In 1980, Frenchman Gilbert Duclos-Lasalle finished 2nd to former World Champion Francesco Moser in Paris-Roubaix. The 25 year old Duclos-Lasalle withstood constant attacks from the Italian in the closing stages before finally conceding. Sometimes steely resolve alone cannot change the course of history. While Moser went on to win his third consecutive Queen of the Classics by nearly two minutes, Duclos-Lasalle would come up empty as a Paris-Roubaix favorite for another eleven years. While each year his target was victory, what he did not plan was how his destiny would be written, from being second best in his youth to the oldest winner in history. While one victory is enough for many, Duclos-Lasalle said he still felt the desire to race, and to win, and to prove his point, he defended his title in 1993. The man he beat that April Sunday was Franco Ballerini. Clearly the stronger rider, the 27 year old Ballerini was outwitted in the sprint by the more experienced Frenchman. The photo finish declared Duclos-Lasalle a winner by eight centimeters. After having raised his arms in triumph, Ballerini was inconsolable as second best. When asked by a reporter if he had made any errors, a distraught Ballerini replied “yes, I made the mistake of becoming a bike racer.”

In the 1990 Paris-Roubaix, Steve Bauer lost to Eddy Planckaert in a photo finish. He never came close to winning Paris-Roubaix again. Each year is a new opportunity for a rider to start with a clean slate, to change their history, to rewrite their fate in the record books. A rider can cement his legacy, or create one, with one historic ride across the stones that connect Compiegne to Roubaix. Paris-Roubaix does not need to rely on poetry to market itself. It lays dormant all but one day a year, rising up the second Sunday of every April to mock those riders who avoid it, and unleash a storm of brutality on those who dare tread on it. It is often said that to win Paris-Roubaix you need to rely on good luck and pray you don’t suffer from bad luck. But what of the man who is unsatisfied with his legacy? What if he consciously decides it is up to him to change his destiny, luck or not, and redefine his place in history?

After his narrow defeat, how many nights did Franco Ballerini lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if he had what it took to face Roubaix again, and would he ever have another shot at victory. He could hear the demons whispering, asking him what he would do the next time he flats at a crucial moment, or finds himself in the winning break. What if you have to sprint for victory again, Franco? Is luck, good and bad, just a part of Roubaix, or do the real champions develop a mindful approach and create that winning scenario in their head, turning disaster into victory? How many times can tactics be second guessed, strength analyzed, and weaknesses criticized when missing out on what at the time may seem like your one chance at etching your name into history. Would the sport forever remember Franco Ballerini’s 2nd place photo finish as his almost moment?

In 1995, the Mapei-GB team had an all-star roster at the start of Paris-Roubaix that included Johan Museeuw, fresh off his second win in the Tour of Flanders and the undisputed captain; Andrea Tafi was beginning to show signs of strength that would net him victories in Paris-Roubaix, the Tour of Flanders, the Giro di Lombardia and Paris-Tours over the next eight seasons; Gianluca Bortolami was the defending World Cup champion and Wilfried Peeters was the ever faithful lieutenant. Ballerini had woken from his nightmare and managed to finish 3rd in the 1994 Paris-Roubaix, and was again looking for his shot at redemption. He seized his moment on this day, and rose above the mental blocks and the nightmares of two years earlier. He took control of the race, and his destiny. I remember receiving the first issue of VeloNews following his victory. A glorious photo of Ballerini graced the cover, alone in the dust and on the cobbles, on his way to cementing his legacy in a race he had dreamt of winning since he watched Francesco Moser on TV in 1980.

Perhaps there is some analogy to be taken from this, some higher meaning. Can riding this course that we know as l’Enfer du Nord be considered a redemptive pilgrimage, an annual penance through purgatory? Each sector methodically removes more sin, the suffering across the minefields slowly purifying the rider until reaching the holy waters of the Roubaix velodrome, the vestige of its winners glistening from the stalls where the finishers weep. After this symbolic cleansing, are we not now ready to face any challenge? Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Even the devil has a hard time glorifying hell.

When Ballerini rode his final race in 2001, it was fittingly Paris-Roubaix, and it was for Mapei. He finished 32nd, 8:13 behind winner Servais Knaven. As he crossed the finish line in the Roubaix velodrome, he unzipped his jersey to reveal his undershirt that read “Merci Roubaix”. This was his chance to say goodbye, to thank his supporters, those who never lost faith that he would return and win, to those who felt the heartbreak of those eight centimeters. He had been to hell and back, had felt the heartbreak of losing, and ultimately seized the chance at rewriting history in the race that would ultimately come to define his career as a rider. His untimely death has taken away the opportunity to say goodbye to him, to thank him and to let him know we never lost faith in him. For me, the legacy is Franco Ballerini, 2-time winner of Paris-Roubaix. And that is forever. Merci, Franco.

