Legs of the Gods

There are few things more strikingly stylish, sexy even, than a good pro-cyclist in full flow on his bike. Look at film of Fausto Coppi, surely one of the most stylish sportsmen ever, as his long, delicate legs spin him over a col; the terrifying force of nature that was Bernard Hinault – compact, powerful and aggressive, face set in a mask of anger and determination as he swept all opposition and obstacles aside; the incomparable Mario Cipollini, “the Lion King” super-fast, super-brave sprinter with the looks of a Mediterranean playboy and a flamboyant line in lycra fashion statements – pink, gold, zebra print, and – on one particularly memorable occasion, a one-piece suit made to look as though his skin had been flayed off, leaving his muscles on full view. Race officials would routinely shake their heads and punish him for infringing this or that clothing regulation and “Cipo” would smilingly pay their fine, toss his long golden locks and ride into the sunset with a podium girl on his crossbar.




Above all, watch Francesco Moser in “A Sunday in Hell”, Jorgen Leth’s legendary film about the 1976 Paris- Roubaix. Bent double at the waist, his back is ramrod-straight, perfectly still and parallel with the ground as his legs flow seemingly effortlessly in perfect circles. Then take a look at pro-riders, even lowly domestiques , before the start of races, as they glide and jink their bikes through the crowds of photographers, officials and hangers-on; relaxed and smooth, never braking, never making a wasteful movement – like so many shiny fish in a shoal, constant speed, constant flow – as though their machines are simply an extension of their bodies, or their bodies an extension of their machines. Their bikes, shoes, and clothing shine with an unnatural Technicolor glow, rivalled only by the impossibly deep, teak tans of their shaved, oiled and chiselled legs; awheel, a pro-cyclist is a brightly coloured God among men.


There are exceptions, of course. There were many reasons to dislike climber and French housewives’ favourite Richard Virenque – chief among them that he was a petulant cheat who denied drug use again and again, until the evidence was overwhelming and then tried to blame everyone but himself for his sins. But much of the vitriol aimed his way was undoubtedly because, well – he just didn’t look right on a bike. He was once described as resembling a frog on a matchbox, only slightly unfair, and a reasonable approximation of his cramped, ugly riding style.


And Floyd Landis, “winner” of the 2006 Tour, had already been deducted points by European fans for his charmless beard, backwards baseball caps and agricultural riding position long before any questions were raised about the honesty of his performances.



The bizarre, contradictory thing is this. Off their bikes, even the most stylish looking riders transform into freaks. Bodies which look natural, admirable, on bikes become ungainly, misshapen – like some ghastly laboratory experiment gone wrong. Massive legs, with sinewed calves and gargantuan thighs are joined to spindly, concave chests, skeletal shoulders and arms which would look under-developed on a frail schoolgirl. A traditional pre-Tour photo opportunity shows riders being given medical checks by the race Doctor. For this, they are required to strip off and have a stethoscope applied to their chests, or a rubber hammer swung theatrically at their kneecaps. The resulting pictures are not for the faint-hearted. Deeply suntanned faces, arms and legs frame milk-white sunken chests and exposed ribs; the skin stretched so paper-thin across their backs that one pro’s wife complained she could clearly see and feel the outlines of her husband’s internal organs. Away from their bikes, cyclists have a haunted, consumptive look, their movements are disjointed and their upper bodies are under-developed and frail, every unnecessary ounce of muscle above the waist is simply an extra burden to drag up hills or into the wind.


Even the ultra-stylish Fausto Coppi could look ungainly off his Bianchi – no amount of Italian knitwear, sports jackets and gold-rimmed sunglasses could disguise a faint resemblance to Mr Bean. Cycling though is all about hearts and legs. The Spanish five-times tour winner Miguel Indurain was reputed to have a heart twice the size of a normal human, and lungs so big they ballooned out below his ribcage.


And legs. Gnarled, distended lower limbs are a badge of pride among pros – the uglier the better. Sean Yates, the British super domestique who completed nine Tours De France, spent a glorious day in yellow and became one of Lance Armstrong’s most trusted lieutenants has a pair of legs so disfigured by varicose veins that they frighten small children. When racing, he would roll his shorts all the way up his thighs, like an old-fashioned bathing costume, to avoid the dreaded cyclists’ tan lines – an odd affectation for this least affected of men. No-one dared tell him that the tan lines were the least problematic aspect of his legs’ appearance.

The Road to Hell

A word or two about cobbles. To the uninitiated, they bring to mind the faux-Dickensian charm of the English market town or the classic chic of a quiet Parisian quartier. These are not the cobbles of Paris-Roubaix. The Flemish farmers who built many of these roads were unconcerned with aesthetics and style; they simply wanted to drive their carts from one place to another, but for much of the year the tracks were muddy and impassable. So they laid substantial bricks of granite, roughly the size of a family loaf, in loosely connected patterns, just close enough to ease the passage of an animal or a steel-rimmed wooden cartwheel.


The first such roads in this area were built by the Romans, although you imagine their efforts may have been more uniform and stylish. And some others date from the heyday of the mining industry, whose remnants litter the area - disused shafts, slag heaps, rusting machinery. The cobbled tracks were buckled, beaten and distorted by coal trucks, some pulled by animals, some by gangs of men and boys. Emile Zola’s great socialist novel Germinal is set in the mining village of Mareciennes, on the edge of the Arenberg Forest where today’s racers get their first taste of the real Roubaix cobbles. Germinal paints a grim picture of life, suffering and death in the nineteenth-century mines; existence in this region has never been easy.

Cobbled roads were relatively simple to build and maintain, but their days were numbered after the invention of Tarmac in the mid 19th-century. This mixture of tar and stone chippings, developed by the Scottish engineer John McAdam, was easy to apply, waterproof, smooth and grippy – even in the wet. It was the perfect platform for that other 19th-century invention – the internal combustion engine. Together, they revolutionised the world. As motor vehicles spread across Europe, so cobbled and dirt roads disappeared under their black sticky nemesis.

Apart from the rural backwoods of Northern France, where few saw the need to spend hard-earned francs improving roads which were lightly used – and then only by cattle, tractors and the odd farm truck. And wasn’t that symbol of French practicality, the Citroen 2CV, blessed with suspension specifically designed for just such surfaces? While the main routes between towns and villages increasingly became smooth streams of tarmac, on the back roads, the cobble stayed King.