Roubaix: Harder Than Jens

Jens does not shower here

It is no secret within the walls of Chez Lazlo that the Bomber loves herself as much of the Jens Voigt as she can get. Point of fact, I too invoke the Name of the Jens in those desperate moments when my lesser self whispers it might be ok to give up and let the group go up the road without me. Without fail, the inner Jens commands "Shut up legs!" and the legs, they shut up. We can be hard because there is something harder than us: Jens. Nothing is harder than Jens.

Or so we thought.

In the months before our Belgian adventure, among the most frequent topics during our ritual drinking of the coffees in the pre-dawn darkness was how great it would, nee (that's "no" in Flemish...don't say I can't immerse myself in other cultures), WILL be to meet Jens Voigt. Despite years of watching the Ronde and Roubaix, it never dawned on us that we never saw Jens in those races. They are the hardest races on the calendar, of course Jens does those races! We assumed the biggest problem Jens had with the Ronde and Roubaix was gaining an unwanted kilo or two from snacking on the cobblestones themselves.

Jens does not ride here

Though the shock has irretrievably obscured my memory of the moment it happened, I know that soon after joining the Peter and Lisa Show, one of us girlishly exclaimed how exciting it would be to actually MEET JENS VOIGT. I think it was the Bomber that did that. I'm pretty sure, anyway. Yet no sooner did those words sing out than Lisa blithely replied there would be no Jens Among The Cobbles because these races were...Too Hard. Jens, she said, did not like the cobbles. As my friend Lon radioed when his helicopter came under friendly fire during a rescue mission in one of our country's many nation building exercises, "What the fuck? Over."

I would be lying if I said we did not consider abandoning our Belgian adventure before it began, though likely for different reasons. The Bomber was crushed that she might never get to meet Jens, nor would she see him ride again (she almost tore a finger off ringing a cowbell when she saw him lead the first group up Mt. Palomar in the Tour of California). I, on the other hand, was frightened to the point of paralysis by the thought of riding something that Jens considered too hard. Of course your vicarious lives would be less rich had we abandoned in that moment of weakness, and as you now know we pressed on, on into the cobbles, to discover what made the hardest man in the pro peloton stay south of Paris during the first weeks of April each year.

Know this: Jens Voigt is no dummy

They look like headstones on a grave, don't they? A great big two to three kilometer grave. By the way, that's Colin peeing in the background. For a former semi-pro rugby player - in Australia no less - the guy had to stop to pee more than an Australian semi-pro rugby player. And as long as I am digressing, we started the day in Tournai, which boasts a cathedral and pretty damn impressive semi-cathedral all in the same square.

Not the cathedral. This is where we stayed in Tournai. Unlike the Cathedral of Tournai, beer is served here. Hence a picture of the hotel, and no picture of the cathedral.

Word is Tournai was a major pilgrimage destination back in the day. Still is, as a matter of fact. Only now - and this is "true" in the more commonly accepted definition of the term than is usually employed here in the YSCX blogiverse - it is a primary destination for ginormously be-boobed Brazilian transvestites and their, um, I don't know, guys who hang out with ginourmously be-boobed Brazilian transvestites. Which is one of those facts that would have served the aforementioned Colin in very good stead had he been aware of it when he leapt from the van to photograph a "woman" whose be-boobs were each the size of TWO (count 'em) TWO Roubaix cobbles. (No photos from us because we are classy, classy people.)

See how I brought that back around like I did? Clever, yes? Perhaps maybe I don't have to work for a living so much anymore and can live a life of leisure like Kevin and Sarah pretty soon maybe. Just get paid for writing down the words in a particular order. Nice, that.

Belgium, as you may know, recently set the record for going the longest period of time without a government. This is not so surprising once you have ridden from one town, where everyone speaks Flemish (and very good English) and the road signage is likewise Flemish, to another town less than 10 km away, in the Walloon region, where everyone speaks French (and only French). Yet there is one constant throughout Belgium (perhaps it will one day serve as the foundation for a new government), the roads are immacualtely clean. Coming from the land of shattered 40 ounce malt liquor bottles, I was overjoyed to discover there was no need to dodge anything on the roads. Except the cobbles, road furniture, tractors, cow shit and curbs. But no broken glass! Heaven indeed!

