The road to Roubaix

The weather is bleuch everywhere


Hell of the north

The Road to Roubaix is paved with mud and grit and puddles and hail. There’s no escaping Belgian conditions, even if you’ve escaped Belgium. Wind whips around my chainrings. Hail leathers the peak of my cap. Rain water is flung in tremendous arcs from the rear wheel. No question about it. It’s February. Its Wales. It’s the gulf stream taking advantage of its priveldged position as the main determinator of British conditions.

This ride was never going to be lengthy. When wind speeds top 40mph, its – perhaps –  time to hide away. But training doesn’t do itself and part of the ‘attraction’ of Paris-Roubaix is its grittiness. So we head out. First East, then North West, then South. The roads were covered in snaking torrents of water. Fresh Eddies swirled around debris. Traffic is quiet on this particular morning. It’s neither early, nor late, but the weather is a…

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