Ten Reasons to Watch the Tour de France

1. The Scenery

Imagine you're in France. You stop by the village brasserie to buy some bread and cheese for breakfast, and the old man behind the counter notices the France 2010 guidebook under your arm. Shaking his head disapprovingly, he pulls a crinkly old map and a red felt-tipped pen out of a drawer, motions you to come closer, and says in a low voice:

"If you really want to see France, forget those books and just follow this."

The man removes the cap from the pen, begins outlining some twisty little roads on the map, and hands it to you.

"There, my friend, is where you'll find the real France."

Such is the Tour de France. Most everyone has seen photos of the riders racing down the Champs Elysees with the Arc de Triomphe in the background. But the Tour's heart and soul lies in the little country lanes of the Auvergne, the narrow roads high up in the Pyrenees, and the wind-swept streets along the Brittany coast. The Tour draws its own imaginary red lines on those beautiful routes, highlighting them for all the world to see.

Local races may have highlighted extraordinary roads in your own hometown too. Here's a photo I took on a street near my apartment, with remnants of an old race still visible on the pavement...


...and in Boston, the finish line of the Boston Marathon is always there, recalling memories of it's annual day in the spotlight:


2. You Have a Need for Speed

Speed is graceful. Speed is fluid. Speed is lean, simple, and uncomplicated. For the cyclist, speed means that all the elements of the road, air, and machine have fallen together in a near-perfect unison. Watching cyclists careen through a town's curving streets, you forget how hard they're working -- how impossibly difficult a Tour de France stage is to win. All you sense is the beauty of the road and the quiet whoosh of riders racing by their cheering fans.



What's that you say? You can't make it to France this summer to experience the phenomenon for yourself? No worries ... get a feel for it by attending a local bike race! I took the two above photos at the Mayor's Cup Criterium Race here in Boston last fall.

3. Phil and Paul

The Tour de France just wouldn't be the Tour de France without legendary television commentators Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen. Maybe someday I'll travel to France and see the race in person -- but even then, I'm sure I'll still hear Phil and Paul describing every moment in poetic detail in my mind!

Just as the Tour de France moves with an ever-changing rhythm -- from steep mountains to rolling hills, windswept shore roads to hot Provencal paths -- so does Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen's commentary ebb and flow with the contour of the race. Is has to. You simply can't listen to excited voices all the time in a month-long event. Rather, Phil and Paul describe the Tour as if they're sitting there in your living room, telling a story.

Simply put, they're wonderful.

4. It's On Every Night!

If you love the Tour de France, then the Tour is your July. You'll never wake up on a Saturday morning this month and think, "hmm, what shall I do today?" You'll be watching the Tour de France, of course!

5. Collateral

The Tour de France is a storyteller's dream. The wild fans, legendary climbs, small towns, eccentric riders, team cars, cool bikes, frustrating controversies, and colorful maps ... there's so much to write about! And where do you find these stories? In magazines, websites, and books! One of my pre-race rituals is to buy all the Tour de France magazines I can find and read them cover to cover. Here are two that have been accompanying me on my subway commute this past week:


6. The Strategy

A multi-stage bike race is like a chess match on wheels. You can study the strategy beforehand by reading books and websites (check out my 2009 Beginners Guide to the Tour de France post) ... or you can do what I did and simply let your understanding evolve as you watch the race on T.V.

Beneath all the intricate strategy, though, is one fascinating fact: nobody's place on a cycling team is defined by a set "position" on a field, like a first-baseman or a linebacker. In essence, everyone is equal on the road. It's the choices each rider makes that define the contour of the team. On good Tour de France teams, every riders is comfortable in his appointed role, even if it means sacrificing his own ambitions for the team leader. But watch out! Team leader status is never 100% secure. Falter too much, and nothing can stop one of your teammates from staging a rebellion and sticking it to the boss.

7. The Gear

Oh my, those bikes are a thing of beauty...


(Again, I snapped the above photo at the Mayor's Cup Race here in Boston. Local Tour de France equivalents are rarely far away!) One of the most marvelous things about the Tour de France is that all of the bike frames and components used by the pros are the same as those that come right off each company's high-end production line. No custom, one-time builds allowed. As long as you have the money (a lot of money, that is), Lance's Trek Madone can be yours.

8. Cheering for the Underdog

Sure, most of us here in the U.S. are rooting for Lance Armstrong to win. But the beauty of a 20-stage race is that Lance only needs to have the best time at the very end. There are plenty of chances for little known riders to have their moments in the sun too.

