When I look into my heart of hearts, I find a place of austere clarity. It contains a few abiding loves. One of the most significant among these is my complete adoration for cycling. Were I to win the lottery tomorrow I’d begin planning my escape forthwith. And what would I do? No different from many of you, I’d set course for cycling’s homeland. And though I love the cobbles and muur, my preferred playground is mountain terrain. Left to my own devices, I’d ride as many of Europe’s 2000-meter cols as I could in a month. I’d pray for the strength to ride two per day until I’d scaled them all.
So while I salivate at the very mention of Paris-Roubaix and see it as the ultimate hard-man test, my greatest love I reserve for Grand Tours in general and the Tour de France in specific. You see, my love for the Tour isn’t based on courage, brute force, macho cool or even tough-guy bravado, but my childhood sense of fun.
When I was a kid, bike riding—as we called it—was one of my all-out faves. The perfect summer day was a day spent riding as much as possible and the farther afield the better. Had it been possible, the perfect summer would have been three months with no school and hours of riding bikes each day. Had it been possible I could have enjoyed heaven on earth.
So imagine my surprise when I learned of the Tour de France. Three weeks of riding around France in the summer. Three weeks of being paid to ride bikes for five or six hours per day. Three weeks with your best friends. It was a dream come true.
When I learned that Greg LeMond typically trained eight hours a day, the depth of envy I felt burned through my shoes and the foundation of my parents’ home. Someone was paying this guy to do something my folks rarely allowed me to do for more than two hours at a time. Clearly, this world had options to which I was unaware.
To this day, a month spent riding around France tops most wish-list possibilities. A date with Pam Anderson, tickets at the fifty yard line for the Super Bowl, dinner at the White House, serving a case of Petrus to friends, and none of them match the excitement I feel when I think about riding mountains day in and day out for a whole calendar page.
And the pinnacle of the PRO life is the rhythm of a Grand Tour. Wake, eat, rest, eat, race, eat, rest, eat, sleep. Such a life could easily be a prison to some, but to me it has always been a chance to gorge on my favorite meal. Weeks of days defined by racing.
As I have come to know Grand Tours and how the are raced, my love for them has only increased. For all the flash and grandeur, they are won not so much on the
coup de grace, but on conservation, efficiency and tactical sense. Sure, we applaud the rider who can deliver the withering attack, but discretion is as important as the attack itself. Delivered at the wrong time it isn’t just an effort wasted, but a nail in one’s own coffin.
The high water mark for each of my summers as a kid was the Fourth of July. From riding bikes to the parades, funny outfits, cookouts and fireworks, the Fourth was the perfect summer day. And what is the Tour de France but that day played out over and over again? With the last of the season’s Grand Tours coming to a close, I’m sad to be nearing the end of another season; I don’t feel I sucked quite enough marrow from this one. That’s more a statement of insatiability than actual hunger, I suspect.
I have often imagined how great life would be to be the
lanterne rouge. I simply can’t imagine what it would be like to with the Tour itself, but I think I can fathom what it would take to be the guy just hanging on by the skin of my teeth in a Grand Tour. That perpetual state of disbelief—
I’m still here; I’m still in it! And then one day I learned that not all pros who wish to ride the Tour get to go. Oh the horror! To be considered and then to find out you didn’t make the squad. No fireworks, no adulation, no cool mountain roads. Cinderella should know such pain.
No soup for you. Come back one year.
Of all the world’s many privileges, that is one that if I had it to do over, I’d live a Puritan life. My refusals would be legion, my discipline harder than granite and my will as unyielding as the laws of physics, all just to have a crack at riding a Grand Tour just once.
Only a cyclist or a Puritan could see day after day of suffering as a vacation.
Image courtesy John Pierce, Photosport International
Unavoidably, the Interbike experience includes walking through the odd casino. Emphasis on odd. From the wall-to-wall cigarette smoke to the unsolvable maze of each casino’s layout, the experience is as foreign to my daily routine as Wall Street is to fiscal responsibility. 
ZD: You are a bicycle tire guru. You have been developing and testing bike tires for years. Where do your cross tires excel as compared to other cross tires on the market? What other cross tires do you like?
When I look into my heart of hearts, I find a place of austere clarity. It contains a few abiding loves. One of the most significant among these is my complete adoration for cycling. Were I to win the lottery tomorrow I’d begin planning my escape forthwith. And what would I do? No different from many of you, I’d set course for cycling’s homeland. And though I love the cobbles and muur, my preferred playground is mountain terrain. Left to my own devices, I’d ride as many of Europe’s 2000-meter cols as I could in a month. I’d pray for the strength to ride two per day until I’d scaled them all.