My father will turn 87 on Paris-Roubaix Sunday. Since my childhood, he has been the man responsible for my bikes. From my first trike, to my Schwinns, my Mongoose BMX and my first road bike, a Cannondale Black Lightning. I remember the two of us pouring over cycling catalogs and journals together, marveling at the latest bicycles for sale. The simplicity of one ad struck us in particular: a gorgeous, chrome-lugged, hand built Tommasini frame sitting on a work bench, glistening in all its newness against the grunge and dirt of the work shop. This was art, I thought, from a man who loved his craft, believed in the beauty of it to sell itself. It was the first bike I was truly unable to get out of my head. As I embarked on a trip to Italy later that year, 1990, my father handed me a folded piece of paper and smiled as he looked me square in the eyes, the same look I surely had given him all those years before at our local bike shop.

A week later on a rainy Monday, navigating the enormous network of roads that encompasses the industrial section of Grosseto in southern Tuscany, I arrived at the Tommasini factory. I was greeted by Roberta, the daughter of master frame builder Irio Tommasini, who introduced me to her fellow workers: Paolo, her husband; Daniela, her younger sister and her husband Marco. Mrs. Tommasini was home preparing lunch. At the end of my factory tour, I met Irio, a small, quietly pleasant man who apologized for his poor English. As Roberta explained in more detail the reason for my visit, I handed him the folded advertisement my father had given me and his look of curiosity was replaced with a broad, satisfied smile. When I returned home a week later, my father greeted me at JFK airport. As he caught my eye through the crowd and he realized what I was carrying, his look of curiosity was replaced with a similar satisfied smile. As in the advertisement, there were no words needed to communicate what my father, Irio and I were feeling. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then a smile must be worth a million.

Recently, I have been struck by more than a few misleading and confusing ads in some of the bicycle journals and websites. Terminology such as “shock and awe”, “fight the good fight”, “the revolution continues”. It sounds more like front-page news headlines instead of forward thinking, creative marketing. Orbea bikes claim they are “From the Heart of the Pyrénées”. Orbea is headquartered in Mallabia, Spain near Durango, and about a 4.5 hour drive to the heart of the Pyrénées. Ridley bikes claim “We are Belgium”. If that is the case, then why sponsor a Russian team and promote your flagship bike for the Italian National Champion? I’m having a hard time seeing beyond the desire to connect to an established aura of the sport, instead of trying to develop one of their own. The Muur van Geraardsbergen was the Muur long before Ridley arrived, and the Pyrénées have their own mystique without the help of Orbea.

Many bike companies boast what their bikes do for the professionals, or what the pros do with their bikes, but fail to tell me how it benefits me. After all, who is it that is actually buying the bike? The trickle down theory doesn’t work here. Many of these bikes are built with a very short shelf life, with the effort put into maximizing every last ounce and dropping every last gram of weight to put forth a frame that, on some occasions, is raced very few days out of the year.
Misleading the consumer is a poor sales tactic, and one that is based primarily on undercutting competition and creating a distraction that keeps one from looking too deep at the product. Many companies claim to have the latest and greatest technology, but how did they arrive at a point where they need wildly stupid graphics, insulting and sometimes perverse language and offensive imagery to sell? My feeling is if you are causing a distraction, it’s because you don’t have enough behind what you sell. All I need is to see Tom Boonen in a gladiator suit, or Alberto Contador meditating and levitating in an Astana toga to be reminded of this.

While the major players get the majority of exposure based on market saturation- pro team sponsorship, full page ads in magazines, cover shots for, and the majority of, bike reviews- it begs the question- where does the smaller guy fit in? Bikes designed and built for the pros are built to be raced aggressively, with no concept of warranty or longevity issues. Do you really want a bike that may fail after a year, simply because it makes a claim that it is the lightest, or it’s ridden by the top riders? I sure don’t. It is the little guy that is holding onto principles he believes in, not hiding behind misleading ads. These are the guys that are in the business end of the sport because they not only love the sport, but they love what they do, and don’t feel the need to spend dollars on amateurish ads and marketing that is an insult to the sport and my intelligence. Do we really need war language to sell a bike? I hope not.

