Posted by Radio Freddy, December 29, 2009 | Peter Easton | Spring Classics Mons-en-Pevele is listed as sector 10 on the race map of Paris-Roubaix. The 3,000 meters of pavé begins after 210.5 kilometers of racing. From the end, 45 kilometers remain to the velodrome in Roubaix. It is rated five stars, but don’t let the star rating fool you, all the sectors are difficult. It is here, across the repetitive and barren fields of this sector that my feeling of solitude sinks to one of isolation and loneliness. The fatigue that dissipated temporarily on the paved roads is gnawing at me constantly. My helmet feels too tight, and my shoes feel too small. I’ve anticipated this moment since my ride began 40 kilometers before the Arenberg Forest. I locate the barn near the end of the track, but no farmer. Bales of hay litter the field, but there are no tractors. A dog barks behind a fence, but I don’t see any people.
There is a distinct difference between solitude and loneliness. I enjoy the feelings that accompany my solitude when I choose to ride alone. Even during the long and difficult ascents of the Alps and the Dolomites, I can calculate my effort and ration my resources. There is a certain comfort that comes with finding a level of pain that is manageable and when the pain increases, I always have the scenery to distract me from my senses. But this calculation of effort, rationing of resources and strength, the distractions, this is not part of riding Paris-Roubaix. It’s just not possible.
 Riding the pavé is lonely. There is no warning, and the loneliness arrives at the most inopportune moments. I’ve hallucinated, bit my tongue and ridden so slow my speed can only be described as a crawl. I’ve spewed unimaginable curses from my blood stained lips, barely audible above the chattering and clanging of my bike. I’ve shivered uncontrollably at being too cold, and sweated profusely at being too hot. I can’t satiate my hunger or quench my thirst. This ride mocks my cycling skills; it dares me to go faster then rewards me by thrusting more pain through my body. The start list is reserved for 192 riders, some who live for this race, many who would rather be somewhere else. If riding in the Tour de France is a badge of courage, then riding Paris-Roubaix is the Purple Heart.
Many of the well-known cobbled sectors of Flanders -the Paddestraat, Lippenhoeventsraat and the Haeghoek to name a few- all serve local traffic on a daily basis. The Lange Munte is a national road. These cobbles are difficult, but their size and pattern are contiguous. They are laid in a repetitive pattern, each stone cut and sized precisely so it can be hand set by a mason. The stones that make up the sectors of pavé of Paris-Roubaix are large and rough cut, laid randomly across a path to provide traction for farm equipment. There are large areas where some stones have sunken inches, while others have heaved. There are gutters, swales, uneven crowns, enormous gaps and gaping holes. It feels like at any moment something evil is going to spring from its underworld, grab hold of my front wheel and drag me under. Once on the stones of Roubaix, you wish you were back on the cobbles of Flanders.
Perhaps there is some analogy to be taken from this, some higher meaning. Can riding this course that we know as l’Enfer du Nord be considered a redemptive pilgrimage, an annual penance through purgatory? Each sector methodically removes more sin, the suffering across the minefields slowly purifying the rider until reaching the holy waters of the Roubaix velodrome, the vestige of its winners glistening from the stalls where the finishers weep. After this symbolic cleansing, are we not now ready to face any challenge? Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Even the devil has a hard time glorifying hell.
 Paris-Roubaix does not need to rely on poetry to market itself. It lays dormant all but one day a year, rising up the second Sunday of every April to mock those riders who avoid it, and unleash a storm of brutality on those who dare tread on it. I regularly ask myself what is the attraction? What is the reason behind my choosing loneliness and isolation? I’m both blessed and cursed with an innate desire to equate my own abilities with the numerous single day race courses of the Classics and at my own mental and physical level, understand the pain that is inflicted across, in this case, 257 kilometers that purposefully look for the most demented roads of Northern France. After all, there are dozens of mountain passes to climb, but there is only one Paris-Roubaix.
