the lonely pinnacle

men's tour of flanders 2023

There appears to be an annual enthusiasm reserved every year for the Tour of Flanders, a unique ‘ambience’ which owes its origin to the historical disregard and discrimination once held by the French-speaking government towards the region. It’s an enthusiasm that taps deeper into Flandrian culture and history, and can be perceived through a variety of different lenses. Societal anguish (caused by forced linguistic assimilation and economic negligence), combined with a Flandrian (Odile Defray) victory in the 1912 Tour de France, proved sufficient enough as an incentivise for a Dutch-language newspaper to organise a new bike race in the region, one to rival Liege-Bastogne-Liege in the French-speaking South. Soon legends were created, with newspaper stories mythologising the success of each humble ‘farmer’s son from Flanders’ who had invariably conquered the reliably horrendous conditions with great flamboyance, leaving a proud legacy to their family name. 

Such stories of grit were emboldened by the riders’ perseverance across the most wretched of cobbled roads, poorly maintained and unfunded by government. Race organisers were vocal in their approval of such dreadful roads, ever heightening the tension and mystique that could be created in the wallowing of human suffering on a saddle. Such was the race’s lore, that many protested against the government’s eventual replacement of cobbles with concrete or tarmac in the region, whilst organisers – desperate to preserve the character of the race – redirected the route down ever narrower, seldom-used cobbled backroads.

This legacy leaves a race symbolic in its own right, before you even reach the point of being able to pick and choose which riders are worthy of mention each year, even if this year saw a rematch between familiar protagonists. Where once television coverage would be limited to the final heavy metal bike thrashing of the finale, we now live in the age to appreciate the psychedelic mayhem of the whole spectacle of Flandrian racing, aware of the racing ambience that surrounds ‘De Ronde’ unlike any other. Yesterday, that came even before the three ascents of the Oude Kwaremont. 

Within 20 kilometres of the race’s departure in Brugge, Bahrain-Victorious tried to exploit the crosswinds, in the process nullifying any efforts to create an early breakaway, and briefly distancing Mathieu van der Poel, putting his Alpecin-Deceuninck entourage under stress. Even once re-joined, further crashes saw the defending champion stranded at the back, presumably free of the stresses of maintaining position in the peloton, at the cost of his strongest domestique Søren Kragh Andersen, whose efforts seemingly went into ensuring his leader’s peace of mind rather than strength of position. It took over 100 kilometres for a breakaway to finally succeed, with the eventual 8 men scrambled up the road bringing great relief to the peloton, comforting themselves with a 6 minute deficit to their new leaders, aware that circumstance – rather than any conscious decision making – would whittle them away in the hours to come. 

Approaching the Kwaremont, and the subsequent looping ardour of Flanders’ fields - where spectators bravely sing through scarcely heard helicopters as they see the sunset occasionally glow, the peloton accelerated furiously along narrowing roads. The battles were frantic, riders jostling for position until they couldn’t. Perched precariously on carbon until they weren’t. At once, races were over, bones were broken and the entire race dynamic altered.

Filip Maciejuk, a Monument rookie, lost control when bunny-hopping from a ditch to the front of the peloton, veering into Tim Wellens and disrupting most of the peloton. Wout van Aert, it would appear, suffered a bloodied knee. Maciejuk was quickly disqualified for his recklessness. Peter Sagan was also compelled to abandon. Though his form indicated that this may not be a prosperous year of successes, to be denied the opportunity to race on his own terms is bitterly unfortunate for the peloton’s former ringmaster.

Into the Kwaremont, races were over before most even knew they had begun, domestiques, otherwise long forgotten, consigned to ignominy. Yet now the supposed ‘racing’ was to begin. English-language commentary briefly went silent to absorb what the GCN app ambitiously terms ‘ambient sound’. If Brian Eno described ambient as ‘intended to induce calm and a space to think’, then the Kwaremont perhaps fell short on initial listening. Instead, Jonas Rutsch accelerated from his breakaway companions, swept up in the emotion and atmosphere that the gathered masses had conjured. He will likely never again experience that feeling of leading ‘De Ronde’ up its most iconic climb. Yet to briefly dictate the terms of his companions’ pain, to savour the buzz that reminds him why he became a cyclist, it reminds us why we watch him doing his job.

Bar a mildly humorous DSM launch train which strung the peloton out to little overall effect (except writing off Søren Kragh Andersen once and for all) the following 60km were almost uneventful. The peloton gently eroded, the breakaway gradually overextended, and Tadej Pogačar’s brief attempt to join an attack instigated by Mads Pedersen at once sunk heads and made mockery. The circus need never worry about finding Sagan’s successor. Pedersen tried again to escape on the Molenberg, this time following Kasper Asgreen and drawing out the B-list favourites and A-list satellites - the riders who this spring sit largely ignored thanks to the three Goliaths who tower ahead of them.

Soon the breakaways became one, hill-weary teammates set about sacrificing themselves for one another, offering whatever minimal protection they could from the persistent wind with decidedly mixed results. In Nathan Van Hooydonck, Jumbo-Visma lacked faith, and began chasing down the breakaway they’d allowed to escape. In Matteo Trentin, UAE maybe shouldn’t have been concerned, a rugged former sprinter turned barodeur, riding his eleventh Tour of Flanders. But this is a team entirely orbited around its leader, a man who races when he wants to win, and cares not about the strength of his rivals. Because he knows, or at least appears to know, that he is stronger. 

