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8
CONTENTS SOIGNEUR
12 | Intro
A Foreign World |
14 | The Valise 18 | Star Lore
120
James Robertson — TransAtlantic Way Ireland | Smouldering |
24 | Brazo de Hierro — Among the Giants 36 | Hope Dies Last 40 | 80 Days
122
148
152 The Strain of Memories | 166 Sean Hardy — Portfolio |
Yorit Kluitman — Bicycle Landscape |
50 | Russ Ellis — Sky High: Tour de France 2017 76 | Seasons in the Sun 80 | Kåre Dehlie Thorstad — Sibiu Cycling Tour 102 | Kristof Ramon — Schaal Sels
Lo Sceriffo |
182
Daghan Perker — American CX | World Champs | Fin |
170
184
198
210
Soigneur Magazine is a publication by independent publishing house
Contributors • Russ Ellis, Max Leonard, Brazo de Hierro, Toni de la Torre,
Soigneur BV, based in Rotterdam, The Netherlands.
Keir Plaice, Koga, Tom Southam, Cor Vos, Herbie Sykes, Conterno archives, Kåre Dehlie Thorstad, Michael Barry, Mike Rosen, Walter Lai, Kristof
Editor in Chief • Martijn Boot, martijn.boot@soigneur.nl
Ramon, James Robertson, Richard Abraham, Presse Sports, Sean Hardy,
Creative Director • Martijn van Egmond, martijn@soigneur.nl
Adam Phelan, Andy Bokanev, Yorit Kluitman, Morten Okbo, Daghan Perker
Production Director • Jeroen Boot, jeroen@soigneur.nl
Cover • Warren Barguil on the Izoard, stage 18, Tour de France 2017
Designer • Mirko Meerwaldt, mirko@soigneur.nl
by Russ Ellis
Publisher • Vincent Luyendijk, vincent@soigneur.nl Brand partnerships • Frank Kwanten, frank@soigneur.nl Digital content • Roebijn Schijf, ruby@soigneur.nl Editor • Mart Kuperij Translator • Keir Plaice Printed by Drukkerij Tesink Editorial office • To pitch a story, drop us a line: Marconistraat 85 (West) 3029 AJ Rotterdam • info@soigneur.nl Advertising/partnerships • Please contact partnerships@soigneur.nl or call +31 (0)6 189 49 224 • Find our media-kit on soigneur.nl Soigneur Agency • For companies and brands that want to connect with global cycling, the Soigneur Agency is developing content strategies, brand identities, publications and digital platforms Stockists • If you’d like to carry Soigneur, get in touch: distribution@soigneur.nl • Thanks to all our readers, followers and friends. Ride on. Soigneur
Follow us
Image: Russ Ellis
— From the French verb soigner, to take care of. A soigneur is a rider’s best friend at the races. He looks after his rider when he is suffering, and massages him at night, so he is ready to fight another day. More than anything, a good soigneur is someone the rider can talk to. He is a crucial figure in the sport who ensures that his riders stay motivated.
/racefietsen @soigneurs /soigneur_zegt /soigneur
9
Soigneur was awarded a
ISSN 2542-355X
European Design Award 2015,
© 2017 Soigneur
category Magazines.
All rights reserved.
CONTRIBUTORS
L’ÉQUIPE
BRAZO DE HIERRO (ES)
RUSS ELLIS (UK)
KÅRE DEHLIE THORSTAD (NOR)
KRISTOF RAMON (BE)
Among the Giants Page 24
Sky High Page 50
Sibiu Cycling Tour Page 80
Schaal Sels Page 102
JAMES ROBERTSON (UK)
SEAN HARDY (UK)
YORIT KLUITMAN (NL)
DAGHAN PERKER (TUR/US)
TransAtlantic Way Page 122
Portfolio Page 152
Bicycle Landscape Page 170
American CX Page 184
10
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12
INTRO
CAPTURE Cycling transforms places into theatres. That is its magic. During a race, a bygone village might be the stage for the climax of a live drama. A roundabout could be the deciding factor. A remote mountain road is often the setting for nerve-racking dénouements. Whenever you set out on a bike, the world becomes a backdrop for your journey, the story you share with your riding mates. The best cycling photography does not just capture those stories. It transforms them. Just as cycling does not require a standardised pitch or court, there’s no standard frame through which cycling must be photographed. Therein lies the magic. Perhaps, the grand finale of a race is just a cue to admire the mountains. Perhaps, the decisive moment calls attention to a distinctive roundabout, to the elation of a young girl by the side of the road, to someone’s defeat. Perhaps the race sets the scene for us to look anew at long-forgotten places and their people, at racing and racers. It’s only there for a moment. What does that moment mean?
Image: Russ Ellis
Soigneur
13
SOIGNEUR THE VALISE
PLANAR MAGNETIC TECH, RICH AND SPACIOUS SOUNDSCAPES, ZEBRA WOOD, REBIRTH OF THE COOL, EPITOME OF HI-END... BUT MOST OF ALL: EFFIN’ GORGEOUS.
WAYMAKER The throwback aluminium bars and sleek frame by the Belgians of Lazer make the Waymaker a suave piece of eyewear for your more composed hands-on-the-bars rides or wintery city saunters.
FAIR WOOLWEAR
lazersport.com
Idioma is an East-Anglian family brand with a big heart for ethical apparel and cultural awareness. This 5-panel is executed in snug green tweed wool, a fresh and fair take on time-honoured British winter caps. idioma.world
MEERGLAS
audeze.com
When we met Thomas Becker of Meer-
sublime paintjobs and packed with innova-
glas in Berlin, he told us how he came up
tive features. Honest, down to earth and a
with the idea of building his own bikes on
classic timelessness that yet appeals to the
a ride from Germany to Thailand — and
discerning modern eye.
why wouldn’t you? His steel frames are works of art in themselves, completed by
14
meerglas.org
SOIGNEUR THE VALISE
MESSSUCHER Some classics are hard to improve upon. Leica’s M-Series combine the discreet beauty of the past with cutting edge technology and unrivalled performance to forge a rangefinder camera worthy of every photographer’s desire. leica-camera.com
RAINBOW HERITAGE DeMarchi, purveyors of Italian textile fineries, are keeping us cushy this winter. History and fashion converge to create this fine 100% merino wool roll-top maglia iridata. Christmas jumper sorted.
THE FEW AND THE PROUD
demarchi.com Be the one out there who lives. Be one of the few who cross limits. Those who make history. Create legends. Be the freak. Be proud of it. Become the myth.
ARO
ryzon.net
Oakley’s first forays into the helmet scene look a promising and fitting complement to their iconic eyewear collection. Three
VEGAN SNEAKER
different models accomodate a
French brand Veja is leading the vanguard
a randonneuring enduro gravel
of snazzy organic and ethically sourced
muncher.
variety of uses, whether you’re a time trialling weight weenie or
footwear. Fifteen plastic bottles are upcycled in the creation of every pair.
oakley.com
veja-store.com
15
SOIGNEUR THE VALISE
HIT THE DIRT Ultra performance and ultra technology hit the dirt. Giro’s sleek Techlace Code shoes enable crossers, bikepackers and
MASTER OF THE TRADE
gravel grinders everywhere to
Italian artisan Tiziano Zullo has been constructing custom frames since the ‘70s, in his
tackle the roughest environs
workshop a little ways from Verona. The Panta Rei frames are made with endurance in
without sacrificing pedalling
mind, built using Columbus Spirit steel tubing to conquer long distances with optimum
power output.
handling capabilites. We hope Tiziano will be welding for some more time to come.
giro.com
zullo-bike.com
WICKERED
PRIDE OF PURPOSE
When two young architects
The impeccable styling and presentation
from Prague decided to
of Tracksmith’s running wear has always
make clever, durable and
impressed us greatly. Lightweight, func-
practical backpacks for
tional and versatile, their longsleeve is a
themselves and their friends,
personal favourite for running training.
Braasi happened. tracksmith.com braasi.com
DANISH ESSENTIALS One can hardly argue about the value of perennial essentials such as these merino gloves. Be it on brisk spring mornings or deep winter afternoons, these befit any season — by themselves or as a liner to provide some auxiliary warmth. gripgrab.com
16
SOIGNEUR THE VALISE
BANTAMWEIGHT The young Slovenians of Berk Composites have dedicated their skills in carbon to producing classy bikes and components. Their saddles are most likely among the lightest you will ever encounter. In the foothills of the eastern Alps one hears whispers of a weight as little as 69 grams. berk-composites.com
NEBULA Sympathetic Aussie brand Obsydian concocted a line of race-cut apparel that stands out with effortless grace through the use of superior fabrics and smart aesthetics. obsydian.cc
GEODESIC FOR LIFE Heimplanet has been creating some very
conditions and a quick, easy setup to enable
exciting gear. Their tents in particular, which
all of you outdoorsy scoundrels to get the most
are built out of modular air beams, using
out of your trips.
inflatable, eye-catching geodesic structures. This ensures outstanding stability in all
heimplanet.com
17
YVON CHOUINARD’S GREAT EYE FOR VERSATILTY SERVES US WELL! WHETHER YOU’RE DEFYING BELGIAN CX MUD, CLEANING YOUR RIDE OR GOING FLY-FISHING — WADERS FOR EVERYTHING. patagonia.com
TRENTA 3K CARBON LANDMARK PERFORMANCE
MAX
STAR LORE
Words: Max Leonard Image: Unknown
20
LEONARD
C
an we speak just for a moment not of the things that we like to repeat about cyclists and cycling, but of the things that are impossible to say? Like the things that inspire a man to reach deep into and go beyond himself, and turn himself into a symbol. And, how do we place the stars in the sky? The scene is, I imagine, somewhere in a dusty French town in
the Midi. Somewhere unfashionable and unimproved and stuck out in the vineyards, probably, or among rolling fields of sunflowers between the Rhône and the Pyrenees. The day’s stage has finished and the crowds have left the roadside, and across the square beneath the plane trees, opposite where Fausto Coppi and Federico Bahamontes (although it was just Bahamontes, always just Bahamontes short and sweet) are relaxing, against the church wall, the townsfolk are preparing for a party. Coloured lights have been strung up between the plane trees, and trestle tables laid the length of the square. At the far end, a fire is being made from old vine roots and later huge rounds of sausage and a whole lamb will be cooked under the night sky as the town holds a bal in honour of the Tour and its stars. The sun is going down. Suddenly, the wine is being poured and there is an accordion leading a band on a stage and you have a glass of wine in your hand, and another, and the wine keeps flowing from the barrel as you sit at one of the long wooden tables and drink and laugh with shirtless old men in the dense warmth of the night. And it is dark, very dark, when she takes you by the hand and spins you around so you cannot tell where the music is coming from anymore. You whisper and shout in her ear as she pulls you around, and you can’t be sure your feet will keep carrying you in these circles, because the square is pitching and rolling like a ship in a storm, and everything, everything outside of her is a flash of colour, a blur, a smear of noise trailing from your heels through the dark, like phosphorescence in the water and the stars in the sky, and the two of you are everything and you are nothing, you are comets, and this moment is all that matters, all that is or ever will be. And somewhere far away the bal is still going on. The world, dancing, under coloured bulbs suspended from the plane trees between trestle tables in a village square, each bulb a sun or a moon and each couple swirling through the solid heat of a Mediterranean midsummer night in orbit, separated from the rest by infinite dark space. This is what the Tour does to a town, this is the magic it brings. But that is all to come. For the moment, Fausto Coppi is talking to his star cyclist about the stage that has just finished, and they will not see the party — soon they will be in bed, because Bahamontes is dedicated to winning the race. He is disciplining himself, sacrificing for the great Fausto Coppi. Bahamontes, cycling’s greatest ever climber, or so he says without hesitation when I meet him — aged 88 (him, not me) — in Toledo. For 50 years no other rider crossed more of the Tour’s highest-category passes in first place. Bahamontes, known for once being so far ahead of the chasing Tour peloton that he stopped to eat an ice cream at the top of a col. Behaviour that helped forge the idea that he didn’t care about winning, and that the climber’s art is somehow gratuitous and that climbers are awkward, quixotic people. The ice cream myth places him up among the stars in the firmament above us. Star lore.
