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102nd Paris-Roubaix - CDM
France, April 11, 2004
The roadsides to Roubaix: Beer and frites in northern France
The struggle between the riders is Paris-Roubaix's big show, but the race's atmosphere comes from the thousands of cheering fans that line the roads between Compeigne and Roubaix velodrome - and especially the Belgians. Gabriella Ekström gives a taste of the atmosphere of the Queen of the Classics.
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Fancy a quiet Sunday shopping in Paris, or would you rather do as everyone else and check out the quality of the mud and the growth on the fields north of France's capital city for a change? With over a century of history, it's not strange at all that everything and everyone in northern France is focused on just on thing this Sunday, and be certain that it's not Easter they are celebrating.
Some say that it's like a mini Tour de France, and that you'll meet all the same people here that you would meet during the greatest of stage races. Someone else says that as much is said over the radio during this single day on he paved roads between Paris and Roubaix as will be said for three weeks in July.
"Chute Lampre, FDJeux, Lotto, Landbouwkredit!" the radio alarms, as if to confirm that notion. The narrow roads and the nervousness of the early race have already started to take their toll on the riders.
They are off after sixty nervous minutes at the start in Compiegne, where the fans braved the cold weather to mix and mingle with the riders who were circling around as tense as thoroughbred race horses.
However, the fans who are patiently waiting along the road have no race radios. Before TV goes live, they follow the race through hearsay and put their faith to the steady stream of news from those who have been to the start and are now starting to fill up the roadside. Wherever you look, there are people crowding alongside the cobbled country roads, at some places leaving nothing but a sixty centimetre gap for the riders to squeeze through.
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They have to leave more than that for our Opel to squeeze through, as we take a short cut ahead of the riders on the parcours. We are not planning to tell Avis that the little Sunday drive we rented the car for was Paris-Roubaix, on the parcours. We drive over the sun-kissed, light yellow cobblestones of pavé sector 23 (they count from the end), and pull to the road side in Saint Python.
We are now overlooking a long cobbled slope sweeping into the village and I have been warned. They will come flying down here like madmen. "Seriously, beware of the team cars. They are out of control!" There's a huge number of Belgian spectators enjoying themselves at the side of the road. Not only does there seem to be more of them than the French fans, but they also overpower everyone else when it comes to cheering. As I'm writing that, the man next to me on the roadside bursts into laughter and doesn't stop until he is out of breath.
Everyone seems perfectly updated on the race situation and their Flandrian flags are slowly waving against the green bushes and the blue sky, lowered against the ground as the crowds wait for the lead riders. The helicopters are the first sign of the peloton approaching and also the signal that sets the flags off and makes the crowd scream with their full lung power. Everyone backs off a metre as the first cars come flying down the battered road, followed by the lead group of riders. It looks like they are out of control, but somehow they are still controlling the bikes that are flying everywhere over the cobbles. The riders' faces are already brown from the dust, and they don't seem to pay any attention to the fact that they are riding at sixty kilometres an hour, just millimetres from the faces of the spectators as they flick over the grass to the smoother trail beside the road. Behind the early leaders follows a vibrant mix of riders and team cars, furiously racing down this illusion of a road, always on the verge of a possibly disastrous crash.
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We'd previously snuck past the race on country roads and empty parts of the parcours, and it's now time to get our car back out on the road and get going again. Unfortunately someone doesn't agree with our schedule and has triple-parked us. We eventually escape. Next stop is Arenberg Forest where the fog from the French fries hangs low under the wet tree branches, and where an amazing abundance of beer is being carried out from the town, into the woods this Sunday afternoon.
A policeman is patiently chasing a flag-wrapped Johan Museeuw fan who is well past beer time, and is now running in the middle of the road, cheered by the rest of the spectators. He finally gives in and lets the police catch him, and the mellow policeman agrees to pose with the Flandrian lion before leading the jolly spectator away.
The arrival of the riders is marked by the herd of motorcycles stopping at key locations in the chilly forest, dropping off their load of photographers. A few Godverdomme's are heard as the crowds merge deeper into the forest on the slippery grass, awaiting the riders. A deafening sound marks the presence of the first helicopter, and after a low sweep over the forest, the helicopter hovers over the entrance to the forest, just where the village road merges with the cobbles of Arenberg. The first of the cars enter the forest, to the enjoyment of the crowds, who will become even happier when one of the front running cars breaks down with a loud crack at an especially tricky part of the forest.
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Just as the whistle goes to mark the arrival of the first riders, another fan sprints out into the middle of the road, and this time the police are less patient. They quickly grab him and throw him back over the fence where he came from, accidentally pulling his [pants round his ankles in the process. Suddenly the gate at the entrance to the forest, that has just been lifted briefly until now, opens and stays open, and far away in the village you can see solo leader Rolf Aldag emerge. A notably thinner field with all the favourites positioned follows, and disappears behind the rows of yellow and black flags, the very same ones that Leif Hoste will later curse and rip out of his wheel.
A massive crash somewhere in the forest stops the vehicles for a while, but most of the spectators have already turned their back to the broad path in the forest, and are already thinking about the velodrome in Roubaix.
A few helpful policemen guide us towards and through the suburb of Hem, and suddenly we find ourselves on the very last section of pavé, this newer edition being made up of fancier cobblestones than the ones the riders have suffered over during the day.
The temperature rises inside the velodrome as the riders pictured on the big screen TV hits ten kilometres to go, and the shocked roar grows as one voice when Johan Museeuw punctures from the lead group with seven kilometres to go. The fans around the outside of the track, and the media on the wet grass in the middle all divide their attention between the figures on the screen, and the opening in the velodrome where they are just about to emerge.
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The numerous TV cameras are all battling for position within the media area, and if I said that the temperature rose before, the goose bumps on my arms speak differently as the four riders swerve around the corner on to the old velodrome. Survivors of an epic 260km battle across the cobbled trenches of Northern France, they prepare for the sprint that will immortalise one of them, and it suddenly makes perfect sense that so many people have lined the roads today to watch these gladiators in action, just as they have every year since Paris-Roubaix was founded in 1896.
Photography
Images by Chris Henry/Cyclingnews.com
- The Belgian who can't stop drinking becomes the Belgian who can't stop laughing
- The peloton roars downhill to the end of Secteur pavé 23. But watch out for the team cars...
- The rowdy, merry bunch awaits the riders at the beginning of the Arenberg Forest
- Two riders trailing the main field hit a traffic jam in the Arenberg Forest as fans begin to take over the cobbles
- The big screens keep everyone enthralled inside the Roubaix velodrome
- The main field sweeps through the velodrome long after Bäcksted has won the day
- The riders are heading home but the party's still going