Last summer, Louis Meintjes described the pursuit of general classification as ‘almost easier’ than chasing any victory, acknowledging his high consistency but lack of explosivity as the barrier to his success. It leaves him resigned to knowing that victory, if and when it arrives, is always solo, detached from his peers who he thrives in following. This is the orthodoxy, the values of cycling we thought we understood. It reflects the specialisms and uniquities of the Monuments, their character and identity remaining distinct from whatever longer races may happen elsewhere in the world.

It was long assumed that success in both Grand Tours and Monuments was beyond the capabilities of the commoner, perhaps explaining why those racers that achieves such feats were venerated as Kings, Campionissimi or Cannibals. Yet once more, Tadej Pogačar has shunned this traditional perception, winning races few predecessors would be contenders in, contending races few rivals may have even entered. Far outlasting specialists who tactically had far more cards to play, his time – with 54 kilometres still remaining – had come. 

By the end of Pogačar’s first attack, ascending the cobbled Kwaremot for the second time, the gap to the leaders had been all but halved to 1’40. Initially solo, only Van der Poel, Van Aert, Laporte and Pidcock appeared able to at least try and chase him down. After Van Aert sent Laporte across to Pogačar, forcing Van der Poel to chase, it is soon only the podium from last week’s E3 Classic that remain, Pidcock and Laporte confined to chasing their target that slips away. Slowly, yet quickly. 

In front, the leaders reach the Koppenberg 45km from glory with a 45 second margin over their hunters. Infected by bagpipes of the ears, the riders appear infected also with ‘second group syndrome’, such is the anticipation of an eventual catch, turn rotation lacks full participation, their wariness of attacks from one another is heightened, justifiably so.

Onto the Taaienberg – short, sharp, world-wearing. Time begins to lose any sense of perspective beyond the seconds from rider to nearest motorbike. The suffering is persistent. A brief mechanical forces Van der Poel behind to furiously accelerate uphill to re-join his rivals. It is angry yet effortless, his strength of swing in each rock of the body so delicately harnessed, he appears almost comfortable on this cobbled hell. Or at least somewhat familiar. 

30 kilometres away, the lower slopes of the Kruisberg witness new attacks, accelerations that write the new elastic men of Flanders out of contention. They are ‘the durables’, nameless athletes in this story whose strength, canniness and good-fortune have led them thus far, but now no further. Pedersen is the one to break free, his earlier instigations reflective of strong legs, soon his lead is 30 seconds, whatever that means. Van der Poel chooses to re-use rather than subside his earlier frustrations, definitively breaking free of his injured cyclocross rival, but towing along the climber he fears the most. Behind, Van Aert perseveres, shoulders rocking, his whole body digging into the sadly quantifiable machinations of his pain as he watches his rivals escape away. Nevertheless, he persists.

Our perception of the race in real time, for whatever that may be worth, is largely determined by whenever we start watching. To start watching with 20 kilometres remaining is to see an image you maybe could have predicted weeks beforehand, a group of widely predicted favourites (excluding a bloodied Van Aert), approaching the Oude Kwaremont for the final time paced by a teammate of Pogačar, Trentin.

A lone rider, Mads Pedersen, sits uncomfortably ahead, likely aware that his margin should be enough to secure his position among the favourites into what he hopes will be nothing worse than a sprint finish. Pogačar’s attack is subsequently incredible, naturally, at once his opening of bike lengths between himself and Van der Poel appears only gradual, processional, a calculated grind from the cameras above.

Yet within moments Pedersen is caught and surpassed, the Slovenian’s vicious acceleration sweeping away the faintest dreams of his rivals. Maintaining what was then a 15 second margin over Van der Poel onto the Paterberg, Pogačar then settles once more into his saddle and braces for a 12-kilometre time trial into Oudenaarde, steadily eeking out his time on Van der Poel before sitting up and acknowledging the scale of his achievement. This perception is predictable, it is accurate, yet wildly misleading. Even when the race action has been concentrated into the racing climax, press files as fleeting as this are a disservice to the events of the wider race, a disservice to the spectacle of Flanders that the race presents. 

On the Paterberg, Pedersen appears static in relation to his rivals, Stefan Küng appears stiff, his eyes unmasked by sunglasses stare blankly ahead, the increasingly gaunt expression he wears indicative of the numbing sensations of Flanders. Wout Van Aert eventually catches the breakaway remnants and leads them in for much of the finale, only to be edged off the podium by Pedersen. Why he chose to work on the run-in to the finish (be it pride or delusion) doesn’t matter. Truth is briefly subservient to the feelings and perspective of our idols. 

Weaving through the houses and road furniture we briefly forget to associate with reality, far ahead Tadej Pogačar rides alone, reaping the reward of his efforts, redeeming the error of his ways from last year, and harvesting the appreciation and admiration for however long it may last. It is a fleeting moment of solitude, distinct from the frenzy that is the finish line of a bike race.

Unlike Meintjes, solo victories are a reliable source of success for Pogačar, he doesn’t need the positioning of others, the misfortune of others to work in his favour. For he has shown the strength and worth to be clearly the best bike racer in the world, in a lonely pantheon surrounded by the dead and the grumpy. In this loneliness, maybe he will find a space to think, to induce calm around himself. Maybe he will come to understand psychologically the raw energy and naked enthusiasm of the Flandrian crowds, for whom this race means so much. Then, he may finally consider the race ambient after all.