In Paris-Roubaix, hell is Van der Poel, who achieves his second consecutive victory | Cycling | Sports

Very elegant black pants, what class, rainbow shirt, easy and light, as beautiful as if his perfect body, his 184 centimeters and more than 70 kilos, were an emanation of the bicycle, his torso extended, his thighs back on the saddle, hands low on the handlebars, mouth closed, far from him the displays of gigantic tongues that did not fit in Tom Boonen’s mouth, at most he clenches his teeth in moments of anxiety and maximum vibration of his very aerodynamic bike, the wheels deflated just enough, and only the wrinkled nape of the neck, the folds of the neck that, bent over, lengthens like a reptile on the guide, the head buried between his very broad shoulders, betray him, humanize him, indicate to the astonished fans that he, Mathieu van der Poel, It is not a machine, but a person who makes a maximum effort, 400 watts for 30 seconds on each leg, which are clubs.

The warm south wind pushes him. And, without breaking down her figure for even a second, harmoniously, she dances on the stones, the tomb of so many illusions. Hell is him. The race is wonderful.

This is the demon of Roubaix, the dictator of the Hell of the North who accelerates in Orchies, the path of Prayers, where no one expected him, section number 13, only three stars because its cobblestones are not irregular or peaked or unstable between invisible holes like the terrible ones of the Arenberg forest or the Tree Crossing and its deadly 90-degree curve or the treacherous false plain of Mons in Pévèle. The Prayer Road, and no one in the town knows why it is called that, runs very regular and dusty between chicory plants, beet plants that peek out, and wheat that is beautiful green in rainy April. There are 60 kilometers left to the velodrome. Those who accompany him in the main group see him leave, with lightning speed, starting from fifth place, at the wheel of Mads Pedersen, the only rebel, and they can only think about praying, about fighting to be second, far from the madness of a cyclist, Van der Poel, 29 years old, always Poulidor’s grandson, for whom everything seems easy. Pedersen, who was world champion, Philipsen, second last year and winner in San Remo in March, and the German Niels Politt, second in Roubaix five years ago, fought for the honor in the sprint at the velodrome. They enter the velodrome three minutes from Van der Poel. Philipsen, second again, as in 2023, beats the brave Pedersen.

A week ago, the Koppenberg, mud on 18% slippery stones, seemed to him, one of the only three who overcame the monster without setting foot on the ground, a take-off runway, a smooth and happy airport.

He won then, also with a distant attack, of 45 kilometers, alone, the Tour of Flanders, and today he wins the Roubaix, like only seven cyclists before him, and the cannibal Merckx is not among them – Impanis, De Bruyne, Van Looy , De Vlaeminck, Van Petegem, Boonen and Cancellara–, have achieved. And he wins as world champion, like Peter Sagan six years ago. He kills the suspense. He turns the toughest races, and also the cyclocross championships, into passionate and solitary rides, and kills the suspense, as other greats of his generation, Pogacar, Evenepoel, also do in his territories. And such is his power that in the most magnificent way, dismembering the platoon before, between sections of pavés that his Alpecin troops cross at a military pace, without mercy, and some showy fans in asphalt areas with side winds, he reduces the controversy over the chicane at the entrance to Arenberg, the island that they are forced to go around to reduce the speed of the peloton. Only 30 arrived in front. Pedersen and Van der Poel the first. And there, after braking to overcome the obstacle, he began the race.

The beauty of the Monuments is no longer the fight, but the exaltation of unique heroes, and the praise of the defeated who, like Pedersen, do not give up before falling dead. It is the second Hell, the sixth monument of the son of Adrie van der Poel, a very worthy Dutch runner who is surprised every day by what his son does: three Flanders, two Roubaix, one San Remo, and he won the World Cup and even dressed in yellow in the Tour, making amends for the great sorrow of his grandfather, who, tortured by Jacques Anquetil, never achieved it.

He is a member of all the select clubs of the greatest classicomaniacs except one, that of the winners of the five monuments – San Remo, Flanders, Roubaix, Liège, Lombardy – which are only three and all three are Belgian: Van Looy, De Vlaeminck and Merckx. The fans want it, but the specialists see it as impossible: Liège could win, because its mountains, although requiring longer efforts than those of Flanders or the cobbled sections of Roubaix, are within reach, but not Lombardy, which requires skills and little body of a climber, the kingdom of Pogacar who, in fair correspondence, will find it impossible to flatten the boulders of Roubaix. It will be beautiful, unique, when it arrives, a duel between the two on the slopes of the Ardennes.

The fascination of the Roubaix – 260 kilometers, 56 of them paved, in five hours and 25 minutes -, although some think of spitting on it when it passes proudly, superior among them, or throwing beer at it, as in cyclocross or in Flanders, is Van der Poel pedaling, and his march, at almost 50 per hour, so fast, travels a geographical path and also history, which he embraces with desire while tearing apart his rivals through agricultural towns that disappear, miners who have disappeared, ruins of industries from the first industrial revolution, steel, textiles, in front of giant dolls with red scarves by the Crossing of the Tree, in front of their solitary cafe, still memories of the Second International, and the notes of the International, the proletarian anthem that there , in Lille, so close, was composed, and remembers the ultimate truth of cycling, the roots of an always ancient sport also in such modern times, and the revolutionary truth of cyclists, theirs and also that of those who cannot , but to stay at the back of the peloton, where there are only farts and falls, and, in Roubaix, the dust of the roads, the legend that surrounds all those who finish.

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2024-04-07 15:08:42
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