Over the holidays, knowing he can’t ride on the road anymore, my father spoke the words I have been waiting to hear for 20 years. The Tommasini is now mine. It still has downtube shifters, 32 hole wheels, and bright blue bar wrap. It looks as beautiful to me today as it did in the factory in Italy. I smiled and thanked him, and asked him what took him so long. He smiled and said he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t treat it like I did my BMX bike. That was a smile worth waiting 20 years for.

In the corner of a garage in Lede, Belgium, there are a dozen boxes stacked to the ceiling. Each box contains hundreds of small yellow flags with the black Flemish lion. This is the flag of the people, not the government. This is the identity of a culture that for centuries others have tried tirelessly to eradicate. When I speak with Ghislain, the owner, about bike racing, I speak of the favorites to win. He speaks of the Belgians. When he asks if I would like a beer, I am served a Westmalle Dubbel, his favorite Flemish beer. There are thousands of garages like this, and owners like Ghislain, many of whom I’ve met. They form the backbone of Flemish life, a culture that, unless you embrace, you risk remaining an outsider.

On May 25, 1913, Belgian sports writer Karel Van Wijnendaele organized the first Tour of Flanders, crossing Dutch-speaking Belgium because “all Flemish cities had to contribute to liberate the Flemish people”. At the time, it was very important to give recognition to the Flemish, and the creation of the race did just that. De Ronde is as much a part of the heritage of the Flemish people as the processions of Veurne and Bruges, the Last Post at the Menin Gate of Ypres or the ship blessing at Ostend. This race is the most celebrated of all the Flemish festivals, and no other creates such an atmosphere, such a popular fervor. Flemish riders say to win, you need heart. If you feel Flanders in your blood, you feel the pain less in your legs.

While images of the Tour of Flanders conjure tales of heroic efforts across windswept cobbles and up mud soaked hills, for anyone who has ridden in these conditions, the effort is more damage control and survival, and any hint of heroism is aimed at trying to overcome the madness that has placed one in this position to begin with. There is a sense of romance about the places the Tour of Flanders passes through, a sense that there exist these utopian villages with shrines erected to memorialize the suffering. Iconic symbols must certainly mark this hallowed ground, designating the holy spots of our sport that those who live at the curbside must recognize and value. The truth is, yes, and no. Yes, they are significant locations in the world of cycling, but to the local population, they are only a small part of the important theme of every discussion cycling ultimately touches on here- life in Flanders.

My feeling is this classic has survived intact because it was created for the people, ridden through the working man’s terrain, and meant to represent the people. It is not a marketing exercise or an upper class social event that caters to the wealthy, yet relies on the working class for support. There are rules, of course, and they are bent by many, but followed by the majority. There is a controlled chaos on the first Sunday every April that has one simple goal – to celebrate Flanders and the Flemish people. The roads are raced on for a few days of the year, but worked on every day. Tractors, cars and trucks, hauling hay, cattle, fruit and vegetables. Unlike the Tour de France, the heart of this masterpiece remains the same and the beauty of its content has been refined over time. Now, the biggest change is which climbs are excluded and what is the order ridden. But there is no grand announcement of the course, no invitation to attend a lavish ceremony in an ornately decorated theater, complete with speculators and prognosticators. It hasn’t been marginalized by TV, marketing, instant television heroes, or Lance Armstrong. “As a Belgian, winning Flanders for the first time is far more important than wearing the maillot jaune in the Tour” said Johan Museeuw, who accomplished both. Imagine the feeling that comes with winning the Tour of Flanders three times.

I can look at a map of the major mountain stages of the Tour and see exactly what the route is doing. To do this with Flanders means knowing the tiny roads and in doing so is to know the people, the culture, and understanding everyday life beyond bike racing. The beautiful part of looking at a race course and immediately envisioning the race-day strategy and knowing the small roads and villages it goes through is perhaps like being able to read music. While those who listen can appreciate the song, those who can read music and understand the score can better appreciate the symphonic nuances.

For Flanders, it’s the every day roads of rural life and agricultural lifestyle that suddenly become the story line for a modern bike race. There’s a left turn before the Paterberg when the road suddenly narrows to barely the width of a tractor. The twisting descent begins with a view looking across at the crest of the climb, and finishes with a sharp right hand turn at the bottom, best taken wide to the left to ease the transition onto the steep cobbles. On the Holleweg kasseien there is a paved section on the far left just next to the gutter 100 meters from the end. After 3200 meters of bone jarring cobbles, this is a stretch worth fighting for.

