Le sigh. I long to escape the tedium of yet another Roubaix buildup. The Holy Week has lost its grip upon my psyche. Exhaling slowly, I slump further into my chair upon viewing the millionth most epic cobblestone-eye-view picture.
I remove myself from myself to view myself. What have I become? Paris-Roubaix was like my perfect drug. I scoured teh netz voor any bit of info, anything providing insight into le protagoniste.
Perhaps my French boredom stems from the fact the history and heroes of this race have been neutered due to the scourge of drugs. Countless watts spent willing Hincapie to an unattainable goal wasted as there was always another who doped more better—#dopingdoping, if you will.
Perhaps it’s because AICAR and EPO-Z and maintaining 50km/h solo for 13km. Perhaps it’s because the romance of Roubaix-tech being diminished due to the rise of the fondo bike—no need for extreme alterations. Perhaps it’s because no rain = no mud yet again. Perhaps it’s all of these things. Or none of them.
No, it’s probably because every year the coverage leading up to the event is not unlike witnessing the action of an incredibly busy, über-famous kitchen. A camera crew is filming the chef for a reality show we’ve already seen. Foodie photogs are snapping shots like their lives depended on it.
And I just want my food.