April 15, 2009 - I was expecting to write a blog after the whole Spring Classics season had finished, but the great week’s racing that was the Tour of Flanders, Ghent-Wevelgem and Paris-Roubaix proved too spectacular to now devalue with tales of the lesser races starting next weekend. Amstel Gold, Fleche Wallonne and Liege-Bastogne-Liege are all great Classics too, but I just know the memories of the dust, dirt, rain, wind, crashes and cobblestones of Belgium and France race will live on far beyond next week’s events, and probably right into October – they were that good!

TOUR OF FLANDERS - to some this is the greatest Classic of all, on a course that can test the athleticism of even the truly great cyclists. At least it can when it has rained… I think it last rained in the Tour of Flanders in 1989, a day that saw Edwig Van Hooydonck solo away to victory under the most disgusting conditions, his mud-streaked legs and arms exposed to a horrible wind and cold. On that day, cyclists walked rather than cycled the legendary ‘bergs’ of Flanders, and then risked their very livelihood by descending at speed to close or make gaps in the maze of tiny lanes that criss-cross the landscape and led to another cobbled ascent. Incredible to consider it has been 20 whole years since that epic race – twenty DRY years. I also recall the wet ‘Ronde’ of 1985 with Vanderaerden.

The modern-day Flanders, being dry of course, is dictated as much by team tactics as it is by sheer strength and guile. Team Columbia might have Hincapie, Eisel and Burghardt; Cervelo might have Haussler, Klier and Hammond; Silence-Lotto might have Gilbert, Hoste and Van Summeren – but it won’t do them any good against a Quick-Step team that has influenced Flanders in one form or the other for the past fifteen years, with Johan Museeuw as its chief architect. And so it proved to be in 2009, with Stijn Devolder attacking on the very same hill he attacked on in 2008 to proceed to a second consecutive win in Meerbeke and strengthen his heritage amongst other such MG-GB/Mapei/Quick-Step winners such as Museeuw, Tafi and Boonen.

Photographing a dry Flanders is more challenging than if it was wet. It requires careful reconnaissance of the route, knowing the peloton will stay intact for all but the most difficult sections – making it impossible to pass for most of the day. Diversions have to be thought out and even rehearsed if time allows, and a cunning knowledge of the sport is vital to know when to be in front of the race and when to be behind for the crashes and incidents that litter the day’s racing. You then have to factor-in the ‘rules’ that dictate you must work on-foot on all the cobbled ascents, and anticipate which sections of the course you will miss if you, for example, choose to stop on the Koppenberg instead of waiting for the Taaienberg or Eikenberg. The Taaienberg is the next real hill after Koppenberg, well worth getting there as the race is split to pieces and a rare shot of Armstrong leading Hincapie is attainable with a bit of luck, as it was in 2005.

Just as in 2008, I took my place on the Koppenberg, simply because it is the greatest climb in the race, one that’s reputation and history in Flanders is far too great to ignore. Recall 1987 – the year when a UCI commissaire’s car virtually ran over Jesper Skibby’s legs! Okay, the Koppenberg works better in the wet, from a photographer’s perspective. But it still has an attraction in the dry with the real strongmen showing their prowess for the first time in the day, at about 180-kilometres. At this point the Tour of Flanders is launched in a long-awaited, decisive way, and for the next two hours the photographers cut across the route, squeeze their motorbikes past desperately chasing cyclists, jostle through the crowds on the Muur van Geraardsbergen, and generally scramble against the odds to keep pace with the race and its front-line stars.

Devolder’s attack on the Eikenmolen took the sting out of the racing, for this is a man stronger, cleverer and more confident than one year ago – you knew immediately the race was as good as over. Luckily, Devolder is an extremely photogenic athlete, his physicality as inspiring as the permanent grimace etched across his face; I enjoyed tracking the man’s escape up, over and beyond the craziness of Geraardsbergen towards the finish. And I enjoyed as much the battle on the Bosberg, where Gilbert attacked Boonen and almost made ‘Tornado Tom’ cry – it was powerful stuff! I’ve never seen a Tour of Flanders finish anywhere else but in Meerbeke, and I’ve been going there since 1979! After such an action-packed, anxious, sometimes frustrating sort of day, the sight of a lone cyclist crossing the line is always an anti-climax, no matter how great the winner’s effort has been. So it’s as well to remember the hills, cobbles and crosswinds that the man has overcome – Devolder is without doubt a true Flandrien…

