back road sees
very little traffic, and I imagined each passing car as a team vehicle coming
up to yell instructions to their rider.
No one shifted down over the
small rises. We all just powered over them, pretending they weren’t there. None
were as steep as the Koppenberg or Oude Kwaremont, but they sting. No one
shifts down. Instead we pound out a slow rhythm, forcing our legs to continue
to do the work necessary to keep up.
As a group, we were equal,
all sharing the work. Except that Merckx seemed to take longer turns at the
front- playing the mind games that set him up for the physical devastation he
loved to bring. The hum of the drivetrain and wheels created a mechanical
melody and mostly drowned out the audible element of our effort.
The bleak sky that normally
highlights the green fields to the north and hillside to the south instead cast
a serious tone. I was fully immersed in my imaginary race. I saw the
orange-brown Faema jersey of Merckx, the pale blue of Boonen and the
multi-colored cubes on Museeuw. Van Petegem stood out in his red and blue. But
De Vlaeminck was the most colorful, the red stripes and blue upper of his
Brooklyn team kit contrasting with the dark skies. As we rode on to the finish
our demeanor and attitude became more serious with every passing kilometer.
Off of South Mountain road,
we turned to HWY 126. This is a two lane freeway with a massive shoulder. The
quite of the back road was replaced with the monsterously loud rumbling of
trucks and cars. It became hard to keep visualizing myself racing the greats.
At this point we had only 20k to go. Now was a dangerous time. Anyone could
make a move. And while it would likely not work this far out, no one was going
to let anyone go. So the pace quickened in a subtle and almost imperceptible
way. Breathing was now more labored and the strain was creeping in. Behind
Museeuw, I looked to see if I could find any weakness in his repaired left
knee. Of course there was none.
It was Merckx up front,
followed by De Vlaeminck, Van Petegem, Museeuw, Boonen and myself rotating
through the pace line like teammates. We were clear from the chase group
behind, and one of us would be the winner for sure. But in this group, it’s not
enough to win- the goal is to dominate.
Our route was straight and in
the wind, so our progress slowed while the effort increased. Soon, we would be
turning to the finishing straight, which in reality is where the sprint line is
for a weekly group ride. Now we were shifting down for the rises, De Vlaeminck
and Merckx reaching to their downtubes while the rest of us pushed levers.
Soon enough we were off the
126 and on the surface roads leading the sprint. With only 5k to go, it was now
very serious. First to go was De Vlaeminck. I think he felt the need to prove
something to Merckx. But Van Petegem covered his attack and we all followed
suit. These are the desperate times for a bike racer. You don’t want to use up
your energy too soon, but you can’t let someone just ride away either. If you
wait for someone else to cover an attack, they may not want to, or have the
legs to respond and any chance you had of winning a sprint can be gone in a
flash.
Next to take off was Boonen.
Maybe he thought the advantages of a carbon bike and deep section wheels would
prove a difference maker. Quickly he got a gap, and we looked to Museeuw to
cover. If Museeuw wanted to prove that he was the original Lion of Flanders, it
was up to him. He took to the front, his face twisted in agony. But the road
ahead kept bending slightly north, and more into the wind. Boonen hadn’t
realized it and now his normally fluid pedal stroke was reduced to a mashing of
squares. To the regular observer, Museuuw’s facial expression would be one of
pain. But bike riders know that expression can be sheer joy when you are
crushing a rival.
Behind him, Merckx and myself
were tagged on. Van Petegem was behind De Vlaeminck, and when he couldn’t
respond to the acceleration Van Petegem was in the wrong place at the wrong
time. We had less than a K to go. It was down to three.
Museeuw was now realizing
what Boonen had miscalculated and was straining mightily. Merckx was almost
casual, leaving him out front to die a painful death. I took the chance to look
back and saw Boonen with his head down, defeated and De Vlaeminck and Van
Petegem working to catch back up but not gaining an inch. It would be a sprint
to line.
As he tired, Museeuw thrashed
wildly, trying to get everything out of his body and bike. With sheer
confidence, Merckx rose up out of his saddle and began his charge. His leather
shoes strained at the straps, his steel bike twisting beneath him. I knew this
would come, and was prepared to go. When I saw Merckx reach down to shift one
last time, I knew it was coming.
Straight away I was on his
wheel. Despite the heaviness of my legs I strained to give it all I could. I
was in the right place and on the right wheel, everything was in place. I
kicked up on Merckx’s left side, trying to get past before the line. Drawing up
with his rear wheel, I was gaining precious inches. When I was up to his side
he gave another kick, something I didn’t think he could do.
Of course he could, this was
Merckx after all. I had to dig again just to stay even. Now it wasn’t a matter
of who was fastest, but who could hold it to the line. My vision was going
blurry from the effort but I could see the line coming quickly. I mashed out a
few more strokes then threw my bike at the line in desperation.
Rolling past the sprint line
I was quickly back in reality. Cars filed into Starbucks and Chevron, each
fueling up for the day ahead. I caught my breath as I soft pedaled to a stop
light. In one last vision, I saw myself on the podium, receiving some award
from the podium girl and hearing the crowd roar. But, as I looked up and to my
left, it was Merckx on the top step, hoisting the trophy. It couldn’t have been
any other way.