It is this singularity, this oddity that I believe is its allure. The majestic mountain peaks of the Pyrénées or the Alps are the attraction of the L’Etape, for instance, and of course, the Tour de France. Locals and tourists alike, wiling away their time on a hot summer day, enjoying a French tradition that is as important as the wine and cheese they make. Much like the biggest tour stages, these days are transient, and only relate to the mountain tops they finish on for that day. Next year the story will be some other peak, and after so many years, I do not remember what stage was won by whom atop which mountain. But Paris-Roubaix remains unchanged. Riding the course always remains an option. There is no hype; no one will exclude you; there is no deadline for registration; no training weekends to prepare for it, and no vintage bike or retro wool clothing to wear. Come as you are, when you want, good luck and Godspeed; you’re going to need it.
I’ve had the fortune of lifting the Paris-Roubaix trophy over my head. It weighs 33 kilograms. I commented to 2003 winner Peter Van Petegem that there is a certain indignity in making the winner lift a 33 kilogram stone after having just spent hours riding over thousands of them. “Ah, but when you win, you feel nothing” was his response. To feel nothing. Maybe that is why I ride it.
Posted by Radio Freddy, December 14, 2009 | Peter Easton | Point of View | Spring ClassicsIn the corner of a garage in Lede, Belgium, there are a dozen boxes stacked to the ceiling. Each box contains hundreds of small yellow flags with the black Flemish lion. This is the flag of the people, not the government. This is the identity of a culture that for centuries others have tried tirelessly to eradicate. When I speak with Ghislain, the owner, about bike racing, I speak of the favorites to win. He speaks of the Belgians. When he asks if I would like a beer, I am served a Westmalle Dubbel, his favorite Flemish beer. There are thousands of garages like this, and owners like Ghislain, many of whom I’ve met. They form the backbone of Flemish life, a culture that, unless you embrace, you risk remaining an outsider.
 On May 25, 1913, Belgian sports writer Karel Van Wijnendaele organized the first Tour of Flanders, crossing Dutch-speaking Belgium because “all Flemish cities had to contribute to liberate the Flemish people”. At the time, it was very important to give recognition to the Flemish, and the creation of the race did just that. De Ronde is as much a part of the heritage of the Flemish people as the processions of Veurne and Bruges, the Last Post at the Menin Gate of Ypres or the ship blessing at Ostend. This race is the most celebrated of all the Flemish festivals, and no other creates such an atmosphere, such a popular fervor. Flemish riders say to win, you need heart. If you feel Flanders in your blood, you feel the pain less in your legs.
While images of the Tour of Flanders conjure tales of heroic efforts across windswept cobbles and up mud soaked hills, for anyone who has ridden in these conditions, the effort is more damage control and survival, and any hint of heroism is aimed at trying to overcome the madness that has placed one in this position to begin with. There is a sense of romance about the places the Tour of Flanders passes through, a sense that there exist these utopian villages with shrines erected to memorialize the suffering. Iconic symbols must certainly mark this hallowed ground, designating the holy spots of our sport that those who live at the curbside must recognize and value. The truth is, yes, and no. Yes, they are significant locations in the world of cycling, but to the local population, they are only a small part of the important theme of every discussion cycling ultimately touches on here- life in Flanders.
 My feeling is this classic has survived intact because it was created for the people, ridden through the working man’s terrain, and meant to represent the people. It is not a marketing exercise or an upper class social event that caters to the wealthy, yet relies on the working class for support. There are rules, of course, and they are bent by many, but followed by the majority. There is a controlled chaos on the first Sunday every April that has one simple goal – to celebrate Flanders and the Flemish people. The roads are raced on for a few days of the year, but worked on every day. Tractors, cars and trucks, hauling hay, cattle, fruit and vegetables. Unlike the Tour de France, the heart of this masterpiece remains the same and the beauty of its content has been refined over time. Now, the biggest change is which climbs are excluded and what is the order ridden. But there is no grand announcement of the course, no invitation to attend a lavish ceremony in an ornately decorated theater, complete with speculators and prognosticators. It hasn’t been marginalized by TV, marketing, instant television heroes, or Lance Armstrong. “As a Belgian, winning Flanders for the first time is far more important than wearing the maillot jaune in the Tour” said Johan Museeuw, who accomplished both. Imagine the feeling that comes with winning the Tour of Flanders three times.
