Cyclists in the peloton are like soldiers galloping across the battle fields of Flanders on their Flemish horses. They are our heroes and, like the Second World War where soldiers saved us from being taken over by Germans, they save our honour each weekend by squashing the opposition on two wheels.
Cycling races are like a battle. The front line is dangerous; you don’t want to be exposed on the bike either. The infantry if fighting on wheel, not on foot, and the front line is for domestiques who will sacrifice themselves for their captain. My favourite French race is called Hell of the North. Rough old cobbled paths stretch along the Belgian border and form part of the route. The French cobbles bring the Belgians out there in force.
The cyclists are manoeuvring through the trenches which reek of vile mud. The wind and the bitter cold bite their pistons and their fingers tips. They feel nervous. They grin and, at the same time, feel frightened of what will come next. In the peloton, they yell and point out the pot holes as if they were mines. They plough through the dust and venture deep into no-man’s-land in the middle of the bare potato fields. They are often blinded by the dust, the sweat and even the tears. They are left behind in their despair and in pure solitude if they lose the battalion or the bunch. Tyres are exploding like bombs. You can hear bullets flying past, but these are snot bullets propelled at high speed out of the ever-expanding nostrils gasping for air. For both soldiers and cyclists, the radio is communicating about the enemies’ whereabouts and positions. The cold is fought off with neoprene boots instead of army boots, their helmets are made of light polystyrene instead of heavy metals, and the team leaders drive a Skoda instead of a tank. The only things falling from the sky here are the drink bottles thrown by the riders to save some weight and the March showers, often releasing hail stones and tick snowflakes that will freeze you to the bone