21
MAX
Bahamontes followed his own path. His excessive individualism and obstinacy isolated him; most years he raced for more than one team, he changed at the end of every season from 1953 to 1960 and when he decided to get off his bike nothing could convince him to get back on again. But his discipline was legendary, and he has little respect for modern riders, barring a very few. “They just sweat and get fat,” he tells me in Toledo. “They eat like kings and get massages and showers after every stage. They’re like girls. They don’t know how to suffer.” Bahamontes followed his own path. His excessive individualism isolated him, but his path led him up into the sky. He didn’t care, he says, about anything other than the polka dot jersey. “Always, always the mountains,” he tells me, smiling. “I never thought about the general classification.” Only Coppi could have convinced him otherwise. “Coppi said to me, ‘Why do you always ride for the mountains? You should go for the GC!’ I said, ‘GC? I’m not made for the flats, but I climb well in the mountains and that’s what I’ll do.’ Always I targeted the GPM. All the cols in Spain, Italy, France, I won. Every day I rode for the GPM, it was mine.” The conversation with Coppi happened in the winter of 1958, and Coppi made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. “We were eating before going hunting,” Bahamontes says. “And he said to me, ‘If you want to come to my team, you must go for the GC.’ I said, ‘With Coppi, yes!’ If somebody says to you, come play football for Real Madrid, you sign immediately. Coppi was my Madrid.” Riding for Tricofilina-Coppi, he arrived at the Tour in 1959 in good shape. “First stage, I went on the attack on the flat. I rode à bloc and I seem to remember I arrived two or three minutes ahead of the peloton,” he says. “That was the moment I thought, I’ll do the general and not the mountain.” He pauses for
HIS BEHAVIOUR HELPED
a second then adds, “Then in the mountains I always went to the
FORGE THE IDEA THAT
front, and I won the mountains as well as the Tour.” And he smiles.
THE CLIMBER’S ART IS SOMEHOW GRATUITOUS AND THAT CLIMBERS ARE AWKWARD, QUIXOTIC PEOPLE. THE MYTHS PLACE HIM UP AMONG THE STARS IN THE FIRMAMENT ABOVE US.
Some say he got away with it because the other riders thought it was business as usual, and he would do his usual trick of flopping on the GC. But I get the feeling that when he put his mind to something he was unstoppable. Bahamontes grew up in Fascist Spain, in a family so poor they used sometimes to eat stray cats, which his mother gutted and stuffed and called ‘baby goats’, and his first exploits on a bike were as a black-market salesman of grain and vegetables, riding in the middle of the day when Franco’s police were having their siesta. One day, aged fifteen, he stopped to drink some water from a river
and contracted typhoid fever. He was sick for three months, his weight dropped below 50 kilograms and all his hair fell out. Before, his hair had been straight, but when it grew back it came out curly. Tricofilina made hair products, by the way. Hair doping. Paul Fournel tells another story about Fausto Coppi in his book Anquetil Alone. A few weeks after his first professional victory, in 1953, Jacques Anquetil goes to visit Coppi; the visit
22
LEONARD
is, writes Fournel, “loaded with intention”. Anquetil takes with him a photographer who records everything: meeting the Campionissimo and being sized up by Cavanna, Coppi’s blind soigneur, the witch doctor and the kingmaker, in Coppi’s marble mansion. At the end, Coppi offers to look after Anquetil’s training, diet, technique, finances and make him a champion. Which proposition Anquetil declines. He has fixed it in his head that he will beat Coppi’s famous hour record, but he will do it his way; two-and-a-half years later, he goes to the famous Vigorelli velodrome in Milan and rides a lap further than Coppi. “A victory lap,” Fournel calls it.
WERE THERE EVER REALLY COLOURS LIKE
What better way to pay homage to your hero than visiting him to
THIS, OR DO THEY
announce you will replace him?
ONLY EXIST IN OLD
It is generally believed Coppi died of malaria contracted during a hunting safari in Upper Volta (now Burkina Faso), with other
PHOTOS AND DREAMS AND MEMORIES OF
cyclists including Raphaël Géminiani and Jacques Anquetil, at
CHILDHOOD? OR HAS
the end of 1959.
THE YELLOW JERSEY,
(As an aside, à propos of hunting, it is generally not a good activity
AFTER HINAULT AND
for Tour de France-winning cyclists, almost doing for Greg LeMond too. On 20 April 1987, LeMond was taken to hospital by helicopter having been shot. “All I know is Greg and his brother-in-law and
FIGNON, OR LEMOND, SAY, LOST ITS LUSTRE?
his uncle were hunting on some property we own in Lincoln and Pat shot what he thought was a turkey through some bush. Greg had walked around in front of it and just took some buckshot in the back,” Greg LeMond’s father said. “He was not real close to the gun. I say that because the pellets were scattered,” added Dr Sandy Beal, the trauma surgeon who treated him.) Bahamontes was also invited on that African hunting trip, but he did not go. There were five criteriums that were being held in Upper Volta, he explained in an interview, for which the organisers paid riders with several days of safari and as much big game as they could shoot. But no money. And Bahamontes wasn’t tempted, because he had all the hunting he needed in Spain, at a friends farm. “I wasn’t bothered about going to Africa to do what I already could do 15 kilometres from my house,” he said. In 2002 an Italian newspaper, the Corriere dello Sport, published a story claiming that Coppi had in fact been poisoned, in an act of revenge by the family of a Sierra Leonean cyclist named Canga, who tumbled down a gorge in strange circumstances in a race held in Africa that also involved other Europeans. Which seems to me to be the sort of story that Italian papers like to circulate sometimes. Certainly Bahamontes didn’t give it any credence. One final thing. Were there ever really colours like this, or do they only exist in old photos and dreams and memories of childhood? Or has the yellow jersey, after Hinault and Fignon, or LeMond, say, lost its lustre? Was it tarnished in the ‘90s and will it ever shine as brightly again? Blot out the moon, Pull down the stars. Love in the dark, for we’re for the dark.
23
BRAZO DE HIERRO (ES) AMONG THE GIANTS — SLOVENIA
Slovenia would be the destination for the second edition of Among the Giants. We’d seen some beautiful images of the country in an episode of Chef’s Table on Netflix and knew we had to go. Most of the participants didn’t know much about Slovenia, although we’d explored the internet for routes and read innumerable blogs. We just had a hunch that this trip was going to be incredible. And it was. All of us fell in love with this little corner of Europe, home of the Julian Alps, which are unknown to most, but feature countless corners to discover, great lakes, turquoise rivers, infinite valleys, and bleak roads that wind up and down huge mountains. It’s a wonderful place for anyone who loves riding bikes.
thanks to its beautiful setting and cobbled curves, which rise up from Kranjska Gora. We faced the fearsome Mangart, with its 25 km of continuous climbing. After squirming past enormous rock walls, you reach the 2,055-m top and are rewarded with absolute silence and views that would leave anybody speechless. Our experience in Slovenia will be difficult to forget. We experienced its nature, tasted its food, swam in its lakes, and made new friendships. We encountered the Giants, suffered and had fun in equal measure. Every kilometre of the way, we were surrounded by marvellous people. Toni de la Torre @rideamongthegiants
We toured around Bled Lake, passing by Pokjuka, Bohinjsko Lake and coming back by Goreljek, which is nicknamed the Slovenian Mortirolo. We crossed the famous Vrsic Pass, a magical place
24
BRAZO DE HIERRO
26
BRAZO DE HIERRO
30
AMONG THE GIANTS
@BRAZODEHIERRO
35
TOM
HOPE DIES LAST
Words: Tom Southam Image: Cor Vos
36
SOUTHAM
D
ai, dai, dai!” “Dai Davide, everything, everything, ev-er-ything.” What else can you say? As a sports director what else can you really say into the radio
at this moment in time: 800 metres from the finish of Liège-Bastogne-Liège. At this moment my co-director Juan Manuel Gárate and I back in the Cannondale-Drapac car, knew that Davide Formolo was pouring every single ounce of energy that he had into pushing forward. We knew he was combusting: his legs and his lungs burning, while his head was urging him for more. At this moment he is a bike racer and he can almost see the finish line. When you are a racer, there is nothing else like this. That scent of victory is the addiction that we all share. In the front seat of the team car, I repeated my words over the radio again. “Everything Davide, a tutta a tutta!” The climb up to the finish of Liège in Ans is brutal but it is honest — the road is straight and gradient rises evenly. It is a simple ramp, but at this stage of La Doyenne, it is the moment that cards are placed on the table for the world to see. In the Cannondale-Drapac car we had watched the 2017 Liège-Bastogne-Liège unfold like an avalanche, tumbling towards a conclusion. Formolo had attacked after the summit of the penultimate climb of Saint-Nicholas, and he had held his precarious gap of five to six seconds for four kilometres. At this point, we in the car had gone from thinking that Davide’s attack would be the perfect foil for Rigoberto Urán who, like all the favourites, had waited patiently and saved every ounce of energy for the last kilometre, to suddenly, for a moment, daring to think that Davide had a shot to win. At this very moment, as Roman Kreuziger was beginning to fade and as Porte, Albasini, Valverde and Martin were gearing up to accelerate behind Davide, we knew it would be close. But like everyone, we also knew that the final climb up to Ans flattens slightly when you take the final turn toward the finish line at 250 metres to go. Behind Davide we could see that the riders were ready to pounce. But hope dies last. On the radio I had one last shot at giving Davide his own form of hope. The only card that I had left to play. “To the corner, just race to the corner. Everything to the corner.”
37
TOM
The psychology of racing in these extreme moments is often to try to break down big efforts into small parts. Anyone who has ridden or competed in sport at any level will know that you don’t really know what you are capable of until you do it. Oftentimes you can only manage to do it if you can blindfold your mind a little. The finish line is 250 metres from the corner. Meaning that when this photo was taken, Davide had just 550 metres to cover to the left hand turn. Some days 550 metres is nothing, they can be over in a flash. This was never going to be one of those cases. But if Davide could make it to the corner, the road would flatten and I knew that if he could see the finish line just there, surely he could find more from somewhere deep inside of himself to accelerate again, and maybe resist. If he could focus on the corner he could trick his suffering mind into thinking that he was closer than he was to the line. After 271 km and weeks of preparation, it all boiled down to playing a psychological game to mentally shave off just 250 metres. “To the corner, to the corner.” Liège-Bastogne-Liège is a race that begins with such a slow burn. A
IF DAVIDE COULD MAKE
lengthy opening scene that rolls steadily south on the open terrain and hard concrete roads of the Walloon region before touching
IT TO THE CORNER,
Bastogne and turning back towards Liège. On this return leg the
THE ROAD WOULD
race starts to dart in and out of the cover of the forests and hills
FLATTEN AND I KNEW THAT IF HE COULD SEE THE FINISH LINE JUST THERE, SURELY HE COULD FIND MORE FROM SOMEWHERE DEEP INSIDE OF HIMSELF.
of the Ardennes, and the action finally ignites over a grinding, unrelenting final hundred kilometres, mercilessly sorts out the weak, and reduces the peloton to one single fragile line racing towards the finish. I remember Liège as a rider, and I remember the feeling of the intensity building. Like swimming against stronger and stronger waves while struggling to take breaths, as you gulp down more and more seawater until you simply can’t hang on any longer. Eleven years later the 2017 Ardennes Classics were my first truly
big races as a lead sports director. I’ll admit that I am not crazy about Amstel (Amstel is crazy enough as it is); Flèche is nice but it’s not the big one. Liège however — the oldest and the grandest of them all — was the one that I wanted. I recall my sports director Claudio Corti talking to us with twinkle in his eye as we drove into the centre of Liège on the team bus for the start on a Sunday years ago, telling us all to take a look around and take it in, that this was “La Liegi” (as the Italians fondly refer to the race) and to savour that moment.
