Mathieu van der Poel and the law of Paris-Roubaix

Crossed the finish line Paris-Roubaix John Degenkolb collapsed on the grass in the center of the velodrome and let himself go to despair and pain. Physical pain, it always hurts to fall on grass and stones, especially internal: at thirty-four you begin to believe that the good years to win a race like Paris-Roubaix are few, certainly less and less. John Degelkolb crashed with sixteen kilometers to go, where he shouldn’t have crashed. Too late the finish line for recriminations. A runner like John Degenkolb knows it well. He knows it very well law of Paris-Roubaix, which is only one although tripartite: pedaling as hard as possible, standing and with inflated tires.

Also Mathieu van der Poel knows the law of Paris-Roubaix. He respected her best. So well that he arrived at the velodrome alone, with no one to really annoy him, yet not far enough away to leave the dutiful solitude in the usual photo, the one in which the handlebar is left to itself and puts itself on stage, depending on the occasion and the interpreter, joy or disbelief, or perhaps the combination of the two. Paris-Roubaix is ​​not a race in which you can abandon the handlebars, in fact usually you leave skin and blood on the handlebars. Something is always brought home from the north of France, almost always blisters and wounds.

Mathieu van der Poel arrived alone at the velodrome, loneliness is the dimension of the strongest, of the best of the day. And van der Poel was a refined interpreter of French stones, tenacious and intelligent, capable of reading racing dynamics better than anyone else, of being found at the right time in the right place when Jumbo-Visma began to revolt well before the usual site of the revolt, the Forest of Arenberg. That’s where the scattering takes place, it wasn’t like this this time, everything was already scattered before, why is it like this lately, the time of joy (at least for sofa cyclists) of the fight has been prolonged.

Wout van Aert and his men had prepared the ground for the Belgian’s Easter. For years, van Aert in one way or another has been looking closely at other people’s happiness and begins to get annoyed by it. Today he had tried to set a rich table for himself. She almost succeeded. She didn’t go the way he had imagined. It seems it can never go the way Wout van Aert imagines. There’s always something that brings reality back from the dream, and it doesn’t matter if it’s a legitimate dream, quite earthly. At the end of the Carrefour de l’Arbre he took care of the rear tire which sagged. It is the rule of Paris-Roubaix. Nothing can be done about it, any recrimination, however sensible, does not count. Wout van Aert also saw his race deflate there.

Paris-Roubaix is ​​a bullshit race, which rewards those who know how to love it without hesitation, punishing every bad thought. Mathieu van der Poel didn’t have any, he pedaled with malice and lightness and in the end that was enough for him. Cycling, especially on paved roads, is the closest thing to the dynamics of existence. You need to do the best you can, make the most of your talents. And hope that everything goes smoothly. Anyone who doesn’t understand this, anyone who thinks it’s all about merit and meritocracy, isn’t worthy of Paris-Roubaix, it goes ahead in its own way and it’s perhaps a cruel way, certainly impeccable.

Mathieu van der Poel celebrated his Paris-Roubaix with joy and disbelief, his first Paris-Roubaix, and it was about time he arrived. Because certain runners must be able to display a Roubaix stone on their bulletin board (the trophy that is given to the winner, ed).

Mathieu van der Poel cheered, shouted, rejoiced, embraced Jasper Philipsen, his teammate who finished second ahead of Wout van Aert. Then he went to console John Degenkolb, who won Roubaix in 2015, who would have liked to win it again today, who out of love for Roubaix said “I knew I wasn’t the strongest, but I was ready to risk it”. This is also love. Je t’aime Roubaix. Moi non plus.