Archive
From the archived site: http://web.mac.com/taylor.phinney/iWeb/Site/Welcome.html
Unfortunately you may know my computer crashed and I lost all of the above — except it is frozen in cyberspace. It pretty much says it all for 2007…..at least all that I wrote.
More recent entries can be found at: http://web.mac.com/taylor.phinney/TPs_website/Welcome.html
Here’s a crowd favorite….
The hell of the north! 2007
Three unavoidable crashes, one bike change, one broken chainring, one bottle cage ripped clean off, one flat, three sets of tears rolling down my face, and one bus sums up my Paris-Roubaix experience. Talk about Hell of the North.
Man oh man. I’
ll start from the beginning…
The neutral was insanity. Even though you’re supposed to remain in your position, rules didn’t apply at all in this situation. Luckily it was only three km, but by then I had lost about ten places. I guess two of our guys also crashed just in the neutral, and one guy, Nolan, couldn’t ever catch back and had to abandon with about 118 of the 128 km left to go–poor guy. So that’
s two down of six on the team.
Anyways, we took off and were just rolling at a steady pace, awaiting the cobbles that came at about 40 km into the race. I was in the front half of the group and just riding easily, awaiting my time when I needed to move up. I noticed that there had already been many crashes. Paris-Roubaix is a crazy race, but add juniors to that equation and it becomes a lot more insane than you could imagine. I could honestly say that there was one crash per 5 km of the race.
At 30 km there was a pile up straight in front of me and with nothing to do but try to bunny hop four guys on the ground I ended up sliding on it as well. I was so mad, nothing was hurt too badly, but my arm definitely stung a bit… The first wave of tears hit me all the sudden as I thought I could never catch back up, but they soon disappeared as I came to my senses and realized that it wouldn’t take much to just get back on the peleton. My bike however was malfunctioning, the big chainring in front was bent outwards somehow. I received my spare bike, and began to time trial. I made it back to the caravan and was able to draft my way back to the pack. “Whew!”
I thought to myself, that was not really what I needed. But worse, was the fact that I was all the way in the back of a 200 guy peleton, and the first section of cobbles was within 2 km from the front. I tried my hardest to move up, but its harder than you think. By the time got to the first secteur of pave, I was about middle of the pack.
But… After approximately 15-20 cobble stones, the rear wheel of the rider in front of me suddenly bounced up and swung left as he stood up. And… Unfortunately my front wheel was not in the most ideal of places. Again I found myself on the ground, the ditch actually. And again I lost all my places.
I was determined now however, and gave it everything to move up on the various cobble sections. I didn’t care to stop and adjust my handlebars which would point to the left as I rode straight. And I did move up, riders were already getting dropped as I blazed by them on the first few cobble sections. The pack was thinning, I could tell, and I was right on the edge. But I kept giving it my all and bridging the gaps. Guys would get dropped, and I would keep pushing, making up the gaps after every single section, moving up each time. With around nine sections of pave left, and somewhere between 30 and 40 km to go I had to make the biggest push yet to make it up the the front group of around 30 riders. There was a pretty big gap I needed to close but I gave it everything, because I knew that this would be the group going to the finish. I knew that one of the guys in this group was going to win. I made it, and recovered for a bit as I looked back at all the stragglers.
Having one crash always sucks in a race, but normally you can get back to the pack. Two crashes on the other hand is slightly different. With two you pretty much can just put yourself out of the running, unless you’re extremely determined. Now I had already suffered two very unpleasant crashes, but I was still there, still a contender. I even felt like I had more in my legs!