38
SOUTHAM
At the time I did not understand it. Liège looked like a shit hole, but I was young and dumb and I was also probably simply terrified of what was ahead. Eleven years later, and eight hours before this photo was taken, I was the one who was now in charge of trying to inspire something special out of my group of riders. But for me there was no standing up on the bus, effusing about the charm of the centre of Liège. Rather auspiciously we arrived for this edition of Liège in the teams cars, as our team bus had broken down right in the central bus station when we had arrived for the team presentation the
11 YEARS LATER, AND 8 HOURS BEFORE THIS PHOTO WAS TAKEN,
night before the race, and we’d been forced to just leave the bus
I WAS THE ONE WHO
in the centre and hope it wasn’t smashed, set on fire, or daubed in
WAS NOW IN CHARGE
graffiti penises.
OF TRYING TO INSPIRE
Deep down, I loved the fact that we arrived unconventionally
SOMETHING SPECIAL
crammed in cars and piled in to our broken bus to get ready on that
OUT OF MY GROUP OF
Sunday morning (that was parked outside of the official parking
RIDERS.
in the Liège bus station) and our riders were not in the slightest way phased. Bike riders can be extremely fragile when they lack confidence; I’ve seen riders lose their minds because they don’t have the right oats in the morning, or because their socks haven’t come out of the washing white enough. So to turn up to a broken down bus after being squeezed into team cars to the start and remain concentrated and focussed, I knew we had a team that could really do the business. And in the race our riders didn’t put a foot wrong: Davide Villella and Mike Woods were two of the key attackers in the final 30 km when the race entered the key phase over the Roche aux Faucons and Saint-Nicholas. But this is not a victory shot. We all know that Davide didn’t make it to the line. The wave swallowed him before he made it. The first person to pass him was former winner Dan Martin, 150 metres from that corner, at which moment Davide later admitted that he wanted to stop pedalling right there and then and get off his bike. Watch the video, you can see the power drain from him before Martin has even finished going by. For Davide it was an all for nothing moment — the black tape on his arm in memorial of his friend Michele Scarponi who had died the previous day, and who Davide had raced with only 72 hours earlier at the Tour of the Alps. This is an all or nothing shot for myself too. As a director you learn that you can want it, and you can do everything you can, but sometimes, no matter what you do, or what you try, you are going to fall short, sometimes by a lot, and sometimes just by metres.
39
KOGA X SOIGNEUR
80
DAYS Mark Beaumont will be settling bets for the foreseeable future. Guinness confirms it. At 78 days, 14 hours, and 40 minutes, he’s set the record for the fastest circumnavigation of the world by bicycle ever. That’s his prize. “My Everest,” he says.
Words: Keir Plaice Images: Koga
40
KOGA X SOIGNEUR
was no margin for error, no time to waste. The unforeseen could not exist. So, for two years, Beaumont set about preparing. He’d ridden around the world before, but never at such a pace. Ten years earlier, he’d set out from Paris and broken the around-theworld record, carrying all his own gear and riding 160 kilometres per day. His time of 194 days stood for a while, and the BBC made a successful documentary about his trip. That inspired competitors however, and his record was soon broken several times over. Beaumont, in the meantime, was off doing other things. He joined a team that tried to row across the Atlantic in 30 days, and had to be rescued 27 days in. He rode from Alaska to Chile, with stops to climb Aconcagua and McKinley. He
“WHAT I KIND OF FELT WAS THAT THERE WAS ALWAYS A COMPROMISE BETWEEN THE ADVENTURE AND PERFORMANCE.”
made documentaries and worked in television, did some mountaineering and other cycling trips. Something was missing though.
eaumont ’s journey was inspired by that of another British gentleman, Mr. Phileas Fogg Esq. of London, who travelled around the world in 80 days to win a bet in Jules Verne’s 1873 book. “The old world record was 123 days, and initially I thought that going under 100 days would be very fast, and then I started to think, Is it possible to go around the world in 80 days? It’s a one-time prize, you know, a big milestone. Anywhere around the world people know the story of Around the World in Eighty Days. And even if they don’t
B
know the original story of Phileas Fogg, they know the Disney version. If it was possible, I thought that’s what we should go for,” he says. He reckoned it was possible, but only barely. To meet Guinness’ standard, he’d have to ride 29,000 kilometres in the same direction and pass through two antipodal points. Flights across the oceans were allowed. The clock would never stop though. And the facts were daunting. To ride around the world in 80 days, he would have to cover, on average, a little more than 380 kilometres per day. Still, “a properly used minimum is enough for anything,” as Phileas Fogg says. There
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“As I’d carried on my career as an athlete, what I kind of felt was that there was always a compromise between the adventure and performance. On the adventure side, you’re trying to find a safe place to sleep every night, you’re trying to find your next meal, and, you know, you’re just trying to get by, whereas the performance side is about how fast you can go, purely your physical ability as a bike rider,” he says. Beaumont became more and more interested in going faster. In 2015, he broke the record for cycling the length of Africa, time trialling from Cairo to Cape Town with as little gear as he could. “I’d gone from basically touring cycling to adventure racing — bike packing, carrying minimal kit, really going as fast as possible — and that was as fast as I think I could go unsupported,” he says, which sparked a new dream.
80 DAYS
“I kind of felt like the biggest prize, you know, my Everest, my biggest dream as a bike rider, would be to go back to attempt the circumnavigation of the world, but this time to go fully supported, so it wasn’t about the wild man, the adventure; it was purely about performance. How fast can you go? And that’s what I spent the last two years doing,” he says.
ticking off the plan. We had the entire 29,000 kilometres broken into four-hour sections,” Beaumont says.
First, he had to raise half a million pounds and hire the 40 people who would be involved in the project. “It was a completely professional expedition. We did not start from Paris and just go, let’s see how fast we can go. There was no finding out on the road what was possible. Everything was decided before the start. And when we were on the road, it was just a case of
“IT TOOK A HUGE AMOUNT OF RESEARCH TO FIGURE OUT THE FASTEST ROUTE AROUND THE WORLD.”
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The route had to be chosen. All options were open, so long as Guinness’ criteria were met. Mountains and hills were to be avoided, wind patterns and road quality considered. The weather, the ease of crossing borders and catching flights — all were factors that would determine Beaumont’s overall speed. “It took a huge amount of research to figure out the fastest route around the world,” he says. His choice of equipment was also crucial. “It took about a year to build the dream machine, to make all the choices, test things, and make sure that it was as fast and comfortable as possible. The bike is not like a Tour de France bike. You need a bike that you can sit comfortably on for 16 hours every day,” Beaumont says. During
KOGA X SOIGNEUR
“MY BIGGEST WORRY IS NOT GETTING INJURED. IT’S ABOUT HAVING A BODY THAT’S SO WELLCONDITIONED THAT YOU’RE JUST NEVER GOING TO GET A REPETITIVE STRAIN INJURY,”
his first around-the-world journey, he had ridden a Koga and has been working with the company ever since. “I know the guys at the factory pretty well, and they put a huge amount of time and effort into building the bike. Even though Koga is not the world’s largest bike manufacturer, I love the fact that they do everything bespoke and I have a relationship with them. All the world records have been on a Koga bike, and I’m really proud of that history,” Beaumont says. “The geometry of the bike was really important — having a slightly higher front end, having multiple hand positions with the aero bars and the shape of the drops. And everything needed testing. We tried several different bike set-ups before we actually made the final choices, before they actually made the
final seven frames for the world. We didn’t need all seven, but they were all completely custom made,” he says. Beaumont’s body also needed testing. His training regime was as meticulous as the rest of the scheme. “My biggest worry, like anyone involved in ultra endurance, is not getting injured. It’s about having a body that’s so well-conditioned that you’re just never
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going to get a repetitive strain injury,” he says. “You’ve gotta train through the range. That’s the mistake that a lot of endurance riders make is that they just sit at that low-level tempo riding for huge hours, and it’s not the best way to train. I’m on the velodrome. I’m doing the intensity, the pyramids, the intervals, but I’m also doing the long rides. It’s about having that all-round strength and the ability to never get injured,” he says.
80 DAYS
Still, as Beaumont’s 18-month training programme was coming to a close, he wasn’t certain that his goal was within reach. So, he took on a 5,600-plus-kilometre ride around Britain with his full entourage to make sure he could handle the pace. If he could do it for two weeks around Britain, he could do it for two-and-a-half months around the world, he thought.
THE GEAR Mark rode a customised version of the KOGA Kimera Premium. The Profile Design cockpit and aerobar have been custom designed in such a way that Mark can maintain his aerodynamic posture over the neccesary long periods of time. Hydraulic Shimano Ultegra disc
The alarm would go off at 3:30 every morning. He’d be on the bike at four and would ride for four hours, and then be allowed a half-hour rest. Then, he’d ride for another four hours and take another half-hour rest. Then, he’d have four more hours on the bike, a half-hour rest, and four more hours of riding again. That was the schedule. He would be on the bike for 16 hours every day, no matter what. His performance manager and chef, who’d be following him on the road, would make sure he had the 9,000 calories a day he needed to keep going — mostly ordinary food with plenty of fat. His team would manage the logistics and the media and keep his body and bike in good working order. Each night, he had five hours set aside for sleep. If he stuck to the plan, he had to trust that he’d cover the distance.
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brakes were installed to provide the ultimate in braking power under all the difficult conditions Mark would encounter around the world. To furnish just a little bit of extra comfort, 28mm Panaracer tires were used on Corima wheels. These tires also helped in a faster completion of the ride due to their relative low rolling resistance. Mark used his old trusty Selle SMP Pro saddle to endure the long hours on the bike. On every continent, there was a similar bike waiting for Mark, so that no time was lost in transferring — or losing — equipment after air transfers.
KOGA X SOIGNEUR
Around Britain, the team worked like a welloiled machine. The plan was flawless. It was time to take on the globe with it, to ride around the world in 80 days. But while steamships and trains and carriages and yachts and cargo vessels and sleds and even elephants might allow a character such as Phileas Fogg to maintain his aloofness, his famous debonair detachment, on a bicycle, there’s no storing yourself away in the perfection of plans.
MARK BEAUMONT TRULY SAW THE WORLD, ITS LANDSCAPES FLOWING CONTINUOUSLY PAST HIS FRONT WHEEL. AND HE TRULY SAW WHAT, WITH DETERMINATION, A MAN CAN BE MADE OF.
“It hurt. It hurt like hell,” Beaumont says. Nine days after leaving Paris, Beaumont crashed. It was just east of Moscow. It was early in the morning. It was still dark, and it was wet. He smashed his front teeth on the ground and fractured his elbow. He kept going. Imagine riding 16 hours per day, day after day, over the rough roads of rural Russia with broken teeth and a broken elbow. Imagine it. Think past the numbers and words for a moment to what that must have felt like, and then remember that it lasted for weeks on end. It is not impossible. For Mark Beaumont’s journey goes beyond a line on a map. It’s about more than the 29,020 kilometres he eventually covered, and his 78 day-14 hours-and-40-minutes Guinness World Record. For those 78 days, he rode through every
sunrise and sunset, fell in love with the Gobi Desert and the Mongolian steppe, froze in the beautiful snow-capped mountains on the South Island of New Zealand, and battled headwinds and a lack of sleep on the Canadian Prairies, heat and dehydration in the Pyrenees. He rode with hundreds and hundreds of people, through 14 countries, but mostly he rode alone. The pain was all his. Perhaps the dichotomy Beaumont’s drawn between performance and adventure is a false one. Although he was focused on speed much of the time, and surely suffered as no one on a bike has ever suffered before, Mark Beaumont truly saw the world, its landscapes flowing continuously past his front wheel.
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And he truly saw what, with determination, a man can be made of. That too is adventure. On a bike, “you get to see all of it and a lot of detail,” Beaumont says. He saw what we can only imagine. 78 days, 14 hours, and 40 minutes is the record.
koga.com
Bike MOTION
start your cycling season. 2-4 March 2018 Jaarbeurs // Utrecht The Netherlands
Check out the latest trends, test the most recent products, and choose your bike, parts, and accessories for the coming season. (e)-MTB & cycling test tracks, Fixed Gear races, Personal Improvement Area, Urban Square, bicycle service area and so much more...