For example, Lance Armstrong knows that he's at his best in the mountains, where he'll most likely pull away from over 90% of his fellow riders. So there's no need for Lance to waste energy trying to win a flat stage. That presents a great opportunity for a little-known rider to get into a breakaway and ... if all the stars line up correctly ... pull off a big win that afternoon! It's one of the most thrilling moments all of cycling.

Here's a painting I created illustrating the magic of the lone breakaway (for the full-color version, and the accompanying story I wrote with it, click here for my earlier post)...


9. The Fans

In no other sport can fans get as close to the action than in professional cycling ... and Tour de France fans take every opportunity to get as close as possible, sometimes disturbingly so! Crazy fans wave flags and snap photos directly in rider's path, moving away at the very last moment. How the riders keep their concentration is beyond me ... but it's all part of the culture of the race.

10. The Mountains

Think for a moment what a typical photo of a mountain looks like. It usually has a grand, sweeping vista, with a big sky and awesome snow-capped peaks jutting up through the clear blue horizon. About right?

Well this is not the image you'll come away with when you watch the Tour de France. As the riders follow narrow mountain roads up and up, higher and higher, you'll see every contour of the switchbacks ... feel the rhythm of each inclined slope. You'll sense the inner character of the mountain as it's reflected in the faces of the suffering riders. And as the cyclists make their way above the treeline, the simple shades of the sky, rocks, and grass are punctuated with a kaleidoscope of color created by thousands of wild fans.

Yes, the Tour de France pays respect to the magnificence of the mountains. But more importantly, it makes them wonderfully, thrillingly human.

Now that you've finished reading this post, you may be wondering -- why did I put all my photos and paintings in black & white? Well, the race hasn't happened yet! All the colors of the Tour de France will reveal themselves as this magical month progresses. Stay tuned, and enjoy the start of Le Tour!

The Hill by the Sea

I took this photo just below the summit of a hill I often climb, on my regular cycling route:


Maybe it's my imagination, but the sun always seems to shine brighter at the top!

Here's the view from the same location, looking back to where the steep road drops off from sight. It eventually leads down to the place the hill begins, at the edge of the sea...

Beyond the Horizon

The clear line of the horizon influences everything along the coast.


Cycling past the boats in the marina...


... I always feel a strange sense of suspense, as if the ships are silently focused on one thought alone: getting back out there.

Looking across the harbor to the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library (the black and white building on the left)...


...I'm reminded of how the sea inspires so many great visionaries, how its endless expanse makes the impossible seem possible.

And as the wind blows through the coastal trees and across the saltmarshes and coves...


... it's as if that wind originates from some faraway place. Maybe it blew in from the Canadian maritime provinces, or past remote Sable Island or the Labrador shore. One thing is clear though: it's not of this place alone.

It only takes a few colors out of my paint box to depict the sea...


But within that horizon lies a limitless world -- if only in our imaginations.

Merrymount

Inspired by Stage 8 of the Tour of California -- which ended in a multi-lap circuit around Thousand Oaks -- I decided to create my own circuit route here on Boston's South Shore. For my 5:00 a.m. rides yesterday and this morning, I rode a circular course through the neighborhoods of Wollaston and Merrymount in Quincy, Mass. -- round and round a ring of seaside roads.

It took me along the bay...



...and up into the small hills and marshes of Merrymount:



Many, many ghosts inhabit Merrymount. Its unique story probably would have disappeared if it wasn't for Nathaniel Hawthorne, who used it as the subject of his short tale The Maypole of Merry Mount.

In it, Hawthorne writes of the fun-loving 17th-century colony of Merry Mount, which dedicated a tall pine tree as its spring maypole. The colonists decorated it with flowers and ribbons, crowned a lord and lady of spring, and happily danced around. All was well, until the neighboring colony of Puritans found out what was going on. I won't tell you the ending, but it isn't pretty.

In reality, this part of Quincy was settled by the very colorful Englishman Thomas Morton, who arrived here in 1624 and called his new home Ma-re Mount. Officially, that meant "Mountain by the Sea", but Morton also knew it could easily become "Merry Mount", which was fine by him ... because that's just what he intended to establish -- a merry, Utopian society. He got rid of some guns by trading them with the Native Americans for furs, established equal-rights among former indentured servants, and basically set up a free-spirited society that integrated with the Native American population -- and yes, set-up a maypole, around which he led some pretty wild drunken celebrations, mixing pagan elements with classical mythology.

