My own Paris-Roubaix
BY RICH PALZEWIC
Like most boys growing up, I fantasized about being a professional athlete.
I’d throw a football around in my room and act like I was diving for it while jumping through the air and landing on my bed.
My famous line was, “And the crowd goes wild!”
I’d often play basketball in my room with a net hung over the door frame and act like I was a famous player going in for a dunk.
My parents would often yell at me for all the noise I’d make.
Down in the basement, I’d pitch a tennis ball against the concrete wall for hours acting like a Major League Baseball pitcher.
One time, I switched to being a lefty.
That was all fine and dandy until the tennis ball went errant on one of my throws and hit an authentic German stein mug sitting on a ledge above the fireplace.
I can still visualize watching the mug, which was a present from my foreign-exchange-student sister from Germany, falling to the concrete floor and shattering into a dozen pieces.
I tried to glue it back together, but my attempt was futile.
I never did tell my parents about that one.
You could ask my sisters to verify, but another one of my favorite things to do was walk around the yard with a paddle in my hand pretending to be racing.
If you recall, I come from a paddling background.
Finally, I’d use a tennis racket to belt rocks over the barn roof and into the field, acting like I hit a game-winning home run.
My point being, we all fantasize about being great and famous.
I’m sure I was like many young boys in what I’ve described.
Although I haven’t thrown a football around, dunked a nerf ball or walked around my yard with a paddle in my hand recently, I do play games while biking to pass the time and keep my rides interesting.
Many of you have probably heard of the famous bike race “Paris-Roubaix.”
First held in 1896, the race has many nicknames: “The Queen of the Classics” and “The Hell of the North” are the most used.
The 160-mile spring classic, which occurs at the beginning of April and is held many times in terrible weather in northern France, races over about 35 miles of the worst cobblestones you can imagine.
The roads often date back hundreds of years and are more suited for farm tractors than road bikes.
Organizers search for the roughest cobblestones they can find to be included in future editions of the race – it seems a little inhumane.
Since 1977, winners of the race receive a cobblestone trophy.
When I used to watch a lot more professional cycling, Paris-Roubaix was my favorite race because of the hard conditions, bad weather and roads – I knew all the winners and would look forward to watching it yearly.
The race has roughly 29 sectors of cobblestones, which are rated from 1-5 based on their severity.
A 1 rating is an easy sector, and a 5 would be the worst.
The first sector is No. 29, and every time riders exit a sector, the numbers decrease.
The last sector of cobblestones, maybe a mile from the finish line, is No. 1.
I often have my own Paris-Roubaix race while out riding.
Before I head out, I’ll think of the route I want to do and count how many sectors it has.
Each time I turn onto a new road or a new segment, I consider that a sector.
If my ride has 29 sectors, I count down each time I enter a new one.
It keeps me focused and gives me something to look forward to.
A few shorter sectors, which make the numbers go down quicker, improve my mood and keep me going.
I will also tell myself to go harder on certain segments and rest on others.
There are all sorts of games you can play to get through a ride.
Another tidbit is riding your favorite route backward – it has a way of changing the look of a ride.
When I was living in Rhinelander and I would participate in the Wednesday night group ride, we would often play games that benefited all of us.
We’d sprint for speed-limit signs and hit the hills hard; we’d form a paceline or do a looped-race course, pitting different riders against one another. It was fun, I looked forward to it.
This particular day after my Paris-Roubaix ride in mid-November, I was alone with my 10-year-old daughter Francesca. She suggested – without me asking – we go outside and rake some leaves.
It made me happy she wanted to spend time with her dad outside getting some fresh air and exercise. She didn’t complain once.
Now that the prime biking season is winding down – depending on whom you ask – my focus will turn to snowshoeing and cross-country skiing.
Maybe I’ll pretend to be Bjorn Daehlie from Norway sprinting my way to a gold medal in the Olympics.
I may be 47 and a grown adult, but I’m still a kid at heart.