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RUSS ELLIS (UK) SKY HIGH — TOUR DE FRANCE 2017
This was my first Tour de France as the embedded photographer with Team Sky. I had also shot the Giro with the team in May, but the Tour is a different animal altogether — it’s not nicknamed the circus for nothing. Everything you could want to take pictures of while at a bike race is there, but moving around in the huge crowds and trying to capture unique images when there are so many other photographers there is a challenge! But it’s one I love. Being embedded with Team Sky is a real privilege; I get access to the riders and staff as they go about their work for the best part of a month. Being able to get images from the team bus prestage is a documentary photographer’s dream — along with access to the riders as they recover on an evening with dinner and massages.
and then the finish. Other days I travelled with some of my photographer colleagues in their cars, allowing us to make numerous stops on the stage to get unique images from the day’s racing. I was also lucky enough to spend a few stages in the number one team car in race. On the final stage, at the end of the race in Paris, I was able to access the finish line ‘circus’ tent with the team and other jersey winners. This was a highlight of the Tour as I got to hang out with and take pictures of the racers as they finally began to wind down from a crazy three weeks of racing around France. @cyclingimages
I travelled around the race in a number of ways, sometimes in the van with the swannies covering the start, feed zone
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RUSS ELLIS
P51.
P52.
The Sky Train leads the pelo-
Luke Rowe recovering
ton through one of the most
outside the team bus.
spectecular vista’s of this years’ Tour.
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SKY HIGH
P53. The course snaked its way through the Ardennes, and onto the circuit of Spa-Francorchamps. Fans gladly line up on these curbs for once.
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RUSS ELLIS
P54/55.
P56.
Resolute and persistent, but it was not
During the Tour, France’s quaint
to be. Dan Martin gave it his all this year,
villages cater to both the yellow
we’d love to see him in yellow someday.
jersey of Geraint Thomas and
forlorn Czech fans.
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SKY HIGH
P57.
P58/59.
Sunburnt and inked up.
The mountains are beau-
Christian Knees.
tiful and it’s these stages that everyone comes out to watch. ďƒ’
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RUSS ELLIS
P61. Mikel Landa, eye of the tiger. 
P60. Froome passes through a throng of superheroes.
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RUSS ELLIS
P62. The pressure’s off, the happiness is shared on social media.
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SKY HIGH
P63. Chris Froome enters the Sky team bus after the race.
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RUSS ELLIS
P64/65.
P66.
Soak in the views and
It never stops hurting.
dream of the Alps in July.
P67. A few more miles on the rollers after a long, hard day at work.
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RUSS ELLIS
P68. A bidon from Luke will make these kids’ day.
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SKY HIGH
P69. Bling Matthews and Kwiato share a joke or two after the ceremony.
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RUSS ELLIS
P70/71.
P72.
The epic feeling of dropping
Sneaking a peek. Fans outside
into the clouds and the valleys
the team bus.
after cresting the mountain. ďƒ‘
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SKY HIGH
P73.
P74.
Froomey heads over to Mar-
Knees looking for some clean
seille stadium for his decisive
podium kit at the finish.
Time Trial.
ďƒ’
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HERBIE
SEASONS IN THE SUN
Words: Herbie Sykes Image: Conterno archives
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SYKES
A
former cyclist once told me there were about 120 Italian professionals, and they were divided into five distinct groups. • The expendable ones (around half ) • The good ones (maybe 30-40) • The very good ones (a dozen tops) • The champions (a handful) • Fausto Coppi (Fausto Coppi)
And he was right. Or, to put it another way, a few were chosen, and most were not. Most were the guy in our photo, Angelo Conterno. He was one of the very good ones, but I’m casting him as our lead actor, our metaphor and, with a fair wind, our hero. The photo looks bad, doesn’t it? It’s Angelo — whom I’m supposing you’ve likely never heard of — at the conclusion of the 1959 Giro del Lazio. He was about to win that race, and with it the Italian national championship. Then, however, this happened, and that explains at least in part why you’ve never heard of him. That’s your loss, but most of all it’s his. It cost him a night in hospital, a maglia tricolore, more crits than you can shake a stick at, and worse still, a place amongst the champions. One way or another it cost him a fortune, and a fortune was a hell of a lot of money in 1959. Most retired cyclists claim to have been unlucky. It’s the badge of their creed, because they didn’t win much and they feel the need to find excuses. Angelo was never much for excuses, but God knows he needn’t have looked far. First off, he was the guy who had to compete with Nino Defilippis, a thoroughgoing champion, for the hearts and minds of the Torinese public. Problem was that Nino came from a rich family and Angelo didn’t. Nino had the gift of the gab and Angelo didn’t. Nino liked cultivating friends in high places, and Angelo didn’t (he preferred to cultivate asparagus, and by all accounts he was very good at it). To be fair, Nino had a sprint and Angelo didn’t, which is why Nino won seven stages at the Tour and nine at the Giro, and Angelo… Well Angelo ran away with the 1952 Trofeo Ponsin. That point about the Trofeo Ponsin is a bit disingenuous, and I’ve utilized it mainly for illustrative purposes. In point of fact Angelo won upwards of 30 races, including a 352-kilometre Giro stage (!) in 40 degrees heat. That’s because there was nobody quite like him, and because he made up for his physical shortcomings with the stuff of cycling. He’d the head of a mule, the heart of a lion and, as anyone who knew him would testify, the constitution of an Argonaut. One of his wins was the 1956 Vuelta, by 13 seconds. It was one of the more heroic performances in the history of the race, but because he was Angelo it never really resonated. That’s a travesty, because to win he’d to see off atrocious weather in the first week, and then guys like Bobet, Koblet and Bahamontes. They’re three Tour de France winners you likely have heard of, and so Angelo’s having won didn’t play at all well with the Spanish press. They omitted to mention the fact that he’d survived a crucible, and instead made out it was all some sort of a fluke. They informed us that he’d only won because the Italians had coalesced with the Belgians, and that he’d been in receipt of a helping hand on the final climb. We’ve already established that Angelo wasn’t quite as talented as Nino, but like most of his creed he’d a refined understanding of macroeconomics.
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HERBIE
He also understood that the Belgians, for all that they seemed like a bunch of half-bred Neanderthals, had an innate grasp of aggregate demand. The Belgians knew how to leverage a commodity, and theirs was the fact that they were great, larruping flahutes, while the Italians were all guys like Angelo: short-arsed climbers. They could be smashed to pieces on the flat, but it wouldn’t serve any purpose because they knew that if they came in together their sprinter, the great Rik Van Steenbergen, couldn’t lose. If, therefore, the Italians could be persuaded to internalize their externality (or “pay”), the Belgians would ensure that the stages would finish with a gallop, and double their pesetas. Didn’t they sign the Treaty of Rome the following spring? The Spanish press also conveniently forgot that Angelo rode the final stage with pneumonia. Notwithstanding the fact that Bilbao was a kiln that day, he was delirious with cold. He begged his teammates for a rain cape, a heavy jersey, anything to make it stop, and of course they told him to go to hell. He told them that hell was precisely where he was, but they told him to keep his head down and his stupid mouth shut. They knew that if the Spaniards saw him in his winter kit they’d deduce that he was stuffed, and they’d have been right. They’d have gone after him there and then, and he’d have been in all kinds of purgatory. There was no way he’d have survived, they’d have lost the jersey and the money, and the Belgians would have demanded payment anyway. Some of those Belgians were big blokes. They’d hands like butchers. By the time he reached that last climb he was spitting blood, but not in some lazy, facile, literary sense. He was doing it because he was subject to a systemic pulmonary failure, which would trouble him for the rest of his life. As such, the helping hand was kind of the point. He got it because he deserved it, and he deserved it because he was so wrecked that he had no idea where he was or what he was doing. He never denied having received it, but there were mitigating circumstances. He was blacking out, quite literally, on his bike. Angelo’s out-of-body experience had no spiritual basis, but it does explain why his maillot amarillo is to be found in the Santuario di
BY THE TIME HE REACHED THAT LAST CLIMB HE WAS
Oropa. As likely as not you’ve heard of that, because they’re forever finishing Giro stages up there these days. They feel the need to invoke, ad infinitum, Pantani’s stage-winning exploit there in 1999. That’s fair enough, because Cultus Pantanicus decrees that he must and will be
SPITTING BLOOD,
beatified. If, however, the Pantani disciples were possessed of a grain of
BUT NOT IN SOME
catholic probity, they’d remove the bandanas from their potato-heads,
LAZY, FACILE, LITERARY SENSE.
and make a pilgrimage to the Galleria ex voto. That’s where the votives may be found, the true grace. That would explain why, immediately he dragged himself out of hospital, Angelo Conterno and his teammates deposited the jersey.
Here endeth the sermon, because ours is a story about 1956, not 1959. We include it here because… well because it’s good. Angelo hadn’t started cycling until his twenties. That meant that by his 35th birthday, when the others were pretty much stuffed, he was in his prime. He was still stuck in the third tier, but all he’d need do was win the maglia tricolore and then, by definition, he’d be in the second. He’d be one of the champions. Take that, Nino!
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SYKES
The only problem was that winning the championship wasn’t so very easy. It was run off over five single-day classics, ergo five dirty great banana skins for Angelo Conterno. He got round the first of them, down in Campania, but he was seventeenth in a sixteen-man sprint. That was just about par for the course, but the second was right up his street. The old Tour of Tuscany was long at 259 kilometres, and just like Angelo it was as tough as teak. Angelo was in a four-man break, and what with the others being knackered he looked set fair. The problem this time was that Benedetti went and baulked him and so, his collarbone aside, Angelo had nowhere to
THE PROBLEM THIS
go. He’s to brake, and thus Zamboni came round him as well. The jury
TIME WAS THAT
hummed and hawed for two full hours, and in the end they decided that
BENEDETTI WENT
Benedetti had been a wazzock. They disqualified him, which was all fine and well, but it didn’t alter the fact that Zamboni had picked Angelo’s pocket. To him the spoils, the points and the cash, and to Angelo second place and yet another bloody moral victory. A sow’s ear.
AND BAULKED HIM AND SO, HIS COLLARBONE ASIDE, ANGELO HAD
Most agreed that Angelo was the model cyclist: serious, highly professional and absolutely correct. He was also a genuinely nice chap, and
NOWHERE TO GO.
sooner or later what goes around comes around, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? Next to Milan-Vignola, and this time Angelo wasn’t hanging about for the sprint. He dropped them on the drag up to the finish, and so that was that. Ostensibly. Forty yards or so from the line a press motorbike saw fit to crash in front of him, and so guess what? He’d to brake and swerve to get out of the way, and the guttersnipe Zamboni came round him again! (By now you’re probably thinking I’m making this up, but I assure you I’m not. Even someone like me couldn’t make this up, and I certainly couldn’t make up what’s coming next. What’s coming next is the Tour of Lazio and, finally, our photograph…) The upshot of all this was that Angelo needed to win the Tour of Lazio, and of course that’s what he was about to do, what with him being the best and all. That was until our photograph intervened and he finished up, once more, in hospital. I should point out at this point that I’d have liked to include another photo*, taken about ten seconds before this one. It was taken by a photographer positioned behind the finish line, and it shows the back of one of his photographer colleagues. The colleague’s name was Giuseppe Genovesi, and he was a nice chap, seemingly. However, he had two major shortcomings as a cycling photographer. The first was that he failed to understand displacement vectors, the second that he was unfamiliar with Conterno’s Law. As such he positioned his gormless self just a few metres after the finish line on the right of the carriageway, directly in front of Angelo Conterno, who was balls-out for the Italian national championship. I should say had been balls out, because that photo shows him five metres from the line, his brakes slammed hard on in cardiac horror. Diego Ronchini won the 1959 maglia tricolore. He beat Angelo Conterno (and Adriano Zamboni) by a tyre-width. He was a champion, that Diego Ronchini. *
We were only allowed to include one photo, so I can’t.