I can look at a map of the major mountain stages of the Tour and see exactly what the route is doing. To do this with Flanders means knowing the tiny roads and in doing so is to know the people, the culture, and understanding everyday life beyond bike racing. The beautiful part of looking at a race course and immediately envisioning the race-day strategy and knowing the small roads and villages it goes through is perhaps like being able to read music. While those who listen can appreciate the song, those who can read music and understand the score can better appreciate the symphonic nuances.
For Flanders, it’s the every day roads of rural life and agricultural lifestyle that suddenly become the story line for a modern bike race. There’s a left turn before the Paterberg when the road suddenly narrows to barely the width of a tractor. The twisting descent begins with a view looking across at the crest of the climb, and finishes with a sharp right hand turn at the bottom, best taken wide to the left to ease the transition onto the steep cobbles. On the Holleweg kasseien there is a paved section on the far left just next to the gutter 100 meters from the end. After 3200 meters of bone jarring cobbles, this is a stretch worth fighting for.
The route that connects the Oude Kwaremont, Paterberg, Koppenberg, Steenbeekdries, Taaienberg and Eikenberg is as beautiful a stretch as exists in bike racing. And that beauty is as visual as it is ephemeral. While we expect to see TV coverage of the ascent of the Koppenberg and the Muur, the excitement is somewhat muted by these expectations. It is the secrets that lay in the fields, draped across the hillsides, and hidden in village corners that I am connected to. And it is here that I memorize hundreds of images that flash by in a second, and when linked together create a perfectly edited film, repetitively viewed while counting down the days until spring.
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________________________________  ________________________________  ________________________________ FEATURED INTERVIEW  A Talk with Andy Hampsten ________________________________
FEATURED VIDEO  2006 Giro di Lombardia ________________________________
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________________________________  ________________________________ ________________________________
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Mons-en-Pevele is listed as sector 10 on the race map of Paris-Roubaix. The 3,000 meters of pavé begins after 210.5 kilometers of racing. From the end, 45 kilometers remain to the velodrome in Roubaix. It is rated five stars, but don’t let the star rating fool you, all the sectors are difficult. It is here, across the repetitive and barren fields of this sector that my feeling of solitude sinks to one of isolation and loneliness. The fatigue that dissipated temporarily on the paved roads is gnawing at me constantly. My helmet feels too tight, and my shoes feel too small. I’ve anticipated this moment since my ride began 40 kilometers before the Arenberg Forest. I locate the barn near the end of the track, but no farmer. Bales of hay litter the field, but there are no tractors. A dog barks behind a fence, but I don’t see any people. 
Riding the pavé is lonely. There is no warning, and the loneliness arrives at the most inopportune moments. I’ve hallucinated, bit my tongue and ridden so slow my speed can only be described as a crawl. I’ve spewed unimaginable curses from my blood stained lips, barely audible above the chattering and clanging of my bike. I’ve shivered uncontrollably at being too cold, and sweated profusely at being too hot. I can’t satiate my hunger or quench my thirst. This ride mocks my cycling skills; it dares me to go faster then rewards me by thrusting more pain through my body. The start list is reserved for 192 riders, some who live for this race, many who would rather be somewhere else. If riding in the Tour de France is a badge of courage, then riding Paris-Roubaix is the Purple Heart. 
Paris-Roubaix does not need to rely on poetry to market itself. It lays dormant all but one day a year, rising up the second Sunday of every April to mock those riders who avoid it, and unleash a storm of brutality on those who dare tread on it. I regularly ask myself what is the attraction? What is the reason behind my choosing loneliness and isolation? I’m both blessed and cursed with an innate desire to equate my own abilities with the numerous single day race courses of the Classics and at my own mental and physical level, understand the pain that is inflicted across, in this case, 257 kilometers that purposefully look for the most demented roads of Northern France. After all, there are dozens of mountain passes to climb, but there is only one Paris-Roubaix. 
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