Brothers in arms
It was pure madness, I swear.
A hill start. 2,000 meters of elevation gain, gravel for 75 km. And the madmen in front of us had decided to set the peloton on fire from the very first meters.
After 4 km, I turned around. My lungs were raw, my legs were burning. Behind me, there was already no one left.
Ahead of me were Bruno, Vincent, Mathieu, and Jean-Sébastien. We were separated by no more than twenty meters. But at the pace Bruno was setting, it felt more like 100. Having given it my all to catch up, I didn't have enough energy left to keep up. I let myself fall behind, afraid of blowing my engine. I was immediately joined by Pascal, aka Babus.
For almost the rest of the race, we supported each other to maintain our position, to try to regain the lead, to survive the descents in the rain and fog, and to maintain a steady pace on the steep climbs.
The first edition of Buckland on gravel wasn't exactly a festival of tenderness. And Babs would prove, as he always did whenever I found myself in his company in this kind of situation, to be an excellent brother in arms.
I love these spontaneous alliances that arise during the race. Here, we prefer to work together rather than alone. This is desirable both psychologically and athletically. When running solo, there is a constant threat of slowing down, either consciously or unconsciously, or of losing courage. In a gravel race, where, as in a mountain bike raid, you risk ending up alone or isolated in small groups, loneliness is hard to bear. It's easier to suffer with one or more people. Courage passes from one hand to another, and we wield it when our companions lack it. "Come on, let's go, it's going well." Even if, no, it's not always going well.
After just a few minutes, Babs made sure I had enough to drink: there was no question of stopping at the refreshment stations. He set the pace for most of our hunt, which we were conducting without any real hope of success. But with the enthusiasm and abandon required for potato hunting trips.
Up ahead, Vincent had given up. We would eventually be joined by Jean-Sébastien, who had suffered a mechanical problem. Then, a little further on, at the top of a spectacular hill, we saw the two leaders for the last time. Two-thirds of the race remained when they disappeared for good.
The rest of the race belongs in the big book of sporting memories. It was crazy fun, with Babs as captain. I would never have ridden so well or descended so fast if he hadn't set that pace. At least, that's how I felt.
Perhaps Jean-Sébastien felt the same way? And Babus undoubtedly felt invigorated by our presence. They were probably happy not to be alone, too.
And if I went to watch them leave on the final climb, unable to keep up at the very end, I wouldn't hold it against them in the slightest.
That's how the game is played. And that's what I love about cycling: a mix of strength and tactics, friendships and cunning, it's like a game of poker between friends, in motion. The prize: a little glory, lots of stories, friendly rivalries, and the desire to do it all over again. For the thrill of speed, for the desire to win, for the adventure.
And for the brothers in arms who accompany us in our crazy plans.