Adventures on my Canyon
I mourn every one of my lost racing bikes. There was a RIH 6-Day bike, a true Bustraan, silver with ¾ chrome forks and stays, lost mid-1970’s in Germany along with a ‘psychedelic salmon pink’ Masi Gran Criterium. Those still hurt. My Harry Hartman, another Dutch bike this with a high bottom bracket, slapped on grey paint and stenciled-on decals that I won my first big junior race on - also gone. The bikes represented so many memories, periods of life, pleasurable days, vehicles for physical and mental growth as much as for high-speed travel and racing. One machine I’ve managed to keep, one that contains some of my most wonderful memories and brought me back into a mad love of cycling, is a 2011 Canyon.
I found myself on the start line of “The London-Paris” that year; after a spring spent jumping into club races I was finally fit again. An English friend had offered me an extra entry and there I was, not at all knowing what was in front of me. Was it a race? Or just a ride? Turns out a hybrid of the two, controlled, traffic-protected peloton riding, plus three closed-road competitions: Yellow Jersey on time, Sprint, and Climber on points. A brilliant invention and still one of my most memorable and fulfilling cycling experiences. I was in the A Group, along with ride leader Magnus Bäckstedt, former Paris-Roubaix winner now an excellent TV analyst, and Stephen Roche, not quite as fit as in his Giro-Tour-Worlds trilogy days but the super class still oozing out of him. There were a few more UK internationals then the rest of us, mostly A-type executives, but some regular guys too, a bike shop mechanic who worked the entire year to afford the ride, generally UK Midlands/Northerners who I’d hang out with afterwards. I like those guys, Doug Daily, Les West, Phil Bayton types, men were my heroes when I was a kid. \
They don’t mess about on The London-Paris: motorcycle outriders kept us tight, and it didn’t matter who you were; if you were lagging or riding in a sloppy manner, they’d come down on you hard. Too slow and you were banished to the group behind - there are five levels of ride, each peloton having 60 max riders, thing sells out in a millisecond. Bäckstedt was using it as a training ride, he made a comeback the following year, so just stayed on the front the entire time at a pace, while not race, was at just that level of uncomfortable that left you drained. Add in the daily, super-fast 5 to 10-km race sections, and it added up to a tough three days. The 175-km UK section, from London to Dover, was difficult, both for the hilly terrain and for the seething resentment emanating out of the held-up Range Rovers, especially in beautiful Kent, the richest postcode in the entire UK, proving yet again that fun dies when money comes in. Cycling’s still a tough sell in much of the UK despite advocates like Chris Boardman (chrisboardman.com) and all the UK’s wonderful Olympic and Pro racing successes.
We made it to the White Cliffs, took a quick look and rode directly onto the ferry for the crossing to Calais, that most British of French towns. Tired and dirty, with just some sandals to wear as our gear was on the other side, we attacked the bar, desperate for beer. It was an onslaught, the solo French barman was terrified, desperately pulling his one working tap - after getting a few pints out it started to sputter, the smelly crowd grew menacing, he shrieked “Putain d’anglais!!!” and fled to safety, abandoning us to a sullen, sad, and tragically sober Channel Crossing. Once there, “Back on your bikes lads, hotel’s 10-km away”. It was raining. You earn your tough-guy bragging rights at The London-Paris.
Day two, Calais-Amiens, through beautiful Picardy with its barren, steep hills where the wind coming off the Channel blasts across you on the top. Very tough cycling, but also a completely different attitude from the UK. France is so welcoming of cyclists, you can just feel it when you ride, one has the right to be on the roads. My enjoyment of the event improved immediately and immeasurably.
We were ripping along, and on a fast, twisting downhill, my front carbon clincher - still a work in progress all those years ago - blew out. Immediately on the rim, I kept it up (all that judo and Aikido paying off) and suddenly found myself in an abduction episode of ‘Homeland’. An unmarked panel pulled up next to me, I was thrown into the back, my bike following, the driver floored it, we were flying along with me bouncing side to side, only the black hood was missing. They were fixing my flat on the fly, desperate to catch back up to the ride and into the protected bubble. Screeching to a halt, I was unceremoniously thrown out and faced a 200-meter gap to the fast-moving peloton - they had barraged me. Then, the beautiful sight of 6’4”, 207-lb Magnus Bäckstedt came into view, the champ had come back to get me. It was like sitting on a freightliner.
The final run-in to Amiens was buffeted by crosswinds, the strong riders set up their echelon while behind, confusion reigned. I caught the eye of a women, a former UK international, a superb rider whose name I’ve sadly lost, and we clicked into action, barking orders, organizing our group into an echelon - they’d never done that before - teaching them how to create a machine that carves through the wind. It was such fun, they did it well and we kept the front in sight all the way in. The lads were so grateful at the end, thrilled to have performed like that. That was perhaps the best memory of the ride.
Final day, Amiens-Paris. After the first half spent finishing up the racing sections, all five levels regrouped, and 300-strong (I got to ride with my friend Andy), we rode into Paris along a busy shopping street, stopping traffic on a Saturday morning. The Parisians responded to the inconvenience by applauding and cheering as we went along. Somehow, the miracle-working organizers had closed the Champs Élysées, we circled around the Arc de Triumphe, crossed the finish line where we were given a medal, a split of champagne and a kiss on both cheeks. A beautiful ending to a beautiful event.
The next morning, on board a TGV, my bike packed up in a bag and nestled next to my seat, blasting along at 300-kph, the train tracks silent, flying by the vineyards and villages through perhaps the most civilized country on earth, I headed to Marseille and the second part of my adventures on my Canyon bicycle.
I’d started riding again the year before, and a marketing advisor for Canyon, who were not in the States then, somehow came up the idea that it would be a good idea to have me rolling around Central Park on their new road bike. So, lo and behold, a beautiful white _____shows up, somewhat radical design with a 74-degree seat angle, which I built with Campagnolo Super Record - that same marketing person had Reynolds send me a pair of their carbon clinchers.
I had a blast: jumping into club races, doing long rides on this cool bike, it was light, super lively and I felt just great on it, losing 40-pounds along the way. That April, and English friend of mine contacted me and said that he had an extra entry into “The London-Paris” would I like to ride it?