The Hell of the North is the most arduous one day test in cycling. They make special bikes just for this race.
They wrap extra tape around handlebars to cushion the blows from the road. Use extra wide tires at a lower pressure to lessen the risk of punctures.
The local councils have left the cobblestones – huge slabs of rutted rock with gaps between big enough to trap a tire – unpaved for years, especially for this event.
No one but farmers and, once a year, the world’s top cyclists and thousands upon thousands of cycling fans are seen anywhere near these infamous cobbles.
The riders cycle flat out at impossible, bone-jarring speeds over these ancient roads, old lanes that weave through lands that have witnessed man at his worst, and at his glorious, filthy best.
At his worst was during two world wars, when hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, died in the muddy, battered fields that lay by these roads. The earth along the route saw some of the heaviest bombardments known in history.
At his best is in this race, Paris-Roubaix, as these skinny, dirt-covered men fight like gladiators on two wheels, each striving to impose his own will on his rivals and upon the race, the latter task being impossible to all but a select few.
Much like Mt Ventoux of the Tour de France or the Stelvio of the Giro d’Italia, it is the route that conquers the man and not the other way around.
Say the names of the sections of cobblestones to any avid cyclist and their eyes will twinkle with a mixture of trepidation, mischief and delight.
The Trouee de Arenberg and the Carrefour de l’Arbre are the most famous, but on each section the crowds gather up to a dozen deep, kilometre after kilometre, lit up by Belgian ale and the frisson of excitement that ripples through the crowd as the race approaches and those with hand-held radios communicate the state of affairs down the line to the throng.
Nobody knows quite who first coined the phrase ‘Hell of the North’ but it came about after World War One, when some French journalists, in 1919, decided to go and see just how much of the route remained.
As Les Woodland of Cyclingnews tells the tale, the name was nothing to do with the state of the roads:
“Nine million had died and more from France than any other nation. Further south, news from the war zone was scant. Communications were down. Sure, there could be another race. But who knew if there was still a road to Roubaix? More than that, was Roubaix still there? So in 1919 the organisers drove off to look.
“At first all appeared well. There was destruction and misery, yes, and a strange shortage of men, but the country had survived. You can imagine the restrained relief in the little exploratory party. But suddenly things changed. The air began to reek of sewage and rotting cattle. Trees became blackened, ragged stumps. Everywhere was mud.
“To describe it as ‘hell’ was the only word. The little party had seen the hell of the north – in this particular case, the French administrative region of the North in which Roubaix stands. And that’s how they reported it in their papers next day.
“But hell was the post-war condition, not the state of the roads. Nobody thought the roads were hellish because that’s just how roads were.”
First held in 1896, Paris-Roubaix is one of the very oldest races in the world.
The region in which the race is held was once scattered with mining towns, whose sons, eager to escape the harsh life underground, took to their bikes in desperate bids to become professional cyclists, along with many farmers’ sons.
The winners list of Paris-Roubaix reads like a who’s who of cycling. Just about every single great of the sport has won there, apart from a precious few who deemed the race a joke, being, in their eyes, too dangerous, too long (around 250km), too cold (invariably) and all round just too much of a crap shoot.
Yet no matter what its detractors may say, to the great majority Paris-Roubaix embodies all that is great about cycling.
It demands the utmost concentration, preparation, a devotion to pain that otherwise would be branded a sign of insanity, and a desire to win, to impose one’s will on the universe, however briefly that may be.
If you witnessed Tom Boonen’s victory last year, after he soloed 52km to the line, you’ll know what I mean.
We are, each of us, but a miniscule dot in the great scheme of things, but on that day Boonen was heard, make no mistake. The gods sat up at the echo of his name in the clouds. Who knows, they were probably quaffing a Trappiste, munching on frites mayonnaise and watching the race as it unfolded.
All of this combines to make this, for me, the race I love the most. You can take the Tour de France, with all its pomp and ceremony and the circus that surrounds it, and the near impossible demands it makes on its contestants, and you can love it, as I do too – but it has lost the purity of Roubaix.
Then there’s Giro d’Italia. Romantic, beautiful and still in touch with that old tradition the sport thrives on, but it’s three weeks and those who can win are very few. It’s a diluted form of racing.
The Tour of Flanders? Close, and also a one day race. Milan-San Remo? Beautiful also, with no hiding place, but its challenges cannot compare to Roubaix.
Every pro dreams of Roubaix. I’ll never race it, ever, and yet even at 40, I dream of racing Roubaix…
For everything that cycling means to me, for the dedication it requires, the desire to write one’s name on the walls of history, for the suffering it imposes, and for its ability to take these young, rough men and turn them into nobles, princes and kings: there is no better spectacle than Paris-Roubaix.
It is everything.
It is cycling.
Paris-Roubaix 2013 will be held on 7 April.
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