GHENT-WEVELGEM - how many times has the race acted as little more than a sandwich filler between two slices of thick, juicy, bread? Sure, we’ve had some epic years, like the one in 1989 when a two-man break by Sean Yates and Gerrit Solleveld stayed away all day on a course that was still of a real man’s distance of 260-kilometres, back then. Oh, and when the wind from the North Sea brought not just wind but torrential rain and cold with it – and when just about everyone except Yates and Solleveld had to walk up both sides of the Kemmelberg, knowing a crash on both slippery descents was more than a distinct possibility. Even a modern-day, DRY, Ghent-Wevelgem has had its greatness, when Mario Cipollini raced away from the Kemmleberg to join the winning break in 2002 – and then outsprint his despairing rivals. And let’s not forget the crash-strewn edition of 2007, when the descent of the Kemmelberg resembled a war-zone that the area once was.

To me, Ghent-Wevelgem is all about the wind, if not the rain and crashes that come with it – and I will never forget the horrible crash of Wilfried Nelissen in 1985. My slide-archive of the race is bulging with shots of echelons – strings of cyclists buffeted by the wind – set against a so-Flemish landscape of canals, gray-sea coastline, or tree-lined highway. I’ve spent years tracking these wonderful moments, when a 260-rider peloton is suddenly cut into a dozen distinct pieces, when weaker riders get slung out the back of their line, or when the more unfortunate get bumped off the end of a line of riders and into a sewage-filled ditch. In its hey-day, G-W went north-east from Ghent to the Dutch border at Knokke, before following the coast to the French border at Veurne – in between both towns lay a labyrinth of tram lines, sluice gates, badly-parked cars and that wind, oh, so strong… Needless to say, Ghent-Wevelgem is a far more pleasant race to work after the intricacy and frustration of working Flanders, especially a dry Flanders…

Perhaps the wind was a bit too strong this past 8th of April. The neutralised zone at the start town of Deinze was just two-kilometres long, and afforded little chance for un-prepared riders to actually join the peloton before the start – let alone engage their smallest sprockets for the battering about to begin! We’d actually towed a Colombian cyclist up to the peloton in the neutral zone, an act for which Marlon Perez was particularly grateful, for his relative freshness enabled him to sprint straight into the developing escape at 55-kilometres-per-hour! As Perez gripped the motorbike’s panniers, I noticed we were fast-passing the likes of Devolder, Frischkorn, Nuyens, Brard and Ciolek – experienced men who knew the race had started before the start, and who would be working very hard to actually get into the race… So pleased was I to see Perez sprinting up the road and savouring the sight of Devolder gritting his teeth just days after Flanders, that I made my first mistake of the day – I failed to see Mark Cavendish stopping at the side of the road to change a wheel.

Cavendish’s misfortune was punished so cruelly by a developing escape of 35-riders who, influenced and led by Tom Boonen, Heinrich Haussler, Fabien Cancellara, and Robbie McEwen amongst others, proceeded to hammer home their advantage. Missing Cavendish’s wheel-change might not seem that important to some people, but to me it was a vital illustration of the violent day that was just starting – and which would produce one of the most remarkable editions of the race in history. I also wanted the shot to illustrate the selfishness of modern-day cycling, where no-one but no-one waits for a rival, no matter how unlucky their fate has been… I waited to get a shot of Cavendish coming back to the peloton un-aided before turning my attention to how the business end of the race was shaping up – it was compelling stuff! The escape was clearly visible, 300-metres up the road, but the peloton was already in shreds, with cyclists cursing the rain-jackets they’d put on that were literally parachuting them out of the game.

I spotted Devolder and Nuyens groveling against the wind as they overtook weaker cyclists going backwards, almost laughing at the sight of such hard men in such difficulty in their own back yard… And when a small crash on a slippery roundabout took down Julian Dean and Mike Friedman in the middle of what was left of a peloton, the day was as good as over for half of the starters – yet more was to come. With so much wind, rain and road-noise to contend with, it was never clear when Boonen actually came out of the escape with his own flat tire, nor when Haussler apparently fell off, nor when Cancellara blew up and also dropped back to the only chasing group. But the three men who’d done so much damage to Cavendish now became the chasers themselves – knowing any work they’d do would eventually help the British sprinter if the escape was pulled back. It was Boonen who filled my camera with the best images of the day as he powered along at the head of the chasers, recklessly ignorant of the final outcome, only concerned that the escape he’d created was now trying to leave him behind for dead.