Here's my abstract depiction of the mystical maypole at night, deep in the Merrymount forest:


Merrymount got to be such a popular place, that residents of nearby Puritan settlements soon began joining Morton's little hippie colony ... all of which angered Puritan leaders, in their usual self-rightous and violent way. It wasn't long before Morton's experiment came to an abrupt end when Myles Standish of the Plymouth Puritans (a.k.a. the Pilgrims) invaded Merrymount and banished Morton to the Isle of Shoals off the New Hampshire coast. The maypole was no more.

Thankfully though, the Puritans never counted on Hawthorne writing about it 200 years later. So the story of Merrymount's maypole lives on ... even on the Merrymount Homeowners Association webpage:

Merrymount remains an integral yet unique part of Quincy, MA – minus the Maypole, but filled with warm and friendly neighbors, friends and families.

Nicely put. They should also add that it's a great place to ride a bike! I rode three exhilarating laps through Merrymount each morning ... all in the shadow of its incredible story.

Cycling Past the Twin Lights

Whenever I visit Cape Ann, I'm always fascinated by the twin lighthouses that sit off Gloucester and Rockport, Mass., on uninhabited Thacher Island. Here's a photo that's also on my May 29th post, from the route of the Tour de Cure:


The lights are so inaccessible, and often so beautifully dark and gloomy ... as seen in this photo I took on a ride last September (described in my North Shore Adventure post):


But on the Tour de Cure ride, it was all bright sunshine as we pedaled past Good Harbor Beach with the twin lights off in the distance. The following watercolor pastel is not an exact depiction of Good Harbor Beach, but just something I created quickly last night...


As you can see, we cyclists are only visitors in this incredible landscape ... just blurs against sea, the rocks, the sand, and the endless sky.

North Shore "Tour de Cure"

It's 6:40 a.m., and I just pulled my zipcar Honda Element into a space at the already bustling Gloucester High School parking lot. This is my kind of crowd: people in brightly colored jerseys hauling equally brightly colored bicycles out of hatchbacks and off roof racks, pumping air into tires, and giving their gear shifters a final check.


"Need any help?" I ask an attractive woman in the parking space next to me, who's trying to negotiate the best way to get her bike off her car's rooftop carrier.

"Thanks so much, but no ... I've got to learn to do this myself!" she laughs.

The smell of the sea is strong in the air this morning. Gloucester, Massachusetts is America's oldest seaport, and it's still as active as ever in the commercial fishing industry today, with the sea representing so much beauty, and so much tragedy. I think that's why the North Shore is such a haven for painters and writers, telling the stories of this remarkable region in ways that only artists can.

Over 500 cyclists registered for today's event, and that's wonderful. Because it's a magical ride...

We've all come together on this beautiful New England morning for the American Diabetes Association's annual Tour de Cure, raising money for diabetes programs and research.


My mother was recently diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes ... so when I learned about the ride, I signed up right away. Mom has been really amazing in adapting to the new dietary regimen -- I know it's been more difficult than she lets on. This ride felt like a good way to help support those living with this disease and aid the effort in finding a cure ... all while experiencing this beautiful corner of New England by bicycle.

The Tour de Cure is only the third event-ride I've participated in. I rode 10-miles in the rain for Boston's Hub on Wheels last September, and 22-miles at the Tour de Aldrich in Connecticut a couple weeks later. So for this ride, I upgraded my mileage by choosing the 30 mile route. I like having successes to build on as I set my goals higher and higher. The other routes to choose from were 8, 15, 62, and 100 miles.

Here's a photo of the map they gave me at registration, that sat tucked away in my jersey pocket during the ride:


It was also available online prior to the event. So the night before, I studied that profile very carefully. Sitting there in the dim light of my bedside lamp, I came up with a simple plan: ride with moderate intensity in miles 1-12, pedal nice-and-easy on miles 13-21 (enjoying the spectacular scenery), then use all that saved energy for the tough-looking miles 22-30. Three sections, three movements ... it was to be symphony of a ride.

As I walked to the Gloucester High School gym to register, the 62 and 100 milers were gathering at the start line to begin their rides, which left an hour before mine. Making my way across the lot, the cleats of my cycling shoes hit the pavement at such awkward angles. Unfortunately there's no graceful way to walk with clipless pedal cleats! It's kind of funny, really ... the more serious we cyclists become, the more the bicycle transforms us in such strange ways. We become like sea-encrusted sailors, more comfortable in our chosen element than on land.