The route that connects the Oude Kwaremont, Paterberg, Koppenberg, Steenbeekdries, Taaienberg and Eikenberg is as beautiful a stretch as exists in bike racing. And that beauty is as visual as it is ephemeral. While we expect to see TV coverage of the ascent of the Koppenberg and the Muur, the excitement is somewhat muted by these expectations. It is the secrets that lay in the fields, draped across the hillsides, and hidden in village corners that I am connected to. And it is here that I memorize hundreds of images that flash by in a second, and when linked together create a perfectly edited film, repetitively viewed while counting down the days until spring.

Growing up in New Jersey, the Newark Star-Ledger was our local newspaper and the sports section was a daily accompaniment to my breakfast. I even had a paper route when I was thirteen, my Sunday morning deliveries capped off by driving lessons with my father. Each morning of my adolescence and teen years started with reading Jerry Izenberg at Large. He was as entertaining as he was provocative, fearless in his criticism of teams, coaches, players and organizations and exultant in his praise. Though he was one of many across the country, he established himself as a principal of authority with literary prose that made me laugh, cry and most importantly, connect. I still have a copy of his August 3rd, 1979 column of New York Yankees catcher Thurman Munson, killed the day before in a plane crash.

Cycling is in both an awkward, and enviable, position. Being relatively young on the modern American sports scene there has yet to be an established voice that resonates with the necessary criticism and praise within the sport and the industry. With cell phones, text messaging, email blasts, facebook, twitter and blogs, everyone has the tools to suddenly express their opinions. But just because I ride a bike doesn’t instantly make me an expert on frame design, and more importantly, doesn’t put me in a position to condemn other manufacturers that I may believe are inferior.

There are many self-labeled experts, granting themselves authority on every debatable topic, and some have become quite successful, albeit for different reasons. Zagat’s is probably the best example. While it’s a fantastic survey tool, Zagat is not an authority on restaurants, just on surveys. Robert Parker has rightfully established himself as an authority on wine, and Andrew Harper (a pseudonym) has spent 30 years establishing himself as an authority on travel.

So who is the principal of authority in cycling? Over the past few weeks, much of the “drama” written has centered on rumors and news for the sake of, or lack of, news. In the span of one week, multiple articles circulating the web covered the returns of Michael Rasmussen and Alexander Vinokourov, which grand tour Carlos Sastre might ride and banned doper turned confessor Bernard Kohl opening a bike shop in Vienna. Just because someone says it, and posts it, doesn’t necessarily make it newsworthy, or even interesting for that matter. Do any of the journalists recall Vinokourov lambasting the sport as he tested positive for blood doping during the 2007 Tour de France? Do these same journalists remember Rasmussen acting like a child, lying to everyone about his whereabouts during that same Tour? Just because these riders are returning doesn’t mean we have to excuse what they did, provide the fanfare to celebrate their return, or patronize their new bike shop. Perhaps the bigger story should be the lifetime ban of Austrian Christian Pfannberger. But in the time this story was released on Cyclingnews.com on Sunday Nov. 22, to Monday November 23 at noon, there were already 16 additional news posts.

The transmittance of information has become so instantaneous, there is little time for anything important to sink in before the next news item is posted. How about the doctor that was recently convicted on six counts of injuring two cyclists with his car? Why has there not been more written on this? Who are the editors, columnists, journalists covering this? Outside of Patrick Brady’s detailed reporting from the trial, no one. And that is a shame. Is News for the sake of news, or for the sake of putting up something to satisfy our craving for instant information, worthy, or just information? What is our culture of cycling? What importance does it have beyond trying to create a media superstar or increase product sales? We already suffer from information overload, perhaps its time to slow down and provide less information. Through better journalism, deliver something poignant, something to ponder, something that makes me laugh, makes me cry, makes me feel connected.

I still listen to sports on the radio. There is something about a pictureless broadcast that transcends the visual image, allows me to paint my own colorful picture, and constructs more drama. There have been hundreds of blogs written about Phil Liggett, Paul Sherwen and Bob Roll for their lack of insightful race coverage and pointless verbosity. Regardless of the work they do and the commentary they provide, I don’t need a voice to go with the spectacular images of the peloton hammering over the cobbles of Roubaix or ascending Alpe d’Huez. I simply press mute and select the appropriate music.