However, the Paris-Roubaix happens in France. What with the EU making the border guards that barely glanced up from their newspapers and coffees as we rode by something less than superfluous (just plain fluous?), here's how to tell you are now cycling in France: broken glass. Seems we share something besides a fondness for fraternite, egalite and liberty (the iPad does not do accent marks so I must revert to my native language) the tossing of glass containers from speeding vehicles. If only the dirtbag rednecks around here knew they were chanelling their inner Frenchman whenever they launch one of their dead soldiers into the bike lane with the sort of glottal burble that passes for laughter in the stagnant backwaters of the gene pool. So after 40 kilometers of dodging deconstructed wine bottles, we (unlike Jens) were quite happy to see this:


Our ride began with Sector 16: the Forest of Arenberg. In a rare serious moment I will note that after you have ridden in this region you become less inclined to describe the race through the Forest of Arenberg as "scenes of carnage" because you see more than a few of these along the way:



Meanwhile, back in the Forest...


...we discovered French cobbles are not "cobbles" in the Belgian sense of the word, that is, carefully hewn stones arranged purposefully into a roadway. French cobbles are huge square rocks shoved in the dirt so tractors don't get stuck in the mud. Furthermore, exactly as it is impossible for a bumblebee to fly, it is impossible to ride a bicycle over the "cobbled" "roads" of Northern France. So, to get from here (Paris...yes, yes, Compienge) to there:


...the velodrome in Roubaix, via bicycle, you must:

(1) hit the cobbles at full gas:


...(2) keep your hands on the tops and understand that you will probably not be able to shift gears because the handlebar will not be where you left it when you try to put your hand back:


...and (3) do not think about what you are doing, because it's not actually possible.

A much more sensible way to get across the cobbles. If you value good sense, I suppose.

Roubaix turns the cycling paradigm upside down. Usually, those who are less susceptible to gravity's pull float away from those of us with a more intimate connection to Newton's claim to fame as we grapple with upturned roads. Not Roubaix, though. Here, the name of the game is keeping the rear wheel on the ground. Persons of insufficient heft suddenly discover gaps opening in front of them, where once they only opened behind, as their bikes spend more time in the air than, well, not in the air. As an aside, I hereby extend an invitation to Seamus to accompany me back to this wonderful place for 100 kilometers of payback.

Needless to say, I enjoyed myself immensely. Like the Twilight Zone episode in which the hideously disfigured boy is taken to the planet of hideously disfigured peope where he is considered beautiful, I delighted as the strong and speedy, but tragically skinny, riders of our tour were bounced from my wheel, never to be seen again until an hour after my own arrival in Roubaix.


Ah yes, but what of the Bomber? Due to her ripping fitness, the Bomber's power was as up as her weight was down. The last time I saw the Bomber on the day she had rolled through Arenberg like a true Rouleur:


As I counted down the Sectors, however, I spared a thought or two for the beating these roads were giving the Bomber. As always, though, the Bomber lived up to her billing as tough and fast. And tough. Reports were given to me at checkpoints along the way that the Bomber was killing the cobbles, counting them down with a huge smile on her face. So it was with equal surprise that I met her group on its arrival at the velodrome, each of us asking the other, "Where the hell is the Bomber?"

To answer that question, we need to return to Sector Four. Literally.

Sector Four, the Carrefour de l'Arbre.

Once a slaughterhouse, now a cafe open only on the weekend of the race, Sector Four is brutally difficult. Race winning attacks are launched here. Of course, although the race leader is the first cyclist on the road, all he needs to do is follow the batallion of motos and cars to find his way to Sector Three, and so on all the way to Roubaix. The Bomber did not have this luxury, and as a result, missed the turn for Sector Three, and described a large arc aaaaaaalllllllllll the way back to the beginning of Sector Six. Admittedly, the Bomber was daunted to find herself every bit of 25 kilometers BEHIND the the point at which she left the course. Only after several helpful Frenchmen attempted to direct her back to the Carrefour de l'Arbre - and the Bomber inexplicably chose not to knock on the door of Team Sky's bus - did she cross paths with one of Her Majesty's subjects (Dave from England) who guided her towards Roubaix until the intrepid Eric found her and rode her to the finish (by this time my legs were cramping at the mere thought of a bicycle). And so, though belated, the Bomber triumphed over 110 MILES of the Paris-Roubaix parcours:

Also pictured is the insufficiently Anglican-named "Dave" who will forever be fondly remembered within YSCX. As Nigel.

So the Bomber took her lap on the Velodrome's (surprisingly steep) turns:



Then, like so many of the hardest cyclists in history before her, the Bomber hit the showers:

A place Jens does not go.

Frank Lazlo