By Leone Belotti
PARIS - ROUBAIX 2018
Sometimes it is not easy to bring out what is inside. Words appear, but immediately retreat into the shadows. There is a force that holds the words, brings them back inside, into the silence behind the curtain. Until from that mass of thoughts that chase each other emerges a word that has the strength to come out, to take voice, to become an extension of words, a sentence.
The beginning of a speech is like a cyclist who breaks away from the group and tries to escape. He stands on the pedals, gains meters, takes courage. His voice is increasingly clear, and everyone listens to him, everyone follows him.
They let him speak. There is plenty of time. No one worries, because what matters is having the last word, the definitive word, the one that closes the speech, the winning shout at the finish line. The minutes pass, the kilometers pass, the first rough patches arrive, the sections of cobblestones. It is only a question of time, of tactics and strategy: sooner or later, like a speech that fades away drowned out by the buzz of the crowd, the cyclist who first broke away will be reabsorbed by the group, it is obvious.
But the Swiss with the cross on his chest doesn't give up. The breakaway companions change, but he's always there. He holds firm. On his way. And this Swiss runner, kilometer after kilometer, lights up our dreams: because he wears a jersey made by us, cut and sewn by our girls, labeled with our brand. Wearing our jersey, he represents our factory, our work.
Forty years of hard work, of passion, of challenges against giants, and today all this on the most prestigious stage, the queen of the classics, the history of our sport, in front of the whole world. Tiny as a speck of dust, there is the improbable hope, the absurd dream of the great feat.
At the best moment, harsh reality breaks into the dream: fresh, gigantic, the champion of champions, the invincible Slovakian, leaves the group behind and reaches our outsider. There is still a long way to go to the finish line. The commentators begin to pity our man, predicting his collapse. At every stretch of cobblestones, we expect him to give up. And instead the outsider holds his own against the super champion, and together they race towards the finish line. They arrive at the velodrome, two laps of the track before the finish line.
The super champion wins, and all the honors are for him, he is an invincible God, but the pathos, the human heroism, is written on the face of the loser, who fought until the end. The outsider, the Swiss, is the moral winner, he is the man who challenged the will of the Gods, he is Hector who challenged Achilles.
What will remain of this Roubaix, next to the triumphant face of the super champion, is the destroyed face of the outsider, who dared to try, who believed in the incredible, and found the strength to get to the end, alone against everyone, human against divine. A fantastic message, our message: try again, one day you will succeed. We have never been so happy for a defeat. Because what we have always chased first of all is a moral goal, it is the feat of mortal man who for an instant questions the mathematics of the world and touches the impossible. And we would have liked to celebrate, get drunk, and shout our happiness to the four winds, because that outsider with our jersey is us, those like us, who never stop dreaming.
But this Roubaix wasn’t over yet. A few hours later, the news that extinguished all joy. That young Belgian who we had seen lifeless on the side of the road during the race. All resuscitation was useless. Dead. His heart had burst. Everything else in the background.
Today, a week later, we are back in the race, again in search of the feat, but with a heavier heart. Three indelible snapshots of this Roubaix will remain with us, three faces of heroes: the face of the triumphant Achilles, the face/distraught face of our Hector, and the lifeless face of this young Belgian. The face of someone who dies young, inexplicably, and for this reason is dear to the Gods. Let's not forget it. We are mortal beings.