Cobbles for breakfast

Its two weeks till Paris - Roubaix, and for weeks now I have been contemplating photographing the race. I’ve been picking my races sparingly recently. I’ve got two children now and they take precedence, but I still have the need to shoot bike races and limit myself to at least one big bike race a year.

Last year it was the Tour of Flanders, the year before was Liege - Bastogne - Liege and this year it was going to be Paris - Roubaix. Despite not having a client or the cash to do it, I still really wanted to go and would complain about not going (to the annoyance of my wife).

I had to go, it’s been on my racing wishlist for nearly 10 years, and as I have full international press credentials I wanted to put them to good use. I scraped a couple of hundred pounds together, booked a ferry and applied for press accreditation. I was roughing it properly, packing just a washbag and packed lunch and bunking up on the backseat of my tiny Ford Ka.

I didn’t have time to think about what I was doing or to search out a client, I was simply doing this for myself, and come Friday night I was setting off to catch the ferry across the channel.

With a bag, a pillow and my cameras, I jumped in the car at about 1am and headed 250 miles to Dover. The driving was bliss and I remembered why I fell in love with it. The only vehicles on the road were truck drivers from all over Europe, and it was a joy to drive amongst my people: those that actually know how to use a motorway. Driving during the day is like hell, driving at night is how it was supposed to be, a joy.

Driving down the road towards the ferry terminal, I could see right out to sea, the sun was about 2/3 above the horizon, a huge red ball illuminating the sea. Yes! I thought, this is going to be a good trip. I was excited.

I tried to sleep on the ferry, but it wasn’t happening, I just couldn’t get comfy and anyway by the time my eyes shut it was time to get back in the car. Back in the car, I sorted the sat nav and headed to Compiegne, the start line for the race. It is about 3 hours from Calais, close to the Belgian border and 257 kilometres from the velodrome in Roubaix.

Fifteen minutes in to France I realised I hadn’t put my GB badge on and the regulation anti-dazzle stickers weren’t on my headlights. I was about to pull into what looked like a lovely little picnic area when four or five guys jumped out of the back of a truck and legged it up the motorway slip road. I wasn’t far from the campsites we saw not long ago on the news about refugees turning up at Calais and being held in make shift shanty towns, so I decided to carry on for another hour or so just to be on the safe side.

It was pretty straightforward all the way into Compiegne. As well as truck drivers the French know how to use the motorways too, so much so that they often just have two lanes, occasionally three, but they are very rarely needed. Stick to the left or right depending which country you are in unless you are overtaking: simple!

Compiegne was a very pretty little town in the middle of the countryside surrounded by agriculture, and I recognised the little horseshoe-shaped road going through the town square from ‘A Sunday in Hell’, 1976 Danish documentary film directed by Jørgen Leth. Believe it or not very little has changed, the bikes were steel - as were the cars - and the shorts woollen, but little else has altered from that film. The buzz, the atmosphere and even the entertainment at the presentations the day before remain the same.

I had arrived at the start line in Compiegne, and it was hot, really hot. I struggled to find some shade, it was roughly lunch time, so the sun was at its highest in the sky, and everywhere was direct sunlight. Before I could enter the building housing the press areas I had to get my bags checked and tagged, then on to what I think was the Town Hall. I would call it a palace, it was pretty swanky.

Walking into the courtyard conjured up images of horses and fancy people 200 years ago frolicking about as fancy people do. At the entrance stood Scott Mitchell and Kristof Ramon chatting, then Freddie Maertens and his entourage walked by. I gave him a nod and he returned the gesture. Following him in, security was very tight, which with recent events, I was quite happy with. There were race security, Police officers and the army with some pretty heavy armoury. I didn’t feel frightened or intimidated as it seemed normal, but I don’t think I would feel this way if it was the UK police with huge guns in hand!

My friend Fabien from the ASO was there to greet me. He recognised me from my press pass, but I had no idea who he was. He said “argh Paul you made it!” and I said “Fabien?” “Yes, so glad you made it!” He gave me my pass, car stickers and my road book, and instructed me on where I could go and what the deal was at the velodrome in Roubaix. I went and sat in the press room, to find food and tables set up with sockets for equipment. I sat down, had a drink and used the wifi and went outside and sat on the steps in front of the building. I was taking it all in, relaxing and enjoying the adventure.