The gym was a beehive of activity, with cyclists pinning numbers on their jerseys and filling out donation forms. Walking up to the registration table, I turned in the donations I'd collected, received my number, chatted with a few other cyclists, and then went back to my car to prepare for the ride.

If you're like me, then you love packing-lists! So for all you list-enthusiasts out there, here's what I stuffed in my small seat bag for the ride:

Tire repair kit (spare tube, three tire levers, patch kit)
Small Allen-Wrench tool (you never know what can come loose on a long ride)
Eyeglass screwdriver (a must for all who wear glasses)
Five cereal bars (I only ate one, but it's nice knowing you've packed extra goodies)
Digital camera
Swiss Army Knife (with the Phillips-head screwdriver feature, rather than the usual corkscrew)
Wallet
Cell phone (with the Tour de Cure rider support number programmed in)
Car keys

On my bike were two water bottles; in my cycling jersey's rear pockets were the route map and two paper towel squares; and on my wrist was my Road ID band. Oh, and of course I wore my helmet, cycling gloves, cycling jersey, and cycling shorts.

Around 7:45 am, I began to make my way to the line for our 8:00 am start. In the back of my mind were Tour de France Commentator Phil Liggett’s words-of-wisdom:

“The smartest place to ride is at the front of the pack … the back is where all the trouble happens.”

Now this ride was not a race, and no one drafts off other riders or forms a tightly packed peloton in a charity ride. But still, I do like the feeling of staying in a steadily moving group and having others behind me. So I positioned myself close to the start-banner.




Looking back from the line, it was tough to get a feel for how many riders were there. But just before we were about to leave, I would guess there were about eighty or so.

Around 7:55, a well-spoken man thanked all of us for being at the Tour de Cure and talked a bit about his own life with diabetes. It was great listening to him ... he really reinforced why we were riding on this special day. Then the event organizer went over some safety rules (including "be careful, there's a drawbridge on the route that doesn't like bicycles"), a young woman sang the national anthem ... and then we were off!

Before I write anything further, a note about the photos: other than at the rest stops, I didn't take any pictures during the ride itself. Knowing me, that would have stretched the ride from two hours to around four! Besides, I wanted to simply enjoy riding, without feeling tempted to stop and snap photos at all the scenic points. After the ride though, I drove the route by car, which is where I took all these pictures. So just imagine lots of riders on these roads when you look at them!

For the first mile or so, we were led out of town by police escort. Gloucester has such a unique and tough kind of beauty to it. There are very few trees, and tightly-packed clapboard houses hug the winding and hilly streets. I really love it...


As we made our way into the greener outskirts, the thrill of beginning a long ride really hit home. Wheels were whirring all around me, gears were shifting in unison at each climb ... and although it wasn't a race, riders still jockeyed for position as they settled into groups that matched their preferred speed.

The first third of the ride wound its way around the very tip of Cape Ann, up and over rolling hills on beautiful tree-lines roads, and past old homes with views of the sea breaking through the trees now and then.





I especially loved riding through the little village of Lanesville, with its tiny post office.


Arrows painted on the road indicated where to turn (each color for a different mileage route).



It looked like they were painted with some permanence, which I think is really cool. That means that all year long those arrows are just cryptic symbols, until a special day in May when we cyclists magically give them meaning and direction. I'll have to go back in a month and see if they're still there.

We soon passed through the historic town of Rockport...


...and then entered a more moderate stretch of rolling hills before arriving at the first rest stop around mile 15. Fifteen miles is easy for me, but I was developing some soreness in the inside of my right leg ... which was odd, because I ride fifteen miles on my morning ride all the time. I decided it had to be because of some unnoticed tension in my position on the bike, caused by being out of my usual element. So the rest stop gave me a chance to stretch, drink some Gatorade, and eat a banana the volunteers had set out (very kindly donated by Lull Farm).


I remember reading somewhere to be careful at rest stops: don't stay too long or eat too much! Otherwise, you'll loose your momentum. So after about five minutes or so, I hit the road again for the middle section of the ride, concentrating on pedalling powerfully but keeping my legs relaxed. It worked. Within a mile or so, the soreness in my right leg faded.

This middle section was breathtaking in its beauty. The only thing separating me from the Atlantic Ocean was a rocky coastline and one extraordinary road...