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KÅRE DEHLIE THORSTAD (NOR) SIBIU CYCLING TOUR
I don’t remember when, but at some point, I grew tired of Le Tour de France. Undoubtedly the most prestigious race amongst pro riders, but in my head it had just grown into an overcrowded spectacle stuck in a highly controlled and tedious formula, lacking the energy, dynamics and enthusiasm of old school racing. Come July, the feeling of being betrayed by a close and good friend forced me to move on and search the cycling horizon for a quick fix. In a quiet ceremony, I buried Le Tour in a dark corner of my backyard, dived into the underground and went digging for gold. And I found it, in Romania, believe it or not, deep down in the heart of a godforsaken Transylvania: The Sibiu Cycling Tour. This is a small, intimate affair, revolving round the medieval city of Sibiu, Romania’s cultural capital. It is ranked 2.1 on the UCI calendar, meaning that only a few WorldTour teams are eligible to line up alongside Pro Continental and Continental teams, in addition to
a team made up of national athletes. Consequently, this gives a mix of riders with highly divergent skills and savoir-faire, which makes it challenging — almost impossible, really — for one single team to control the race from beginning to end. Sure, there are different types of racing. There’s that downright brutality that comes from the fatigue accumulated over a series of abnormally long stages and a line-up stacked with talent — typically found in your three week Grand Tours. Then there’s the sort of brutality I found in Romania: short stages, small teams, and outright chaos — a format forcing the larger teams to throw the usual playbook out the window. One hundred kilometres full gas, and no way catching the breakaway with 10k to go! Put simply: more action, more of the time. One type of racing isn’t necessarily superior to the other, but I know which of the two I prefer...
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In a country stuck in the past, torn to pieces by Ceaušescu’s deranged dictatorship, it suddenly became clear what the future of racing will look like! Small, independent races like the Sibiu Cycling Tour are a large leap forward (or maybe even backward? — it doesn’t really matter), as they introduce a level of complication (or simplification, I don’t know) that is oh-so-refreshing in comparison to the French deadlock of July. Short stages, hard stages, and small teams all make racing better. It’s raw and pure, goddamn hard, and just a lot more appealing and less predictable.
KÃ…RE DEHLIE
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@ZUPERDEHLIE
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ADIDAS X SOIGNEUR
THE MAKING OF ZONYK
3
The production process continues with colouring. After extensive testing, the team decides on twelve different colours for the Zonyk. These are then devised by adding specific colorants to the SPX pallets to create lively, precise and consistent colours all across the new Zonyk range.
Having spent a full two years on rigorous research & development, in 2017 adidas presented the new half-rim Zonyk Aero Sport eyewear. Excelling in aerodynamic properties, the Zonyk Aero also brings crucial aspects of vision, safety and durability to a whole new level. We take a look at the process of how this new model came to be.
4 2
SPX PALLETS LIGHT & SOLID
The backbone of all adidas Sport eyewear is the frame. Adidas employs a range of high quality SPX plastic pallets to mold the frames. These pallets are light, strong and durable, with the perfect amount of flexibility.
1
CONCEPT SKETCH & DESIGN
The Zonyk begins its life in the Silhouette factory in Linz, Austria. Here, adidas develops, designs and produces the glasses in their entirety. It starts with sketches by the designers. When these are approved, molds are produced to prototype and further test the newest incarnation.
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COLOUR BLEND PRECISION
INJECTION MOULDING HANDWORK MEETS HIGHTECH
A team of skilled employees injects the molds with the coloured pallets, after which the machinery renders the pallets into the different frame parts. This includes the Zonyk’s brand new double-snap nose bridge and inclination of hinge. Every part is checked before it gets the approval to proceed to the next step, thus ensuring the highest possible quality of the seperate parts.
ADIDAS X SOIGNEUR
TYPES The Zonyk is available in 2 sizes and 4 different editions; Zonyk & Zonyk Pro, Zonyk Aero & Zonyk Aero Pro. The difference between the Regular and the Pro types is the Climacool Sweat Bar, a removable strip on the top of the frame to prevent sweat from running in your eyes while maintaining maximum ventilation.
Zonyk Pro — Full frame
5
POLISHING CLEANING
The separate parts of the frame are tumbled and tossed around in huge vats of polishing stones, to remove any nicks and bumps that remain from the moulding, and polish the frames to a brilliant lustre.
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GLASS CUTTING LENS MILLING
The lenses are cut and milled by adidas to ensure perfect visibilty. For the Zonyk, different lenses are available; LST (cat. 3) and LST Vario (cat. 1-3). LST lenses are specifically developed for road cycling, the LST technology offers an incredibly broad depth of sight while also removing shimmering from your field of vision. The photochrome properties of the lens adjust with changing light conditions, to retain optimal vision at all times. Adidas also offers Full Mirror lenses, and transparent Vario lenses (cat. 0-3) for night rides.
VARNISHING FINAL LOOK
Employees prepare the frame parts meticulously for a bath of chemical varnish. This protects the frames from exterior influences, and also gives them their final look.
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ASSEMBLY BY HAND FINAL PRODUCT
The final step in the process is the assembly. Here, skilled employees put together the frame parts and lenses by hand, thereby ensuring the future customer of the highest possible quality of the final product.
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Zonyk Aero — Half frame
THE PRO Adidas proudly cooperates with WorldTour team BORA-Hansgrohe, to test and develop cycling eyewear at the highest level.
KRISTOF RAMON (BE) SCHAAL SELS
At noon, on Monday the 23rd of May 1921, a scorching summer sun shone down upon a peloton of cycling club members from the Antwerp region, departing for the inaugural edition of Schaal Sels, organized by Parisian newspaper Le Journal. The French did so in memory of their colleague Jacques-Charles Sels, a renowned cycling journalist who reputedly wrote for 17 newspapers and was fluent in 6 languages. The year before, Sels was killed in a car crash while reconnoitring the Milan-Antwerp race for the Olympic Summer Games. The race in his honour would grow out to be a perennial monument to his memory. So it was that on that Monday, a leading group of 14 riders sprinted for victory in the first Schaal Sels. By gentlemen’s agreement, the winner’s club had the obligation to organize the event the following year. But as victor René Vermandel’s club could not manage to do so, the race did not proceed the following year. Since then, a world war excepting,
no editions were missed. (And there was a case of slightly inconvenient summer road works in 2014, on Sels’s very own Champs-Élysées, the Bredabaan, which forced a cancellation of events.) The course had always taken place in the rural region around Antwerp, where aside from the infamous concrete slabs of road, one also encounters plenty of cobblestones. For the celebratory 90th edition of the race, the course directors (among whom Johan Museeuw) set out to include 19 kilometres of unpaved roads to enliven the spectacle even more. This, along with the 30k of cobbles that already gave the Schaal Sels its semi-classic reputation, added the race to an illustrious list that includes the likes of Paris-Roubaix, Strade Bianche and Tro Bro Léon. The 2017 edition was won by Dutchman Taco van der Hoorn (Roompot–Nederlandse Loterij), a race that took place in a wild whirl of dust and turbulent neutralizations throughout:
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“As we turn on to the final stretch, I know where I need to attack. I marked it in my mind during the recon. “So we ride into the final ordeal of the day. A car passes. Dust rises and falls to congeal and add to the grime on our faces. My visage is obscured, the mark in my mind wiped away. “Back in the world of the living, and the dust clears. I find myself in the leading group. I force my legs to overcome, to surmount the ordeal, and my fellow riders with it. “This is how my final tribulation ends. I win the course. The course of chaos.”
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1. 2017 race winner Taco van der Hoorn 2. Peloton cruising through the Antwerp Harbour 3. Robin Stenuit waits for the race to be continued at the second neutralisation 4. The riders making the race even more off-road 5. Stijn Steels & Jonas Rickaert racing past the stables 6. Racing through the dust 7. Wouter Mol crashed 8. When racing in the field is faster than on the course 9. Racing the cows 10. Race leaders cutting corners 11. John Harris trying to move up through a dust storm 12. Cornering the gravel (and failing at it) 13. Helping the team leader by lending your wheel 14. Tom Devriendt trying to find his way 15. Supporters are out in force at the finish line, the chasing group gets ready for another lap 16. Mihkel Raim, the only finisher of his team, returns to find his Cycling Academy teammates all cleaned up and waiting for him @KRAMON_VELOPHOTO
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A FOREIGN WORLD
Words: Michael Barry Painting: Mike Rosen Image: Walter Lai
T
his black, cream and white oil painting of
mans. Over time, as I grew and matured, the image has inspired
Eddy Merckx and Felice Gimondi hung
and haunted me.
above me for decades — first on the main level of my parents’ home and then in my
People unacquainted with cycling might not recognize the riders
room. It shows the two riders over their
or even realize that they’re cyclists. Their bikes seem almost sec-
handlebars and is three times scale. It was
ondary. But fans of the sport will immediately recognize Merckx
painted by a graphic designer and cycling
and Gimondi, and see from their hand positions, facial expressions
club mate of my parents, who was also a family friend, and he gave
and intensity that they are climbing. The Miko logo on Merckx’s
it to them before I was born as a house warming gift.
jersey will inform more astute viewers that he’s wearing the yellow
The painting depicts a world that was once foreign to me and then
jersey of the Tour de France leader. The logo of Gimondi’s team
became familiar. In my mind, the riders evolved from icons to hu-
sponsor, Bianchi, is clearly embroidered across his chest.
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Beyond these details there is still more to the story. The painting
just to do well in a race, let alone win it. I might have been in my
is based on a photo taken at the 1975 Tour de France. That year, as
early teens. The races had become longer, my muscles had become
Merckx ascended the Puy de Dome in his attempt to win a record
stronger, and the competition had become tougher. It was then that
sixth Tour, he was punched in the stomach by a French spectator who
the image of Merckx and Gimondi, the two champions, took on a dif-
wanted to prevent the Belgian rider from beating the record set by
ferent meaning. Looking in their eyes, I could sense the work they’d
the Frenchman Jacques Anquetil. A few days later Merckx broke his
had to do to go fast enough to beat the best. I could sense their pain,
cheekbone. Unable to eat properly, he was still determined to finish
and I understood how hard it was to push beyond it. I understood
the Tour. His second-place result in the overall classification and other
the effort required to keep going when my body screamed at me to
prizes that he won in the race earned his teammates a fair amount
stop. Their sacrifice was visible to me. That was when I started to
of money. Gimondi was docked 10 minutes for testing positive for a
ascend through the ranks of amateur cycling and when I began to
banned substance and finished sixth overall, 23 minutes behind the
comprehend what it took to become a professional cyclist.
winner, Bernard Thevenet. These are the realities of the sport. They became apparent to me only long after I first looked at the image.
One day in Belgium, when I was competing in a five-day stage race with T-Mobile, Merckx, the icon, became human to me. His son, Axel,
Merckx was my childhood idol. I admired Gimondi, but he didn’t
one of the kindest, most down-to-earth riders in the professional
inspire me to emulate him. As I grew up, I
peloton, was my roommate. One evening,
read of their heroic efforts in the pages of the
when we’d both returned from our mas-
European magazines: Miroir du Cyclisme, Cycling Weekly, and International Cyclesport.
I DIDN’T JUST IMAGINE
sages and were lying on our beds waiting for dinner, Eddy came to the room for a visit. I
A student of the sport, I studied the images,
MYSELF WATCHING
read and reread the text, and without live
THEM FROM THE
when he walked in, shook my hand, and then
images, imagined the scenes unfolding in
ROADSIDE. I SAW
politely asked if he could sit on the end of
the Grand Tours and Classics.
