Thursday, March 23, 2006
How Do You Know It's Spring?
According to a children’s song, “there will be no more snow, the flowers will grow, that’s how you know it’s Spring!”
Try telling that to a Classics cyclist.
It is one of the many cruel twists that comprise the professional cyclists life that after getting a taste of the more temperate climes along the French and Italian Riviera, that the real action of the “Spring” takes place on the still frozen grounds of Belgium. Small wonder, then, that the word means less about warming temperatures, the life-affirming effects of sunshine, the greening of the foliage to the men who contest the sports toughest one-day events, but rather conjures up images of rain, mud, pain, agony, (let’s face it, a dry Roubaix just doesn’t count) and for but a select few, also the sweet reward of victory.
Although now standing in the shadows of the grand tours – and above all The Tour – there is a special appeal of the Classics that make them just that: classic. For one thing, the Classics maintain the Aristotelian Unities of Drama: rather than an entire jour sans, it is instead a mere moment of inattention that often separates the champions from those contemplating what might have been. And though we are loathe to admit that the winner was perhaps not the strongest rider on the start line, the day’s spoils go to he who best combines athletic ability with tactical guile.
The races have earned their reputation as hard races for hard men, and when the two clash, it is not the race left wanting. Ballerini in frustration and coming so close – and yet remaining so far – in the Hell of the North had him vowing never to return to the velodrome of unrequited love. No such scene ever played out in the grand tours (though, for Abraham Olano’s sake, sometimes we wish it had). Sweeter than was the triumph when Ballerini did return to the Queen that had so often spurned him, but now fully embraced him.
The difficulty of the races and the tradition steeped into every oft-raced mile adds to the sense that this is the terrain of the seasoned veteran and not the Johnny-come-lately. Of course, every now and then there is a fluky ride that stands the conventional wisdom on its ear. But again those often prove to be just flukes. Just ask Frederic Guesdon. It is rare indeed that a rider has his debutante ball in April in Northern Europe. And woe is he who feels the Classics rained on his coming out. As an Italian teammate commented to Dario Pieri on realizing his tears at the end of the 1999 Tour of Flanders went of joy at having ridden so well in his first major Classic, but rather at disappointment in coming in second to Andrei Tchmil, “You haven’t earned the right to be upset at losing to him.”
The “Orthodox” Northern Classics comprise but six races: the Monuments at Flanders, Paris-Roubaix, Liege-Bastogne-Liege, as well as the Amstel Gold Race, Ghent-Wevelgem, and the Fleche-Wallone. On the calendar, they’ll take up a month before the “real” racing begins at the Giro and then the Tour. But for some, the purest essence of what makes the sport of cycling so great – indeed, Classic – is what transpires on the northern roadways in the Spring.
Try telling that to a Classics cyclist.
It is one of the many cruel twists that comprise the professional cyclists life that after getting a taste of the more temperate climes along the French and Italian Riviera, that the real action of the “Spring” takes place on the still frozen grounds of Belgium. Small wonder, then, that the word means less about warming temperatures, the life-affirming effects of sunshine, the greening of the foliage to the men who contest the sports toughest one-day events, but rather conjures up images of rain, mud, pain, agony, (let’s face it, a dry Roubaix just doesn’t count) and for but a select few, also the sweet reward of victory.
Although now standing in the shadows of the grand tours – and above all The Tour – there is a special appeal of the Classics that make them just that: classic. For one thing, the Classics maintain the Aristotelian Unities of Drama: rather than an entire jour sans, it is instead a mere moment of inattention that often separates the champions from those contemplating what might have been. And though we are loathe to admit that the winner was perhaps not the strongest rider on the start line, the day’s spoils go to he who best combines athletic ability with tactical guile.
The races have earned their reputation as hard races for hard men, and when the two clash, it is not the race left wanting. Ballerini in frustration and coming so close – and yet remaining so far – in the Hell of the North had him vowing never to return to the velodrome of unrequited love. No such scene ever played out in the grand tours (though, for Abraham Olano’s sake, sometimes we wish it had). Sweeter than was the triumph when Ballerini did return to the Queen that had so often spurned him, but now fully embraced him.
The difficulty of the races and the tradition steeped into every oft-raced mile adds to the sense that this is the terrain of the seasoned veteran and not the Johnny-come-lately. Of course, every now and then there is a fluky ride that stands the conventional wisdom on its ear. But again those often prove to be just flukes. Just ask Frederic Guesdon. It is rare indeed that a rider has his debutante ball in April in Northern Europe. And woe is he who feels the Classics rained on his coming out. As an Italian teammate commented to Dario Pieri on realizing his tears at the end of the 1999 Tour of Flanders went of joy at having ridden so well in his first major Classic, but rather at disappointment in coming in second to Andrei Tchmil, “You haven’t earned the right to be upset at losing to him.”
The “Orthodox” Northern Classics comprise but six races: the Monuments at Flanders, Paris-Roubaix, Liege-Bastogne-Liege, as well as the Amstel Gold Race, Ghent-Wevelgem, and the Fleche-Wallone. On the calendar, they’ll take up a month before the “real” racing begins at the Giro and then the Tour. But for some, the purest essence of what makes the sport of cycling so great – indeed, Classic – is what transpires on the northern roadways in the Spring.
