My hands, arms and shoulders were by now aching. Ed was cycling in a strange low slung position, his seat too low, stretched across his bike. We did not talk, grim determination had set in.
For the last seven hours we had been on the road and cobbles of North France. The cobbled sections of road are known as pavé. With great enthusiasm, Ed and myself had entered the Paris to Roubaix sportive, a sort of race across the pavé and roads leading north to the small town of Roubaix, near Lille. I was attracted to the race by images of a glorious entry to the velodrome in Roubaix, my face splattered with mud after a long hundred miles in the saddle. The pavé little more than a few bumpy streets. Little did I know about the pain I had signed up for.
Undaunted, we set off from Lille at 6.30 in the morning, with Enzo, Aurora and Lidia, our bikes resting in the back of the car. We drove down through sleepy northern France, still resting under the mist. The shutters were down as we drifted through the small towns.
I had never thought of riding a road bike until a few years back, when my father in law, Enzo, saw my home built single speed bike. This beautiful machine shows it's age, being a rough steal bike, not a Specialissima. In Italy, there is no such term as a road bike. As Enzo recalled to Ed and I the night before the race, there are bikes and then there are Specialissimas. My single speed is no Specialissima. So I was gifted Enzo's beloved but old Giant Cadex. A classic early carbon fibre Specialissima. I have been speeding around the hills of the South Coast for two years now, and it was time to take the old Specialissima on a real journey.
My Paris-Roubaix began in the small town of Bohain. We drove in, confronted by Lycra men zipping by in bunches, in stages of half dress perched by the back of open cars, talking to their wives, or setting off to the start line. After a few grumpy early morning moans to my wife Lidia, Ed and I were on the road, plowing past groups of mostly yellow clad Lycra men. The pace was fast, we did not know about the pavé.
Pavé, it is nice sounding word, softly spoken. It takes on another meaning when a Belgian come clattering past you, yelling, "Pavé!". It hit us hard. It slams the front wheel viciously. My fifteen year old Specialissima was in tears, this is not what she was built for. She cried from the headset, the chain set, the seat post. This was not smooth tarmac. Instead, the pavé drilled up through the handle bars into my thin arms. This is Paris-Roubaix. My perception narrowed down to the few feet in front of my wheels. My only thoughts were of the smooth hugs of tarmac at the end of the cobbles.
After thirty kilometers or so we rolled into the first of four check points to be greeted by Enzo, Lidia and Aurora. Bikes were lovingly fixed by Enzo, we ate and were soon off. The pavé became better, we became used to the feeling of being in control of a pneumatic drill, rather than a racing machine. The speed went up. Then wham.
Ed drifted of the the left and fell onto uncompromising tarmac. Scraping along sideways he slammed into the kerb and glided to a stop against a wall.
He was up fast, but it was not good. I have not seen anyone come off a bike before, and I don't wish to see it again. Perhaps it was not that bad, a regular spill you see on the tele during the Giro or Tour de France. Well, I now know that they hurt. Specialissimas and Eds are tough though, and were both up and on the road soon. After a bit of effort we pulled out of the French towns, pushed through the most ridiculous pavé in the Forest of Arenburg and rested in the small village of Wallers.
It was around five in the evening, the sun casting shadows across the mud and stones. Ed and I were grimly pedalling on. Yet, because of the pavé, and despite Ed's falls, this race was still something else. Bouncing through the lush fields, being cheered on at the end of a gruelling section of pavé and taking on chubby Belgians on the flat made this a beautiful race. Ed and I flew into the velodrome after ten hours in the saddle, seven of which were racing. I was splattered in mud. Ed has scars to display with pride. The Specialissima was glowing under the layers of mud. This race may be pain and pavé, but it is also glorious.
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Photos, scars and all are here and here. Ed wrote about our adventures on his blog, One More Cup of Coffee.
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