The scenery reminded me of the fog-covered moors you read about in Sherlock Holmes novels like The Hound of the Baskervilles. Riding along that stark landscape, I thought of the "Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis" by Ralph Vaughan Williams, with its wide open modal harmonies and rich string texture. So mysterious and intensely beautiful.

As the road gradually turned to the right...



...we made our way back into the center of Gloucester, riding along its historic harbor, past the Crows Nest bar (made famous by the book "The Perfect Storm"), and by the Gorton's Seafoods headquarters (as in Gorton's fishsticks!).

The route soon took us back near where we began, by the Fishermen's Memorial...


...and on to Rest Stop #2. I didn't take many photos at this stop, but here's one looking up the road at some cyclists who had just pedaled away...


I had half-of-a-banana, ate one of my cereal bars, drank some incredibly refreshing Gatorade (next time, I'm filling one of my water bottles with Gatorade!), and then took off for the biggest hills of the ride. This is the section I'd kept in mind for the entire trip so far, telling myself: "take it easy ... don't forget the hills in miles 22-23."

The first climb hit quickly, and it was steep. The man riding ahead of me soon dropped back to ride slower, saying "this hill's a killer!" I'd been preparing for these hills for so long though, that even though it was steep, it didn't feel bad at all. I've taught myself that part of being a good cyclist is learning to love the hills ... even the most vicious, leg-burning, plus-10%-grade monsters (and this one wasn't nearly that bad). It's where the best stories of the ride are created.

Fortunately, I was able to stay focused and patient, concentrating on taking advantage of the rhythm of each hill by relaxing my legs slightly on the flatter sections and staying in a low enough gear to keep my cadence steady on the steepest slopes. And before I knew it, I was up and over!

We then turned right onto a very wooded and curvy road that headed mostly downhill. I was feeling great. I looked at my cycling handlebar computer -- twenty-five miles were behind me, only five to go. I figured we'd passed the biggest hills of the ride, so I thought: what the hell ... let's crank up the speed. I shifted into a higher gear, passed a couple of the riders ahead of me, and was zipping happily along when the road turned to the right ... and there it was.

A hill. A really steep hill.

It was the kind of hill that has no personality whatsoever. No false flats, no curves ... all it did was go UP. It's a wonderful thing really, because a hill like that is such an honest sort of monster. It doesn't try to lure you closer by rolling out a few gradual inclines. It's just there, standing in your way.

A rider near me said "yeesh, what a hill!", which made me feel better ... I wasn't alone in my thoughts. And really, I should have been prepared. All I saw on the profile sheet were the longer hills around mile 23; the smaller bump on mile 26 just hid innocently in their shadow. But after the initial shock, I got down to business. I shifted into my absolute lowest gear, relaxed my shoulders to make breathing easier, and began to climb.

Life takes on a surreal kind of simplicity on a steep hill. There's no music running in your head, no worries ... it's just you, the hill monster, your bike, and your legs -- which become entities all their own after a while. Sometimes they burn and hurt, but that's really just the hill monster trying to communicate with you. If you panic, the monster speaks even louder ... so the key is to stay focused and relaxed. Take your time, breath normally, enjoy the sensation of the road beneath your tires, and lull the monster to sleep as you continue steadily upwards ... higher and higher ... until ...

You've done it! And wow ... what an amazing feeling that is.

So to the Mile 26 Monster, I'm really glad I met you. You were scary at first, but I made it up and over your summit, and you gave me a good story to tell.

From there on it was pretty much all downhill ... beautifully, wonderfully downhill. We eventually broke through the trees and onto a road with marshes and coastal scenery on each side, and soon we were back in town, near the Fishermen's Memorial ... almost home.

We crossed the charming "drawbridge that doesn't like bicycles"...


...and then turned back onto the same street near the high school that we rode on two hours ago, but this time in the opposite direction. Up ahead, I could see the reverse side of the START banner, and it read:


Crossing under that banner was an other-worldy sensation. I felt like I was a time traveler returning home. Gloucester High School looked the same as it did when I left it, and some of the same volunteers were gathered around the finish area (giving us a big cheer as we arrived). But we riders had changed.

We had been transformed and inspired by two hours on the road.

The road
that revealed oceans, forests, and storied old villages.

The road
where the miles fell one by one, reminding us "you can do this".

The road
where we learned to love the hill monsters.

The road
where our fellow cyclists were so kind, looking out for one another.

The road
where journeys were made and epics created.

The magical,
mysterious,
wonderful road.