MYSELF ON THE BIKE,
Before I understood more about racing, I
RACING THEM.
had never met him. He introduced himself
my bed while he chatted with Axel. Their conversation was a simple exchange, nothing more than any father would have with his son. But during that exchange, I was amazed that
felt frustrated by the painting. Merckx is a
the greatest sportsman of all time could be
length behind Gimondi and appears to be struggling. I didn’t like to see him as a loser. In my young eyes, not
so humble. What impressed me even more was how he and his wife
understanding drafting or pacing, I thought he should have been in
had been able to raise a son who was kind, thoughtful and equally
front of Gimondi. Eventually, I learned that winners don’t always
as humble. That’s not an easy task when you live in a nation that
lead and even the best riders lose more than they win.
follows and scrutinizes your every move and questions whether or not your son has what it takes to achieve equal greatness.
From the dining room table, I could see the intensity in the riders’ eyes as they focused on the road ahead. They both look defeated but,
Several years later, when I was a member of Team Sky, Eddy joined
as I learned, a cyclist rarely gives in. He persists, knowing or at least
us on a training ride in Qatar. Despite all the kilometres ridden, all
hoping that good legs will come. That explains the determination on
the numbers pinned to his back, he still seemed to love riding his
the faces of Merckx and Gimondi. Looking at the painting, I feel as
bike. Nobody was paying him or forcing him to ride in the desert
if I am at the roadside. I can almost hear their breathing, the ticking
with a bunch of pros in a howling wind under scorching heat. On
of their chains and the encouragement of the crowd; the motorcycle
that ride, we chatted at the back of the group about Axel and his life
revving in front of the riders while the photographer’s camera shutter
in western Canada. Like any good father, Eddy was proud to tell me
snaps in their faces. Growing up, as I pursued my own ambitions in the
all about his son. He might still be the Cannibal, the Greatest Ever
sport, I didn’t just imagine myself watching them from the roadside.
and, as a cyclist, my hero. But now when I look at Eddy Merckx in
I saw myself on the bike, racing them. And I imagined beating them.
the painting on the wall, I see him first as a father.
With a beginners’ mind-set, I didn’t yet know how hard the sport
Five years away from my career, the painting still hangs in my old
was. I was too young. I hadn’t felt the pain that comes from pushing
bedroom in my parents’ home. I see it every time I visit. It shows wear:
myself beyond my limits. I only saw the glory: yellow, flowers, po-
the paint on the canvas has cracked, and the cream colour has yellowed
diums, trophies. I’m not sure when I first felt the pain of the effort or
with age. But with passing time, it has taken on more meaning because
understood that I had to suppress it and push beyond it if I wanted
of my deeper understanding of the sport, humanity and myself.
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JAMES ROBERTSON (UK) TRANSATLANTIC WAY — A RACE ACROSS IRELAND
What image could possibly show the reality of ultra-endurance, self-supported racing? How much can a single image of a rider convey, when in many ways the riding is the easy part of the race? It is everything else that is difficult — finding food, or shelter, fixing mechanicals. But such pivotal moments are brief and unpredictable. It is straightforward to find an interesting section of road or a particularly hard climb, but much more difficult to be there when a rider is fixing his sixth puncture, has run out of tubes, has only wet patches left, and can’t find the cause of all the punctures. It takes luck. The TransAtlantic Way was born out of, its race director, Adrian’s desire to create a training ride for his Transcontinental Race attempt. He failed. Rather than create an easier and more approachable route than the Transcontinental’s, he made one that is every bit as difficult and yet incredibly unique. The west coast of Ireland is beautiful for its rugged brutality, its unrelenting wind, continual undulation, and ever-reliable weather.
As a photographer, you chase images, hoping to line up a landscape with a rider and a thing happening. So much of a race is just pedalling and an internal monologue, and the key is to find an image that provides a glimpse into the riders’ experiences. Single images can involve a huge investment of time: early starts to find resting riders and then hours waiting, at a distance, for them to wake or for another rider to pass, watching the light change and hoping everything aligns. Images can only hint at what these types of races involve. It is only the riders who really understand everything they go through, all the highs and all the lows, and, while I have my own days that go well, others are spent lost on small Irish roads, and it is only much later, when I get to sit down and see the images on paper, that I can truly see how I have depicted the race. @jprobertson
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WE CONNECT PEOPLE & BRANDS TO THE GLOBAL CYCLING REVOLUTION.
SOIGNEUR AGENCY Soigneur Agency is a team of designers, writers, marketeers, and communication specialists who share a love of cycling, good design, and making great things happen. www.soigneuragency.com
RICHARD
SMOULDERING
Words: Richard Abraham Image: Presse Sports
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H
ey, you reminded me of Jan Ullrich, you know, when you were climbing back there.” Flattery might get you nowhere, but it can get you thinking. If you’re reading this and you ride a bike, you’re almost certainly never going to ride the Tour de France. You are never going to generate over six watts per kilogram. Turn up in Belgium tomorrow and
Eddy Merckx would probably still drop you. He is 72. Attaining parity with the world’s best is all but impossible, the exception being experiencing the realities of life as a professional rider. Trade in your office chair for a saddle and a cramped budget airline seat, your comfortable home for a badly sprung bed in a French motel, and your leisurely Sunday run for crosswind combat on the thud-thud-thud of Belgian concrete betonweg and live like the true professional cyclist. Except it is when it comes to class. Ullrich had class; look at the picture and try and argue that he didn’t. And when it comes to class, the humble amateur can emulate the very best. No matter what your ability or power-to-weight, you can still be a classy rider. The bike industry will still try to sell you the latest pro-tested, disc brake equipped, aerodynamic watt-saving jiggery-pokery, but class doesn’t come down to spending cash. Class is intangible, class doesn’t sit on a shelf, and class must be earned. Ullrich didn’t always have it. The latter-day Jan who turned up at early season races pretending that it was just all that baggy winter clothing, not the session-drinking in the Bierkeller, that accounted for the spare tyres: he didn’t have class. The Jan that got in his car while over the limit one May evening in 2014 and sent two other drivers to hospital: he didn’t have class. Jan in his prime had class. He oozed it. It dripped out of his pores and down the aluminium tubes of his pink and white Pinarello in his first seasons on Telekom. His placement on the bike, his rangy limbs, the efforts that looked effortless; whatever it was, however you get it, he had it. Ullrich didn’t suffer, he smouldered. “That’s what a film star does, isn’t it? They don’t actually ‘do’ anything, they just smoulder...” Those are the words of John Herety, racer turned team manager with JLT-Condor, widely recognised as one of the best turned out teams plying the Continental level circuit, known for a decade as the ‘men in black’ due to their lycra equivalent of sharp suits. Herety attributes the quote to one of his former riders, Tom Southam, about his old teammate, Australian racer Darren Lapthorne. ‘Lappers’ spent more time smouldering than winning, but it doesn’t matter: class doesn’t have to come with palmares. Classy riders simply look like they were meant to ride bikes — think of Bradley Wiggins’s straight-backed suppleness over the cranks or Vasil Kiryienka’s rock solid core and steely grimace. Herety remembers lesser-known British road man Graham Jones, GB team pursuit Olympian Paul Manning and classics legend Roger De Vlaeminck. Class is aesthetic; its beauty is in the eye of the beholder. “What links all those guys to say they’ve got class?” Herety ponders. “They just sit on the bike, and it looks as if they’re one with the bike.” To become a classy bicycle rider in the eyes of one of the cycling industry’s gatekeepers of style — Rapha founder Simon Mottram — a rider must meet three criteria: effortlessness, stillness and style.
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“In the saddle or out of the saddle, the classy rider is unmoved by the effort,” he says. “The classy rider looks absolutely at one with their bike and the only thing that should move is the legs, in smooth circles. The upper body is absolutely still, regardless of the cadence or difficulty of the terrain. A perfectly turned out rider oozes class even before a pedal is turned. Fresh white socks, just the right length, and white shoes, well-chosen sunglasses and other accessories, can add up to class. It can be hard to look good in team kit. Classy riders manage it; riders with no class generally look like a dog’s dinner.” Mottram would get on well with Maxime Bouet, a rider who makes
A CLASSY RIDER SHOWS HUMILITY, LETTING THEIR CLASS FIND ITS OWN
a habit of taking his stage race socks into the shower with him every evening and carefully scrubbing them clean, avoiding the dreaded grimy grey-wash of the collective team laundry run. Herety would like him too: he admits to once having brought a stash of over 40 pairs
WAY OUT. AND SO SIM-
of fresh white socks to the Tour of Britain, his team’s biggest annual
PLY PULLING ON A PAIR
race, so that he could give a clean pair to each rider every morning.
OF WHITE SOCKS CAN BE A BIT LIKE PUTTING LIPSTICK ON A PIG.
“Never sacrifice style for speed,” Herety says. “It was kind of meant jokingly to begin with, about somebody who was riding very slowly, but it’s synonymous with a type of classy rider. They would never sacrifice that style for speed.”
There’s hope for the everyday rider yet; perhaps you can help class along the way with a fresh pair of white socks. But class is fickle and fleeting; as soon as you try to reach out for it, it disappears. A classy rider shows humility, letting their class find its own way out. And so simply pulling on a pair of white socks can be a bit like putting lipstick on a pig; Bouet is no pig on the bike, but genuinely classy? Socks aren’t enough. You have to be born with something a little bit more. Graham Watson has seen his fair share of classy riders over his four decades shooting the professional peloton. Reflecting on class from his well-earned retirement in New Zealand, the photographer puts class down to character — something a little more subjective than aesthetic. His much-deliberated champion of class was Francesco Moser because ultimately, no matter how prolific a winner, many of the sport’s greatest riders have been taken off the list of class after being found guilty of one or more of Watson’s Seven Deadly Sins. Lance Armstrong, Alberto Contador, Tom Dumoulin, Miguel Indurain, Stephen Roche, Stuart O’Grady and Bradley Wiggins: forgive them, Graham, for they have sinned. They let their flaws sully their sparkle; they let greed, misbehaviour, arrogance, timidity, inconsistency, wastefulness or ruthlessness taint their class (though not in that particular order, it should be said). “Frank Vandenbroucke was, initially, the greatest class I ever photographed. He was a ballet dancer on a bicycle: graceful, strong, energetic, good-looking and extremely exciting to watch,” Watson adds. But ‘VDB’ was dragged off the list by his flaws off the bike. He was a talent gone to waste, who “let his fans, family and colleagues down,” a heavenly cycling being who fell from grace. Often it’s a person’s obvious shortcomings that accentuate their precious ability. Today we can put Vandenbroucke alongside the likes of musicians Nick Drake and Amy Winehouse,
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or footballer Paul Gascoigne, because cycling seemed effortless when life evidently was not. A flawed genius greater than the sum of his victories, he was dragged down into the murky underworld of cycling and celebrity in the 1990s; his struggles with addiction, depression, injury, volatile relationships and suicide attempts came to an end with his death from a pulmonary embolism in 2009 at the age of 34. Brian Holm, who saw Vandenbroucke’s panache first hand at the beginning of the Belgian’s career, speaks from the velodrome in Copenhagen where he is sheltering from the autumnal weather and watching his son ride round in circles. Class for him, as a father, comes down to good behaviour as well as style and grace. “It’s a bit like being Dr Jekylll and Mr Hyde,” he says. “On the bike you can be a crazy fuck but off the bike, you have to behave. You need a ‘soldier button’ you have to push; you’re a nice guy but as soon as you push that button, then you turn into Mr Hyde.” Holm recalls his former teammate Erik Zabel cleaning out a deep cut on his hip one evening in his hotel room post-race, “scrubbing into the wound, onto the bone, just staring the doctor in the eye, like a madman.” His current pick of classy rider is Dan Martin. Yes really. The guy who probably falls into Simon Mottram’s category of ‘looking like a dog’s dinner’ on the bike. “Whatever happens, Dan is always a gentleman,” he says. “He finished the 2017 Tour with a broken back, and the funny thing was he never really complained. You saw him getting off the bike like someone who was 96 years old... but he never ever said a word, even behind the scenes. He just said to me in Paris, ‘Brian, it’s probably broken, you cannot believe how much pain I’m in’.” When it comes to the aesthetic stakes between Dan Martin and
HIS PLACEMENT ON THE
Jan Ullrich, there’s only going to be one winner. But when Holm
BIKE, HIS RANGY LIMBS,
remembers his teammate for two years on Telekom, one of the “nicest guys” he rode with, he remembers a man who succumbed to the pressures of talent and success.
