Their faces have been worn smooth by the hooves of draft horses, the shoes of farmers, and the boots of soldiers from distant lands. Those stones too worn to see another year of action have been replaced, the new shiny surfaces distinctly out of synch with the well-worn patina of their older cousins.
Photos: Greg Pressler

Some are the size of baseballs, and others are closer to toasters. Like snowflakes, not one is exactly like its neighbor. They peek their heads out from the ground at different angles, stretching toward the elusive sun with differing aggression. The space between them varies from a finger’s width to a gap that could house a well-fed mouse or a fat cheese sandwich.

At the legendary Paris-Roubaix bicycle classic, these stones are the players who rule the day. Bike racers ride upon their surface, but one day they will grow too old to take the beating any longer, leaving the sport and eventually, earth itself. Generations of cycling fanatics walk across them, yelling; they pass the mantle of bicycle fandom to their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. They too, pass to another world.

All are players in the drama, whether present at center stage, in the wings, or in the audience. But the stage surface itself... well, it remains the one constant, here since the beginning, and it will last into a future that none can see as they stand or ride upon these bumpy roads.

In Flemish, they are called the kasseien. Perhaps the most interesting name for the stones is in the Dutch tongue: kinderhoofd, or “children’s heads” for how they look, peering out of the ground. Whether you use the English “cobblestones,” the French pavé, or a word from another language or dialect, the stones have the same meaning for anybody that rides upon them: Pain. Suffering. Agony. Humiliation. More suffering.

And those are the good parts.

Dancing in the Mud

The mud is everywhere. Dozens of tour buses and hundreds of camper vans and cars deposit their passengers into the mud, for there is nowhere else to go. The streams of kinderhoofd snake across this countryside – nearly as flat as can be imagined – and bordering the stones are fields of green, which upon intimate inspection are thick with the mud that soils new shoes within minutes.

From the looks of things, the spectators all came prepared, having grown up along this route. On sunny days, when the rain miraculously subsides long enough for the race to pass, they breathe the choking dust raised by the bikes, the official vehicles, the sponsor vehicles, and the support vehicles. But when the rain comes you can see that these are people well-acquainted with the mud – the same mud of their forefathers, who dug into the fields to stop the advance of the Germans in 1914 and who saw Nazi troops build huge cement gun garrisons which dot the landscape to this day.

For these cycling fans, the mud is the essence of the race, with a smell, a color, and a feel all its own. Cyclocross venues may claim to be the dirtiest, but at Paris-Roubaix, the mud is the soft yin to the cobblestones’ brutal yang. What the stones take away, the mud takes away more, greasing that hard patina just enough to create cycling’s most treacherous surface.

And in the mud, the people sleep. And dance. And yell, sing, drink, and wait. The drinking, such a part of the Flemish culture, has become synonymous with all cycling races within 100 km of the Belgian border, the land of over 500 standard beers (a number that jumps over 1,000 if “special” beers are considered, but who’s counting? Well... the Belgians are).

It is still on their soil though, so the French proudly come to the cobblestones to watch their favorite riders and play witness to the spectacle. On tidy, small tables, often draped with a tablecloth, they dine upon carefully prepared meals befitting the occasion: small sandwiches, vegetables, spreads, good cheese, a nice bread, and always – always – a bottle of wine. Dressed well, they carry an air of serenity. One man, stereotypically sporting a beret and small, manicured mustache, stands calmly a few meters off the road in a field, sipping a glass of red wine. All part of the landscape.

Those doing the dancing, although they speak impeccable French, do not wave the Tricolore. Their flag, sporting a yellow background with an intricate black lion, dates back to the 12th century. The Vlaanderen Vlagt, a band of hard-line Flemish loyalists who distribute the flags, wave the lion with fervor and ensure that everyone who needs to, wants to, or is able to hold a flag has one in his hands.

These fans, perhaps as many as 90 percent of them, are from Belgium. The Italian, French, and Spanish cycling fans all claim legendary status as the most dedicated bunch of two-wheeled sports nuts, but the Flemish would argue that point down to the last bottle of Jupiler, the preferred pilsner of the cobblestones – and the odds for the fight would be in the yellow flag corner.

This year, Flanders’ favorite son rides under the auspices of the Quick Step team. Tom Boonen, when he passes the crowds, will hear the loudest cheers of anyone in the peloton. When he passes one particularly crucial section of cobbles known as Le Carrefour de l’Arbre, assuming that he is able to divert his eyes from the punishing road in front of him, he will look up to see hundreds of members of De Kasseifretters, his own personal supporters club, clad in their distinct blue jackets and caps.

Conquering the Stones

The kinderhoofd never yield for the riders. Even the best among the world’s best can hope only to suffer slightly less than their comrades, staying at or near the front of the peloton as the 260 km race makes it way into the final turns on the velodrome in Roubaix. As the peloton approaches, the fever pitch escalates to new heights. For a few minutes, the wild, drunken dancing ceases. All other party activity, especially the beer drinking, proceeds more rapidly. The French Gendarmes and Belgian police unite in an effort to ensure that no fan, drunk or sober, suffers the horrific cycling spectator malady of having a foot run over by a team car. Whistles blow, horns bellow, and the yelling, which was once loud, is now deafening. Add the media helicopters and the bad 1980’s pop music blaring over speakers that were at their prime when the mullet was, and it’s outright pandemonium.

Then the white flash appears. At the front of the lead group of riders, one man rides with the hopes of an entire nation sharing his triumph. Boonen, who tasted victory here in 2005, shares the lead with a Swiss and an Italian rider. The locals go mad, their dreams coming to fruition. Pre-race favorites such as Juan Antonio Flecha (Spain) and George Hincapie (USA) have fallen back – the former a victim of a fall earlier in the race, and the latter suffering mechanical difficulties. But Boonen’s victory is far from sealed; he has 15 km still to endure before Roubaix.

With the riders now past, attention is directed to any number of television screens that broadcast the race in real time. Boonen’s every move is cheered by fans – and then countered by his two fellow riders. Not until he makes a successful sprint on the last bank of the velodrome will the Belgian know that the win is his.

When the win is declared, the dancing begins again. The mud is forgotten as beer flows as freely as the afternoon spring breeze, which makes the emerald fields look like the sea (but perhaps it is the Jupiler). The Frenchmen depart, leaving the partying to the Flemish.

And the cobbles... the pave... the kasseien... the kinderhoofd... they remember. At this time next year, they will reach up again at the tires of the riders as if to say, “Dare us.” They will exert their power over another batch of athletes who believe that they can conquer anything. And many years from now, when our memories have faded, they will welcome a new generation of cycling fans to commune amongst the green fields, in the mud, with plenty of beer.