I cannot recall a more furious pursuit match in a one-day Classic than this, with Boonen alone pulling the chase group to within 25-seconds of the escapers, who in turn applied their own strengths through half the Cervelo team and strongmen like Matthew Hayman, George Hincapie and Bradley Wiggins. It took another 20 minutes before Boonen finally conceded defeat, but it was the best 20 minutes of the season for me! All that was left was the annual visit to the Kemmelberg, the double-ascent by the leaders, and the double-ascent by the chasers six or seven minutes later. And then the finale into Wevelgem, played out in such an anti-climatic way between Edvald Boasson Hagen and Aleksandr Kuschynski. There are three morals to this story. Ghent-Wevelgem produced the best racing of the season so far, it will be hard to match such a day. Cervelo and Quick-Step won nothing from their brutal race-start – instead, it was a talented man from Cavendish’s Team Columbia who saw justice win through. And, Tom Boonen was going to be one very determined, very strong, very angry man to contend with in Paris-Roubaix!

PARIS-ROUBAIX – just how great can a great Classic be, especially after such a formidable week’s racing? The answer is: greater still! If Paris-Roubaix was still organized by some local cycling club, the chances are it wouldn’t be anywhere near as famous. Take a 260-kilometre route from Compiegne, sprinkle the second-half with over 50-kilometres of cobbled tracks – then add the important ingredients of the world’s best one-day cyclists and the sophisticated back-up of an entire Tour de France. That’s what Paris-Roubaix is today – an epic battle on wheels staged and supported by the best organization in the business. Take away the Tour’s red, blue, and grey Skoda cars, the lavish branding along the route by big-paying sponsors, the extensive TV coverage that sees up to a dozen helicopters hovering above and a half-dozen motorbikes filming below – imagine Paris-Roubaix without such a façade. Little wonder such massive crowds flock to northern France each April – with the greatest numbers ever-attending this past edition.

There’s an air of might and glamour that pervades the town of Compiegne during the preliminaries, and continues right up until the great race rolls across the river Oise to its official starting point to the north. A respectful and curious local public comes out to cheer the race away, despite the early hour and apparent indifference the French now show to cycle racing. Even the unconvinced sense the importance of this ‘grand depart’, knowing that in three hours time the name of Compiegne will be broadcast into the nations’ living rooms in much the same way as a Tour de France stage does. In a different way to Flanders, and in a way forever disputed by Belgians and the French, Paris-Roubaix has a haughtiness that separates it from all other one-day races. As you drive away in the wake of the peloton, trailed by team cars astern and official cars to your right, as the buzz of the TV helicopter permeates your Sunday morning hangover, and the radio-tour starts to reel off its long list of invited guests, it’s hard not to thank God that I chose this particular career. For this will be one of the biggest days in my career – I say that every year!

Troisvilles to Viesly to Solesmes to Querenaing to Haveluy – there’s a familiarity to the sections of pave that is so strong I have little need of the official map of diversions I’m carrying in my pocket. I can remember the short cuts from a wardrobe of memories, especially as it is a dry Paris-Roubaix, one where little happens before the Arenberg forest. It has rained a bit overnight, just enough to keep most of the dust trapped between the cobblestones and out of my eyes, a fact that I’m truly grateful for. Suddenly, after a series of four or five diversions and barely a decent image to show for them, we speed into the Wallers-Arenberg forest knowing the race really begins here. In fact it has always begun here, as a man like Museeuw knows to his cost. The public is enormous, far greater and noisier than in any previous editions, and I realize why – the gendarmes have allowed them all to stand at the left edge of the track, free of the hindrance and imprisonment of metal barriers that are still guarding the right-hand edge of the cobblestoned way.

Great it might be to have the race watched by such a massive audience, but it means there is no-where to park the motorbike, at least not at the most crucial section of the cobbled track where the first crashes are certain to occur. Instead we find a quiet, bland-looking stretch halfway through the forest – for one of the pre-requisites to good photography is actually being able to see your subject before it gets to you. Tom Boonen is already on a roll as he leads the peloton past my spot, and I’m guessing he’s been on the front right from the beginning of the track – I regret not naming him as my favourite in last night’s sweepstakes in the bar! There must have been a big crash earlier, for only 20 or so cyclists are within spitting distance of Boonen, did the crash happen where I would have liked to park the motorbike, I wonder? At the earliest moment, but in fact after most of the cyclists have pedaled by, we point ourselves back on to the cobbles and chug away towards the exit of the forest, eager to speed past all the no-hopers and see what damage Boonen has created at the front.

