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On the surface zone hopping might look like a bunch of gilet-wearing, middle-aged gentlemen just running around from one race sector to another with bottles and wheels. And you’d be partly right. But mostly wrong.
We’re driving the E14 highway toward the team hotel. A 7AM call on a grey, freezing, drizzly February day in Belgium. The ever-present tang of pig shit wafts across the countryside. Glamorous it ain’t – but somehow, any other way would feel wrong.
I’ve filled up the car with gas (at my own expense) and driven from Germany to my friend Raf’s place in Brussels the night before. Wake-up is at 5:30 to get everything ready and head to the team hotel to collect wheels, bidons, spare axle keys, and the rest. We’ve already been sent the team plans, with our assigned sectors, and have sat down with the maps and Veloviewer to plot our route around the race (more on that later). Spring is in the air – and so are the Classics. A quick coffee on the team bus, a word with the DS – usually Pim (Ligthart) or Phil (West) for us – and we’re off.
So, how did we land this opportunity to have a unique window into the pro cycling world? Rewind about 12 years: I had just relocated to Germany from Sydney with my family and was keen to ride as many Spring Classics as possible. Social media back then hadn’t quite become the sewer it is now – it actually brought people together. Through that, I met Raf, and we rode my first, finger-numbingly cold edition of Omloop Het Nieuwsblad.
A couple of years later, our little social group included Andy, who at the time was with MTN-Qhubeka, working alongside Brian Smith. Andy invited us on the Thursday Roubaix recon. I was staying with Raf at Bergs and Cobbles, a bed and breakfast in Maarkedal, riding around Flanders and Roubaix in the lead-up to the sportive that weekend.
If you ever get the chance to ride in a team car during a Classics recon, do it. You might hear top riders whinge about blisters and grumble about having to ride all the way to Gruson instead of stopping at Wallers, as they’d been told. You might witness a DS yelling at riders to “ride the bloody pavé” on Arenberg and not sneak onto the path to the right. Or have the team doctor sheepishly correct you after you say a rider’s wearing two pairs of shorts and he says, “No, Lee, those are leg warmers.”
Unsurprisingly, no one had told the mechanics about this legwear choice, so no saddle height adjustments were made – which maybe explains why knee complaints were common back then. (For the record, this was many years ago, and not with DSM!)
We were enjoying riding so much between Flanders and Roubaix that we almost passed on the recon—until common sense prevailed. That day, I got promoted to “tire pressure man.” Back when everyone rode tubulars, which slowly leaked air throughout the day, it was a delicate balance: how low could you start without risking a flat? The Goldilocks dilemma – not too high, not too low.
Which is how, despite telling my wife I’d be home late Sunday afternoon after watching our final sector, I found myself caught off-guard when Andy said at the team meeting, “I’d just like to introduce Lee and Raf, who’ll be driving the team car with the VIPs.” Since Raf didn’t have a driver’s license – and I wasn’t brave enough to say, “Um, I should probably check with my wife first” – I figured it was going to be a long, wild, and very interesting day.
Surprised? Just a bit. Daunted? Hell yes.
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