THE EFFORTS THAT LOOKED EFFORTLESS; WHATEVER IT WAS,
“He was fantastic; to see everyone in the last 10 kilometres down in the drops and Jan was just sitting on his brake hoods, like it was a coffee ride on a Sunday. He was a piece of art. He was a piece
HOWEVER YOU GET IT, HE HAD IT. ULLRICH
of art on the bicycle. But a role model for how he lived his life? I
DIDN’T SUFFER, HE
wouldn’t say so.”
SMOULDERED.
Perhaps class is being a smouldering, white-socked, spotless paragon of still style on the bike, with a ‘soldier button’ that can turn you back into a nice guy off it. Perhaps you just know it when you see it. Either way, it’s one of the greatest compliments you can pay a rider, and that’s what I’ll cling on to: looking like a piece of art on a bicycle. “So you really think I look like Jan, do you?” “Yeah, sure you do.” “In a good way?” “Yeah, you know, the climbing style, sitting in the saddle… … or it could just be that you’re wearing a yellow jersey today.”
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SEAN HARDY (UK) PORTFOLIO
I love cycling; I think that is pretty obvious to see. As a child, I remember hearing the sound of cleats from my bedroom window clicking on the garden path as my dad crept out of the house at 5am to put in his winter miles. We would see him return home just in time for the Sunday roast and hear his tales of drafting, lung crunching climbs and plans of new routes. My passion for the sport grew quickly, dreaming of being Miguel Indurain as I raced around my paper round and entered local races to experience the world my dad had eagerly painted over Mum’s ‘recovery’ meals. As I grew older I become frustrated by lycra’s lack of ability to attract girls and this is when music entered my life. I learnt guitar, started gigging at 14 and quickly introduced myself as a ‘Mod’ upon greeting new people — girls still not paying attention!
Photography came into my life due to the arrival of kids. I wanted to capture their moments and quickly discovered that the iPhone is useless for photographing a speeding toddler — hello new camera and hello photography. I taught myself, studied the art of pictures by insanely amazing artists and can now call myself a professional photographer. I have been shooting commercial, editorial work for just over 12 months now, entering the scary world of freelance in April 2017. I have been so lucky to roll everything I love into one job. I am obsessed with what I do and constantly aim to produce my next best image.
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@HARDYCCPHOTOS
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THE STRAIN OF MEMORY
Words: Adam Phelan Image: Andy Bokanev
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oad racing imitates life, the way it would be without the corruptive inf luence of civilization. When you see an enemy lying on the ground, what’s your first reaction? To help him to his feet. In road racing, you kick him to death. – Tim Krabbe, The Rider I saw the King of the Mountain sign break through the clouds
in the distance. I was dangling at the back of the small peloton, yo-yoing back and forth behind the wheel in front. This was the desperate dance of a rider on the edge of their limit, someone who could break at any moment. I held on to the back of the peloton by my fingertips, hoping to God no one attacked. I will surely die on this mountain, I remember thinking, as I rode along the narrow road. My breath was broken, short and heavy, crackling in the ice-cold air. My heart raced faster than my brain, and my legs were empty and deflated. All I wanted to do was stop, to get off my bike, to lay down and scream. The barren mountain winds swirled against us and the grey sky grumbled above. It was as though everything was in widescreen; it swallowed me whole. I looked next to me, examining the grimacing faces of the riders close by. I watched them throw their bikes left and right, I saw their sweat as it dripped down their face and noticed their eyes as they kept looking up to see if the top of the mountain was near. It was then that something deep within me surged up. Whatever this ‘thing’ was, I was not sure, but it felt pure, raw and real. It was like anger, without angst. It consumed me. Suddenly, the pain in my legs and the burning in my lungs became fuel to push harder. I looked across at the rider next to me, my eyes narrowed. Stuff you, I thought, I can crush you. The pain that I was feeling, the beauty of the mountain road, the cold inhospitable wind, it all fell away, it was now secondary to my new focus which burned like a wildfire within me: I had to beat him, the rider next to me, with his annoying grimacing face. The idea took control of me, it gave me new life. At the top of the mountain, the banner of the KOM overhead, I looked right. The rider was no longer there, he was gone! A strange sense of euphoria exploded within me. The mountain had not broken me, it had not won this round. Or so I thought. It was slow at first, then sudden, like the tide of a tsunami. The pain in my legs, the burning in my lungs and ache in my arms, it all hit me in one big wave. A sense of sickness flooded my consciousness. Riders next to me took their hands off their handlebars, they grabbed food and unfolded rain jackets from their back pockets. They drunk water and called for their team cars. I could barely see, let alone take my hands off my handlebars. It was then, under the weight of my neglected suffering, I saw it. Ahead of us, after a short and straight descent, was another hill. The road was exposed and impossibly steep.
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ADAM
People lined the roadside with colourful signs, loud horns, and beer. I remember the feeling as my heart sunk down towards the ground and the dread swelled within me like poison. I had nothing left, everything was immediately worse. It took less than 100 metres for me to lose contact with the small peloton. When we had hit the bottom of the hill, I got out of my seat and pushed hard on my pedals, determined to hold on. My muscles seized up in reply, they twisted and contorted into tight knots. It was like an electric shock had just vibrated through my legs. I yelled out, then sighed, my voice lost among the loud cheers from the crowd that lined the roadside. The peloton quickly faded away in the distance as I dropped further back. Minutes later, when the team car finally drove up next to me, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed. I had failed the mountain’s test. From inside the car, they offered me an electrolyte drink, a sports bar, a Mars bar, and a warm cycling jacket. These were all things that said, “You’re done, get warm, eat and drink. Survive to the finish. Your race is over.” Often in this moment, as you fall into the shadows of a race, a rider is at their lowest point. Suddenly, the racer within you has washed away, leaving what is underneath exposed. The animalistic drive that once consumed you, recedes back into the darkness once more. Your purpose, the one thing that had forced
I YELLED OUT, THEN SIGHED, MY VOICE LOST AMONG THE CHEERS FROM THE CROWD THAT
you to suffer hours on end, is no longer there. After I grabbed my food and drink from my director out of that car window, the fire within me was extinguished. All that was left was me, alone, riding towards a finish line that had lost any meaning.
LINED THE ROADSIDE.
I was standing in line at the buffet in the dining hall of the race
THE PELOTON QUICKLY
hotel when someone from behind tapped my shoulder. I looked
FADED AWAY IN THE DISTANCE AS I DROPPED FURTHER BACK.
back, and there he was. The rider, the one with the grimacing face, who I had been so determined to outdo. He stood smiling at me. “Man, how ridiculous was that climb! We were both suffering pretty badly there near the top,” he said. I smiled and nodded.
“Mate, I haven’t struggled so much in a long time,” I said. “You lasted better than me anyway!” He laughed and introduced himself. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I didn’t last very long after the climb. I should have just dropped back when you did! It wouldn’t have been as lonely of a ride to the finish then.” He laughed again, and said, “Well maybe we will have to plan better for tomorrow. The stage is even harder apparently.” “It’s a date,” I joked. Serving myself some rice, I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all. The other rider served his food and nodded at me. We never spoke again.
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When I was sitting back at the table with my teammates, I thought back to the moment on the mountain. There on the road, we were racers, nothing more. We were strangers, yet undeniably linked; determined to outdo each other, to better each other through our own suffering, we shared something within us. We both lived for the contest. Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed in my hotel room. Our soigneur had knocked on the door and walked in to give us our night-time protein shakes. As he handed my teammate a bottle,
THE LIFE OF A BIKE
he told him about how a rider — who had caused a crash in the
RACER NEVER TRULY
final 500m of race — was disqualified. My teammate chuckled,
LEAVES YOU. IT IS
he then paused.
A PART OF YOUR
“The funny thing is,” he said, “the guy that he knocked off is one of his best friends.”
CONSCIOUSNESS AND
“I guess friendships don’t mean much to him when he is racing!”
KNITTED TO YOUR DNA,
We all laughed, smiling across at each other. As we did so, our
NO MATTER WHERE LIFE
eyes briefly made contact and a flicker of understanding shot be-
TAKES YOU.
tween us. It was though we both knew, that beneath the laughter we could oddly understand it — as if, deep down, we thought we
might also be capable of such acts. Yet the moment was so quick, so fleeting, it was like it never exisited at all. “Well, goodnight boys,” our soigneur said, “another big day tomorrow.” He then waved at us, and we said goodnight and shut the door. I walked towards my bed, a deep ache weighing by legs down with each step. He was right, I thought, tomorrow will be a big day. I knew the next stage would be the same. That fire would reignite, as it always did. The finish line would be waiting. On the cold barren road, we all would do battle again, our civility eroded and our determination fixed. Then, when the race was finished and we had all retreated to our hotels, back to the dinner buffet, we would joke about our suffering, salvage whatever sense of accomplishment we could to help keep our tired bodies pushing forward. *** Three years later, I stand looking at a photograph. It rests on my office desk, the soft light from a lamp falls from above. In the picture, someone’s arm is outstretched from a car, a water bottle touching their fingertips. A cyclist rides on the road next to the car, his arm outstretched too, cradling the water bottle from the other end. The rider’s body is blurred and his face is out of the frame, yet I know it is me. It’s been a year since I retired from professional cycling, yet I can almost feel myself back there on the mountain road as I look down at the photograph. In that way, the life of a bike racer never truly leaves you. It is a part of your consciousness and knitted to your DNA, no matter where life takes you. It is still there, hidden in the back of your mind. All those memories, waiting patiently to come flooding back.
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YORIT KLUITMAN (NL) BICYCLE LANDSCAPE
Between 2011 and 2017, Dutch graphic designer Yorit Kluitman rode through each of the Netherlands’ 388 municipalities, photographing the landscape inbetween to reveal the organised structure of the Netherlands. His epic project was born out of a fascination with the graphical order that has been imposed on open space in the country and the seemingly two-dimensional world that surrounds its urban areas. “In April 2011, I bought myself a race bike and started riding. It totally changed my perception of distance and my view of the Netherlands. We live in a very small, flat country with a unique, almost obsessive approach to spatial planning. Thus I discovered, from a bicycle rider’s perspective, how well structured and extremely refined the Dutch landscape is.”
“I gave myself six years to cycle between all of the municipalities. Within this time frame, I visited as many different areas as possible. Equipped with a camera, I researched the function, the rhythm, the composition, the lines, the form, and the order of the Dutch landscape.” Bicycle Landscape – Why the Netherlands Looks Like This deconstructs the design of the Dutch countryside — in which a height difference of 20 centimetres is already significant — into separate elements. Dyke. Road. Sheep. Tree. Ditch.
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BICYCLE LANDSCAPE
1. Sint-Michielsgestel 2. Apeldoorn 3. Oosterhout 4. Beesel 5. Hilversum 6. Westerveld 7. Rheden 8. Den Helder 9. Oude IJsselstreek 10. Horst aan de Maas 11. De Wolden 12. Roermond 13. Raalte 14. Ede 15. Enschede 16. Reusel-De Mierden 17. Utrechtste Heuvelrug 18. Helmond 19. Heemskerk 20. Bergen 21. Schiermonnikoog 22. Texel 23. Zuidplas 24. Vaals 25. Vught 26. Mook en Middelaar 27. Heeze-Leende 28. Leersum 29. Geldrop-Mierlo @YORIT_KLUITMAN
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MORTEN
LO SCERIFFO
Words: Morten Okbo Image: Cor Vos
S
ilandro, 2013. There could be a rotating
that something is about to unseat us, because nobody lets a man
socket underneath him. We, we wouldn’t
of his stature into the ring for no reason. Face, alert. His eyes are
notice. Because this is how he stands. Griz-
observing his surroundings while commenting on them, now
zled. Taller than you’d expect. Like a sculp-
calming people down. It is simply mildly upsetting for people to see
ture, moving slightly from one side to the
him. And so this is his life: when he shows himself to his people,
other. Work-oriented. A physical poem. Yes.
his people break out in chants.