But… As you already know, I kissed the pavement, yet again. Somehow, there was a pile-up in our small little group and somehow it happened right in front of me. I saw it happening and locked up my brakes as the guy in front of me hit the asphalt, along with two others. I swung right, but could do nothing to avoid flipping over my bike, and landing hard on the hot black road. I rolled a couple of times and lay there in the grass. I couldn’t believe that it had happened to me again. I had already fought back from two crashes, but three put me over the edge. Not physically but mentally. I couldn’t believe it and I cracked. My bike was screwed up, the bottle cage ripped off, my front wheel somehow flat. I was so mad. I lay across my bike and started sobbing. I was so disappointed in what happened that I just couldn’t take it. I sobbed and sobbed at the side of the road as others got up and rode on. I waited for my team car but it never came, neutral support had left as well. I rode on, with a flat tire, just sobbing with disbelief in the situation. One of those “why me?” things…
People along the road cheered me on as I slowly rode on. Little kids yelling for me. “Allez! Allez! Allez!”
they chanted.
I was shattered.
Some hell of the north…
Part two….The Bus
Well, in case you were wondering I did not finish… I reached the next section of cobbles, pouting to myself, and had to get off after about 100 meters due to the flat in my front tires. I walked for a bit, no one in sight, waiting for the broomwagon (the bus that picks up all who drop out). As I shamefully walked along the grass on the side of the cobbles, a very nice group French people took me aside and sat me down. I laid there, so disappointed in the race, but I tried cheering up. After all, what happens, happens. Then, out of nowhere I realized I was incredibly thirsty, and asked them if they had anything to drink. Out of the back their European mini-van came the most delightful two liter bottle of freezing cold water. I drank it all in two helpings. They stared as I downed the beautiful liquid.
From then on we just sat around, waiting for the broomwagon to come. A man who was waiting with me started to check out my bike which I had carelessly thrown on the ground, calling to his friends, lifting it up, flicking at the carbon. I sat there watching, smiling to myself, as they carried on scoping out my bike like it was that of Tom Boonen (famous cyclist). Finally, after about 15 minutes of waiting, broom-mini-vans started rolling in. Most were full and many just passed without stopping. Then, came the last ones. A driver stepped out, threw my bike in the back of his truck, and directed me to one of the many mini-vans behind him. I was forced to sit in the very back of the van, where there were no seats, but spare rims for the vans wheels. I sat there, across from an Italian rider, and knew it would be a crazy ride as soon as the driver offered everyone whisky and cakes. When no one took any the driver blasted techno from the radio and gunned it, wrenching the gears from first to second, second to third, pretending as if he was racing in the formula one. He took the corners as fast as he could, the Italian rider and I gripping the sides of the van for dear life. When we would occasionally stop I spoke to the Italian and realized that almost everyone in the van was in fact, Italian. I got to wow them with my bilingual skills, then have to hold on for my life until we stopped again. At a point along the way, everyone got out and got into a very crowded bus. There I found Nolan who crashed out within the first 10 km, Ryan who also crashed out, and Taylor, who got dropped.
The rest of the ride on the bus wasn’t not as exciting as the first broomwagon experience. It was actually quite depressing–we couldn’t follow the course any longer and had to take a long way to Roubaix. By the time we got there, everyone had pretty much finished, I was dehydrated, didn’t even bother to find my bike, and just went to lay on the grass outside the velodrome with a cold bottle of water in my hand. I eventually got up and rode over to the famous showers, in which all the past pros have been at one point or another–unfortunately I had no towel and was forced to air-dry. There, Jim Ochowicz, my Dad’s old team manager, now the president of USA Cycling found me and generously gave me three passes to the VIP area that lie right on the velodrome. I got dressed, rode back to the van, locked all my stuff in it, and headed to the VIP area. I remembered how cool it was to spectate Professional Cycling up close as I had done with my Dad a few times when the Tour de France came around. The big screen, the roaring crowd, all the good-looking girlfriends of the pros, the chills that run down my spine anytime I see someone winning, and of course the photo-ops! I do have pictures from where I was by the way…
It was SO cool to see Stuart O’Grady win, and when everyone was leaving I just sat there, on the fence, soaking it all in. I was very unhappy that I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t ride the famed Roubaix velodrome, the velodrome where greats like Eddy Merckx, and Tom Boonen celebrated amazing victories.
Next year…
I did a little shopping, and that was it, we were off, back to Belgium for our last night. Paris-Roubaix… What an amazing experience.