We cyclists, we’re not much different from watches at times. Macro cycles, micro cycles, they function just like the different gears of a mechanism. From rest days and rest weeks to big efforts and big weeks, everything we do is writ both large and small. 
Boulder, Colorado has long been a hotbed for cycling: it remains a challenge to swing a spoke ruler without hitting a PRO or two in the process. Boulder was one of the first towns I ever visited where the bike shop competition was fierce. It was akin to that of gas stations in Los Angeles. Literally, there were bike shops on almost every corner and the abundance of shops makes perfect sense. Boulder is a college town and there are countless students riding bikes to and fro, and with each student there is an opportunity to sell at least 2.3 bikes per students if you figure each college student will have at least 1 bike stolen during their pursuit of higher education. For each bike stolen, there are u-locks to be sold, flat tires to be fixed, and the steady stream of stolen seat/seat post and front wheel replacements. So naturally, Boulder would be a boomtown for bike shops. When the soup is good...
When the sh*t goes down and the screws are turned, we all wage the war against the ingress of doubt. Like cold, salty ocean water, doubt will find its way inside a breach and then... it's only a matter of time before the ship goes down. 
The season begins the same way every year. Like moles emerging from the earth, cyclists crawl out from the confines of their basements, spinning classes, and lone winter workouts. Everyone has the same intention: get out, join the group ride, and connect with fellow riders. For some, it's another season, picking up right where they left off with the last. For others, it's their first season riding with a group; they struggled through the last season, building form and fitness and a comfort that comes from long hours on the bike. For newbies, there may be apprehension to join the mix, especially the bubbling, swirling brew that makes up the group at higher speeds. Novel to them are the rules of group etiquette, how to ride in a paceline, how to move about in the field, and how to play nicely with others. 
“You must have the will, you must have Paris-Roubaix in your head…”
Although Masterlink Films is new to the cycling film genre, they have chosen to partner with some heavy hitters. Road to Roubaix is comprised of three distinct components: Footage from the 2007 Paris-Roubaix, Discovery Channel’s spring camp in Solvang, CA, and post-race interviews shot in London. Each segment is beautifully captured through the eyes of the Masterlink Film team. Artfully edited to create an authentic and compelling account of what Roubiax means to cycling and the world at large. The film captures the modern day Roubaix while black-and-white photos expose the history of the race; each component masterfully sewn together with poignant narratives. I recognize stills from my favorite book Paris Roubaix: A Journey Through Hell, as well as some from Rouleur’s powerhouse photo talent, Camille Mc Millan and Tim Kölln. The sum of these elements paints the beauty of Roubaix in vivid reality and delivers the sting of the cobbles and the taste of the nervous energy mixed with historically rich French sand. Paris-Roubaix is without question the star of this film, not the well-paid PROs.
The content of this film is deep, and if you (like BKW) are drawn to behind-the-scenes footage, this film should be on your to-do list. The perspective is not from an individual team or rider, but the event itself. One thing is very clear right from the start: the filmmakers and the individuals interviewed have a very healthy respect for the Queen of the Classics; at times, the level of respect displayed makes the hairs on your arms stand up. The raw emotion of those who love Roubaix is endless and it's conveyed with a succinct clarity that, at times, you'll shake your head in agreement and, others, you'll be reaching for the phone to call everyone who has ever bared witness to your stumbling explaination of Roubaix's power. 
Ask any Australian cycling fan to comment on O'Grady's win and it becomes obvious that Stuart's performance in 2007 went well beyond another CSC win. O'Grady ground himself into the record books as the first Aussie to capture the title and, for those who have enjoyed watching his career unfold, Paris Roubaix was the ultimate win for a rider who has put in the effort year after year. Masterlink Films captures this historical moment in PROfessional cycling with a vividness previously not seen.
The sticker may be the single most valuable form of currency in the bike world. On the surface, stickers are created equal, but upon closer inspection, stickers, like currencies, have differing values. Don't get me wrong, all stickers are important, but like teaching the value of money to a child, five singles are not as valuable as a twenty dollar bill. Here is a brief tutorial on the denominations of the sticker world.
Real, big-time bike racing was descending on my town. Barriers lined the sidewalks and minivans festooned with roof racks filled the available parking. A door slid open and there were the two stars of the Panasonic-Sportlife team: Viatcheslav Ekimov and Olaf Ludwig, both Olympic Gold Medalists. 
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