The Hell of the North — Where my wheels go

Nothing can compare to a spring-time ride on rough roads across the muddy and war-wounded fields of Flanders in search of Belgian beer and frietjes. Nothing, absolutely nothing.

We, the 6,000, meet in the thin light of dawn and stand in a mighty long queue which rounds both bends of the running track at the Centre des Sports in Roubaix. An overly excited announcer shouts into his mic how each of us will be a hero if we conquer ‘The Hell of the North’. In between his hyperbole, Europop storm-blasts the eardrums.

After three-quarters of an hour of shuffling, we are under the start banner. Flames spout beside the banners. For 50km, we ride on quiet roads which head straight into the winds of storm Kathleen. Trees bend. Balance is troubled by the roughness of the air. Peletons, fifty strong pass me, carbon wheels purring. Jerseys from Warminster, Oudenaarde, France Nord. I join each group which appears in silent stealth from behind, tucking in behind the leaders, only to watch the inevitable passing of barely breathing young men, chatting with their friends in Dutch, Flemish, Italian and French. I slide towards the back, wondering if it’s worth the effort to keep up, or am I better pootling alone into the headwind alone. My heart rate is as high as if I was sprinting for a line.

After nearly two hours of roads, we arrive at the 2.4km Arenberg Trench - as straight as a Roman road, the rough stone cuts through a dark forest. The stones it is said, were laid by Napoleon’s men to ease his way across the fields of Flanders towards his defeat at Waterloo. Cyclists stop to take pictures, by-standers clap and cheer, workmen erect barriers, pressmen take photos. Those sleek and often the not so sleek, lycra-clad souls who chatted with such abandonment this morning, wobble and weave, struggle and fight with each and every stone. It makes passing them all the more challenging, for they ride on the crown of the road.

There is only one way to ride the cobbles; full gas. The ride is smoother if you do. That said, any bone not tightly tendoned is liable to work loose. Skin on the hands is rubbed raw. I dance with my partner, a twenty-year old Specialized Tri-cross. Together, we mix cha-cha with heavy metal head-banging.

The stones are my nirvana. I love their roughness, the dips and edges, their gaps. I love too the mud which binds them. Mud, dust, dirt, silt, call it what you will. It coats you with an extra layer, weedles its way behind contact lenses, fills the mouth and ears. Geologists call it loess, saying that it is windblown dust created by a million years of climate cycles, each age weathering the bedrock into windblown silt, with each grain measuring 0.050 of a millimetre.

With the approach of each secteur, my spirits soar. It’s true what they say; ride hard and fast over the stones and the passage is smoother. The challenge is that the slower riders occupy the prime position of the road; the crown. Passing them requires planning. I need to anticipate which way they’ll lurch as they tentatively mount each block of stone, their wheels disobedient to their commands. From the central spine, the roads bank steeply down and the sides are potholed, the stones more widely spaced apart due to the passing of heavy farm machinery. On the three star Tilloy-à Sars-et-Rosiere, I overtake again the man from Edinburgh who has passed me on each of the tarmac’d interludes. He shouts as I pass, ‘you’re good on the cobbles, aren’t you?’ On another three star secteur, Cysoing à Boughelles, a man from Bradford leaves his line in the centre of the road and bounces into my path. We manage to avoid a crash. He calls me a ‘fucking dangerous twat’. On the two star Templeuve, a Frenchman also looses his grip on the road and brushes into me; ‘pardon monsieur, pardon, pardon’.

The countryside if that is the term for the industrialised soaking of the huge fields with nitrates and glyphosphates, smells of rotting vegetation. A thin green slime comes the waves of ploughed Ice-Age silt. Horizons are etched with lines of filligree poplars. Thin crowds stand on the green verges either side of the narrow lanes clapping and cheering as we pass. Some hold signs of encouragement; ‘bravo papa’ and ‘keep going John’.

On each of the tarmac interludes, my legs turn heavy but my heart-rate remains high. I cannot encourage it to calm down. All those I’ve shot past in the devil’s dance are now silking their way past me.

Some distance before the town we rattle over the Carrefour d’Arbre, the last and most infamous of the five star secteurs. Blood-red stains the cloth of my mitts from hands rubbed raw. Legs and lungs struggle to keep up with the head’s continuing enthusiasm. I do not take in anything of this infamous section. My mind rattles and is blank.

Then after 146.8km, the Vélodrome André-Pétrieux. A vertiginous bank curves around its bends. After all the stones, this is the moment when I fear to fall. Sliding ignominiously down its face in full view of the crowded stands. But the tyres hold, as they have held all day. After half a lap of the famous track, I cross the finish line, surrounded by emotional people, some holding their bikes aloft, others holding hands as they free-wheel the last few metres. There’s a huge queue for a medal which I forego. Memories are more tactile. My only thought is this; where’s the beer and chips?

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Cobbled joy