It was an incredible ride.

As I walked my bike around the end area, I checked in with the volunteer recording the number of each finishing rider (we were told that if we didn't report in at the end, the organizer would come to our homes to be sure we were o.k.!). After that, I joined the volunteers in applauding some of the other 30-milers coming across the line. I then sent a few text messages and headed into the gymnasium for some post-ride goodies. Inside, the organizers were distributing free Tour de Cure t-shirts and bags to riders....


At the end of the free-gift line was a table for filling out a post-ride survey. My favorite question was: which rest stop did you like the best? I think I selected Rest Stop #1, but I can't remember for sure. They were all very much appreciated!

It was now around 10:25 or so, and it looked like lunch was going to start around 11:30. So I had some nice time to relax. Other cyclists were walking around too, meeting with family and friends, or just enjoying the feeling of a completed ride.


Here's a nice photo of my bike, post 30-mile adventure:


It did so well! No mechanical problems, and it even received a compliment from an organizer for its beautiful blue color.

I walked my bike across the parking lot to put back in my SUV zipcar ... which, now that I think about it, was kind of funny. I could have easily ridden it, but I guess subconsciously I figured my bike deserved a rest!


I then visited the sponsor booths and collected literature on diabetes. Riders from the various routes were still coming across the line, and the volunteers gave a cheer for them all. I talked with one of the volunteers for a bit, and she said she'd been out since 5 a.m. that morning, but she wasn't complaining at all. They were fantastic.

I changed out of my cycling clothes in the restroom, into shorts and a comfortable shirt ... and before long it was time for lunch!

First I had an awesome cup of clam chowder donated by Lobsta Land, a local restaurant. It's the kind of chowder you can only find here in New England ... the perfect blend of clams, cream, and potatoes ... so subtle and smooth. I then had some always-good Papa Gino's cheese pizza. There were also wonderful-looking dishes donated by Cafe Barada, which my food allergies unfortunately kept me away from. But they sure looked great!

While eating, I listened to the speakers give out awards for the highest fundraising totals. Asking people for money is never easy, so hearing about these incredible fundraisers was really inspiring, and a great learning experience for the future.

But all good things must come to an end ... so soon it was time to say goodbye and head for home. I was actually looking forward to the drive though -- retracing the route by car to take photos, and having some quiet time to reflect on this great day.

So a huge THANK YOU to all the organizers, the wonderful speakers, the generous sponsors, the hard-working and cheerful volunteers, the inspiring "red riders" (riders who identified themselves as having diabetes), and all the other cyclists. The North Shore Tour de Cure was a ride I will never forget.

Paris-Roubaix: The Arenberg Forest

How many forests do you know that have a name? Off the top of my head I can only list a few: Sherwood Forest, the Great North Woods, Amazon Rainforest, and Mirkwood -- all mysterious and magical places (and in the case of the last one, imaginary). But I have a feeling many people are like me, whose local forest growing up was simply a nameless woods just beyond the backyard fence. Nothing too special, other than the rare deer or brightly colored bird that happened to wander in from its darker corners.

Give those woods a name though, and everything changes. It becomes a place of old stories, ancient mysteries, and hidden portals to unknown places.

I thought about this while watching the Paris-Roubaix bicycle race on the Versus Channel, as the riders passed through the Arenberg Forest. I couldn't get the beautiful image out of my mind of all those colorful cyclists and fans surrounded by the dark green shadows of that old forest.

A few weeks later, I was in North Carolina visiting with my parents, and one night my mother brought a tin of watercolor pastels to the kitchen table, saying: "I'm not sure where I got these, but I've had them for a long time and never used them. So you can take them, if you'd like."


Thanks, Mom. That set of 40 Caran d'Ache pastels was just the inspiration I needed to put that Paris-Roubaix image down on paper:


The road through the Arenberg Forest is actually a narrow path of cobblestones, for which the race is famous. There were 27 "secteurs" of cobbles on the 2010 course ... the condition of which are mostly bad, some worse-than-bad, and some absolutely horrendous. The Arenberg Forest cobbles are in the absolutely horrendous category -- which is why they're so wonderful (for the fans ... not so much for the cyclists!). The fact that it runs through an old forest elevates this beloved cobbled secteur to mythic status.

So the next time I cycle through an anonymous forest, I'm going to try to learn more about it and assign it a name. Given a name, a forest takes shape, defines its inner character, and finds a voice to tell its stories.