More diversions, more close-calls with ‘normal’ traffic on open roads, and we reconvene with Paris-Roubaix just as the race enters a section near Warnaing, 180-kilometres into the event. Although we’ve done well to this point in the course, the stakes now get higher – one bad diversion or mistimed halt on the cobblestones can spell disaster with the race so poised. I hear Hincapie has punctured 100-metres before where I’m crouched, camera in-hand, to shoot more images of Boonen as the speed rises. I sense something is about to break and abandon ideas of photographing Hincapie’s distress in order to move with the head of the race. Sure enough, the racing is on! SaxoBank has attacked into the crosswind before Orchies, and none other than Cancellara is flying away at the front with a 70-strong group now trailing in his wake in bursts of two, three or four riders. I notice I’m the only photographer in position to capture this move, assuming my colleagues are either lost on some diversion or still shooting pictures of Hincapie.

As pleased as I am to have captured the attack, I possess an air of sadness too – Cancellara has just ruined the popular image of a big peloton racing onto the cobbles at Orchies, and instead I capture mediocre shots of three groups of riders turning on to the cobbles there. Whilst waiting for the race, many of us on a pedestrian bridge over the highway parallel to the cobbles, race-radio informs us of a crash and the need for a doctor or two a few kilometres back. No-one realizes this is the dreadful motorbike crash that has taken down up to 16 spectators… More risks as we speed off on another diversion at Bersee, and again to Mons-en-Pevele, where I am alone in capturing another Boonen attack – just where are my colleagues, I begin to wonder?! Now ahead of ourselves, we chase after Boonen’s escape, sensing this is the one that counts. Only two sections of cobbles later, before a long diversion takes us to the highlight of the whole day at Cysoing, do I dare wait for the pursuers – of whom one, Cancellara, is now a shadow of his former self and needing the help of two team mates to get him home.

We are now in an area of the course I once referred to as the ‘Cysoing Triangle’, a reference to the maze of cobbled tracks that criss-cross the area and where I got lost so many times in earlier editions of the race. Not so these days – the lines of spectators mark the course for mile after mile, a corridor of noisy humanity that cyclists and race-followers have to endure or enjoy on their way to Roubaix. Every year, some drunken fan spits or throws beer at you, and this is one part of the course where I keep my crash helmet on in case a bottle-thrower achieves a direct hit. We drive through the mob at one corner where I jump down and make a grabbed shot of the leaders, before diverting across the fields to a second corner. Still Van Summeren leads, still a sprint in Roubaix is looking more and more likely – still there’s 20,000 more Belgian fans to get past before my final cobbled shot of the day, on the Carrefour de l’Arbre. I get a clear shot of Boonen leading Hushovd, not knowing where everyone else has got to, then not seeing Hushovd crash ten-feet from where I’m squatting, taking pictures with one hand while fending off a spectator’s drunken shove with my other hand.

Through the madness, more cyclists race past – Pozzato, Van Summeren, Hoste, but not yet Flecha - and I run off to find where Luke has hidden his motorbike behind a wall of fans. A powerful motorbike should catch a few cyclists in seconds, if not a long minute. But it takes forever to latch on to the trio that is now Van Summeren, Hoste and Hushovd – whom I am forced to ignore in order to catch the pursuit match that is Boonen and Pozzato, 30-seconds up the road. It seems impossible that Boonen can stay away, then I notice Pozzato’s legs look distinctly feeble in comparison with the Belgian’s. At one stage there’s just fifteen seconds between them, before Boonen pulls elegantly away again, only to falter and feel the Italian pegging him back. This is a rare moment in the day that one can relax and half-watch the racing, knowing the hard work’s been done, and that just the formality of the velodrome awaits. Yes, the best man won, I’m sure, and even though Thor Hushovd might disagree with me, this was one of the most satisfying Paris-Roubaix of my career. At least for me, very little went wrong – it’s not often I can say that on the second Sunday of April each year…

Previous 2009 Views:
January 19
February 12
March 7