As a physical poem, he stands on the podium with three microphones under his nose, this immense nose
Tanned, fit and rested, as they say of presidents back from vacation.
that he used his entire career, always ready to sniff up possibilities where after his legs would finish off the job.
But look! He is moving forward. Wait. There was no socket underneath him after all? No. He is indeed moving. And he is moving
With a hoarse, mushy voice he is considering today’s event, contem-
toward us! Yes. He has decided to walk. Down the street, across
plating an outcome. His is an outpost. His mere presence suggests
this Piazza perhaps, and he is walking with ease. Wait, no. He is
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OKBO
not walking. He strolls. God, how this man can stroll. He greets
tradition of this race, the tradition being that of giving Italy back to
his people, half-puzzled yet content, like he is studying what his
the Italians. Live on television. Or perhaps outside their doorsteps.
wife has planted in their garden.
And this will remind them that they are indeed Italians, and that their beautiful country is indeed something to be proud of.
Somewhere a church bell goes off. Bella Italia. Behind the barriers are old and young. Grandparents are holding babies in mid-air. They hang there, non-moving. With eyes that
The Giro d’Italia belongs to everyone and no one. It shows us the
open and shut endlessly. Everywhere, small children like dolls
lakes. The islands. The mountains. The major plain of the Po, Val
dangling. Women reach out. They want to hold his hands. They
Padana, the wine fields of Tuscany and the dry south, all the way
want to applaud him. They want to tell him what he means to them.
down south, in its heel. And all this reminds the Italians that Italy
For forty years he has been the centre of Italian cycling, arguably
is a huge country. In fact, it is very huge with vast resources. And
the centre for all Italians.
this huge, beautiful country with its vast resources and people never cared much about stories of doping or other technicalities that makes the rest of the world go crazy, because
A national treasure. A movable landmark.
don’t you understand it? the Italians ask us, Women want to kiss him. And if they dared, but they don’t, men would stick cigars into his breast pocket, and somebody could let the tape roll and the film director from Rimini,
HE TOOK THE STEP INTO ITALIAN FOLKLORE, WENT FROM
the riders are just smaller pieces in the Giro d’Italia. It is the race itself that is the main attraction. The riders are mere employees, but if they perform well, they can become
Federico Fellini, would have his first scene in
BEING AN EXTRAOR-
the can, the way only he could capture this
DINARY BIKE RIDER
and the way he strolls back into the VIP
country’s human spirits, the city of Rimini,
WITH A FIRST NAME
section, the way the gates are opening up,
oh yes, where Marco Pantani went under in shame and guilt and then more shame, but
AND A SURNAME TO
a natural unifier inside the Natural Unifier,
of course, he doesn’t have an accreditation, of course, of course, because what is the sole
had he been alive today, Pantani, he would
BECOMING THE ONLY
have walked to the same chanting as our
MAN ABLE TO LIFT THE
a back-stage pass? It is so superior, the way
LEGACY OF FAUSTO.
the gates open and close behind him. Have
man here does now.
inheritor of Italian cycling going to do with
they been practising? You have to wonder whether he is performing or whether it
And while we are cheering because of what
comes naturally, the timing of opening and
he was once capable of, we are also cheering because of his age, and no one cherishes the old as the Italians do,
closing a gate. What is going on? you wonder. It seems as if the show
because getting old means that you are a winner, you have made it
has begun before the show has begun, and so now the excitement
through life, and now is your time to enjoy respect and admiration
is becoming a small hysteria, because a large mass of people have
from all sides of society. That’s right. So this giant is being cheered
gathered around a common idea.
just because, and we feel intoxicated. The excitement surrounding the piazza is becoming overwhelming, and what is more over-
The Giro d’Italia has been with us for as long as anyone can
whelming than a great accomplishment or an achievement done
remember, and its rightful owner is now right there. You can almost
in the moment, right there, in front of you? And so this is how we
touch him, but how would you even dare? No no, all men stand
get to Giro d’Italia.
back and enjoy greatness from a distance. We enjoy the fact that if we don’t have what it takes, then luckily someone else has it for
This year was its 100th edition. Which means that no living person
us, and the person walking by has shown it again and again — and
can remember an Italian summer without Il Giro. Because the
again — with one formidable achievement after another, and when
beginning of summer in May is also the beginning of the country’s
he finally, finally, won the Giro d’Italia in 1984, he took the step into
unification year after year. It is the slow-moving accumulation of
Italian folklore, went from being an extraordinary bike rider with
time, and it is something the Italians patiently accept. They walk
a first name and a surname to becoming the only man able to lift
into the summer celebrating their unification, and there is no bigger
the legacy of Fausto Coppi — becoming a great campione — and he
unifier in Italy than the Giro d’Italia. Or perhaps the people are
has ever since been in the hearts of all good Italians as their man,
celebrating themselves. Why not? The Italians are celebrating the
the keeper of this race, if you will, and you will, because he is our protector and our sheriff, lo sceriffo, right now, and in plain sight, 183
strolling about with the common name of Francesco Moser.
DAGHAN PERKER (TUR/US) AMERICAN CX
My name is Daghan (pronounced the foldable bike, Dahon) and I am a creative director and a photographer living in New York City. I grew up in Istanbul and bought my first camera in high school. I splurged on a Sigma 15mm fisheye lens so I could shoot my friends skateboarding. After studying industrial design and photography in college, I moved to NYC and worked for various branding agencies as design director for more than a decade. My background as a designer and an athlete informs my work as a photographer. As a competitive cyclist, I have the opportunity to race before shooting the pro races, which allows me to have a better understanding of the course and plan the shots that I want to take. As a designer, I’m always trying to experiment with bold colours, crops, and multiple layers of information in my images.
Above all, I’m always striving to achieve a graphic look. I have competed in and shot most races on the East Coast. I find that each event has its own character: the dusty run-ups at Gloucester, the contrast of the pitchblack sky and intense spotlights at KMC, the new grand flyover at Charm City and the beach run at NBX. Racing in this region is something I hope everyone can experience. I’m so grateful that through my work as a photographer I’ve been able to make so many friends in the cyclocross community. It’s been amazing to watch everyone evolve as athletes over the years. My hope is that through my photography I can share the joys of cyclocross in the US and show the European community, in particular, how interesting the scene is across the Atlantic.
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DAGHAN PERKER
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DAGHAN PERKER
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AMERICAN CX
AMERICAN CX
1. Druid Hill Park, Baltimore – National champion Stephen Hyde had to work for his win 2. Jamey Driscol, Donnelly Cycling – Temperatures ran high so water sprays were setup to cool down the riders 3. Druid Hill Park, Baltimore – Handup Maryland style 4. Warwick, Rhode Island – Brittlee Bowman for Richard Sachs, Beach Run at NBXCX is one of the course’s most famous features 5. Druid Hill Park, Baltimore – Roger’s Mansion looks down at the Charm City course 6. NBXCX Warwick, Rhode Island – Jack Kisseberth, JAM Fund Jack hitting the apex 7. Thompson, Connecticut – Where loose, steep downhill meets the race track 8. New Jersey – Kathryn is always happy, especially when she gets a podium 9. Hartford, Connecticut – Gage chasing the national title 10. Gloucester, Massachusetts – Emma chasing Ellen and eventually getting the win 11. Druid Hill Park, Baltimore – After a hard race, Taylor gets a big hug from the kids that belong to her youth cycling program 12. Waterloo, Wisconsin – Toon Aerts, stairs always attract fans 13. Gloucester, Massachusetts – Leslie Lupien, first run-up right after the start @DPERKER
197
SOIGNEUR X SHIMANO
WORLD CHAMPS Shimano — Serving the Rainbow jersey since 1991
In the last 29 years of Road Mens’ Elite World Championships, 22 of the Rainbow jerseys have been won with Shimano componentry. During this time, the ever-evolving technology played an imperative part within the pro peloton. A selection of highlights.
WORLD CHAMPS
Gianni Bugno 1991 / 1992 STUTTGART, GERMANY / BENIDORM, SPAIN
Bugno wins Shimano’s first gold Dura-Ace had been notching up high level victories for several years by this point but the World Championship title so far remained elusive. In the era before helmets became de rigueur, Italian all-rounder Gianni Bugno (seen in the image wearing spectecular glasses) stepped up to become the first Shimano winner in the Men’s WC road race, taking victory on Dura-Ace 7400, the first to have 8-speed STI brake lever shifters rather than downtube shifters. As it happened, he managed to repeat this feat the next year in Benidorm.
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SOIGNEUR X SHIMANO
Abraham Olano 1995 DUITAMA, COLOMBIA
Fiesta in Columbia This South American edition took place at 3,000 metres altitude and as such it is still widely regarded as one of the toughest courses to date. Selfless tactical work from his Spanish team mates allowed Olano to escape on the run-in but a late puncture very nearly put paid to his chances. Having no time to change a wheel — much less a tire — he somehow held on to his lead on that vulnerable rim, generating incredible power and remaining upright to claim victory for Spain on Dura-Ace 7410.
200
WORLD CHAMPS
Oscar Freire 1999 / 2001 / 2004 VERONA, ITALY / LISBON, PORTUGAL / VERONA, ITALY
Hat-trick for The Cat His first World Championship win in 1999 was something of a surprise, with the diminutive Spaniard reportedly only in the squad to make up the numbers. But the Rainbow jersey commands attention, so it was no surprise than he made the big money move shortly afterwards. Transferring to superteam of the day, Mapei, Oscarito switched to Shimano in the process. Wins, along with experience, came thick and fast after that. He mis-timed his sprint in 2000, coming third, before correcting his mistake in the melee of Lisbon and then executing a textbook lead-out from Valverde to demonstrate his superiority and follow Merckx, Van Steenbergen and Binda to win the Rainbow jersey a staggering three times.
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SOIGNEUR X SHIMANO
Mario Cipollini 2002 ZOLDER, BELGIUM
The Comeback King By 1998 riders had switched to 9-speed, with the extra gear bringing one more incentive for victory. In this 9-speed era, Cipo came out of a short-lived retirement to live up to his tag as one of the favourites in Belgium. In an incredibly compelling sprint, the flamboyant Italian powered his Dura-Ace 7700 equipped ride to victory in Zolder, leaving Robbie McEwen and Erik Zabel in his wake, and clocking in at 46.54 km/h average, still one of the fastest world championships to date.
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WORLD CHAMPS
Paolo Bettini 2006 / 2007 SALZBURG, AUSTRIA / STUTTGART, GERMANY
Bettini does the double By 2006 many in the pro peloton had been riding with Dura-Ace 7800 for a couple of years. Its 10-speed operation added yet another pignon for the riders, meaning cassettes could get bigger whilst the steps between the gears remained the same. Paolo Bettini — possibly the best classics rider of his generation — won the Worlds’ two years in a row riding Dura-Ace 7800. His repeated sudden sprinting attacks in these races cemented his nickname ‘Il Griglio’ (the cricket).
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SOIGNEUR X SHIMANO
Mark Cavendish 2011 COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
Manx Missile unleashed If there ever was a sprinter who made the most of the lightning quick Di2 gear changes to move up through the peloton and reach top speed, it was Mark Cavendish. A marked man for the majority of the race, he kept quiet, hid in the wheels and in the end executed the team plan to perfection, sprinting to victory by a wheel’s length. He even found time to raise his arms before fully crossing the line.
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WORLD CHAMPS
Peter Sagan 2015 / 2016 / 2017 RICHMOND, USA / DOHA, QATAR / BERGEN, NORWAY
Witness the making of history Once is career-making, twice is career-defining, but three times in a row is history-making. Peter achieved nothing less than stunning victories on Dura-Ace Di2 9070 and R9150. Whether a cunningly executed solo attack on the steep Richmond climb, or by chancing the sprint lottery in Doha and Bergen consecutively, his consistent excellence saw the swashbuckling Slovak take home the gold for an unprecedented three years in a row.
See the full list of winners at rideshimano.com
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