Sector 17, Hornaing to Wandignies, Saturday October 2, 2021. I can clearly remember the first time I laid eyes on Paris-Roubaix. A historic edition of the race for a couple of reasons: it had been moved from its usual springtime slot on the calendar due to a pandemic rejigging the whole world that year, and it was the very first time the women’s peloton would race over those fabled, brutal cobbles. For my part, it was also the first race I’d covered in-person as a journalist.
We’d been driving around for some time trying to find the entry to the cobbled farm track which would serve as the opening sector of the day for the women’s peloton. We’d chosen to come here because it still gave us plenty of time to hot-foot it to the velodrome for the finish of the race. I had been studying the maps in the road book in the passenger seat turning the pages upside down, left and right, as my colleague navigated rural French lanes, to try and make sense of the squiggles and lines that sketched out the greatest bike race on earth.
Read more: Belief, becoming, and the space in between: A rest day with St. Michel-Preference Home-Auber93
The banner floating in the wind signposting the entry point to the sector came into view first, and I felt a wash of relief that we’d found it. There was still about half an hour until the race was due to pass, and what struck me most was how quiet it was. As we looked left and right over this hushed, agrarian hinterland, all I could see was desolate landscapes. There was no life apart from a few locals sitting on fold-out chairs in the gutters lining the cobbles and some mucky cows grazing nearby. It was wholly and irrefutably unspectacular.
My task was to take some videos on my phone when the peloton flew by, capturing the chaos of a charging bunch of cyclists throwing any semblance of sense out of the window as they hurtled down a track that was never made for the skinny tyres of road bikes. I got in position and crouched down, waiting for the moment to come. There was no livestream of the race until later in the day, so we didn’t have the sounds of the helicopter overhead to warn us that the riders were close. All I could do was hold my breath to see what Roubaix was all about.
After the cars leading the race passed by, I got my first view of a rider in the distance. I squinted to try and make out who it was, and could scarcely believe it when she came closer. Lizzie Deignan was riding away from the front of the peloton, attacking on the very first sector, the very first time she’d been granted the opportunity to take part in this bike race. Behind her, they could not follow as the British rider floated over the cobbles with the ease of someone born to do so. The sounds of it are still clear in my mind: shrieks of riders, clattering of wheels, bouncing of chains. Mud was thrown up into the blue skies and this provincial, rural land was transformed into a buzz of energy.
Read more: Paris-Roubaix women’s 2026 preview: The contenders for the Queen of the Classics
I’m not sure what came over me when I saw Deignan fly past me, but I think it was a type of Roubaix fever. Any sense of professionalism went out of the window as I shouted into the air “Go on Lizzie!” over and over again. My eyes tried to follow the flash of colours coming past but they couldn’t keep up with the speed of it. I found myself completely enthralled by how barbaric it all was, how ridiculous. A crazy bike race for crazy people.
Nevertheless, that video on my phone – whatever it ended up looking like – did not make it to social media. My colleague came over to me once the peloton had been and gone and asked to watch it. You couldn’t hear the sounds of the wheels bouncing over cobbles thanks to my shouting and you couldn’t see much of the actual bike race because I’d completely failed to hold the camera still. I had no excuse for not doing a good job, apart from the fact that I’d been taken over by the spell of Paris-Roubaix. It’s a hard thing to fight.
There is perhaps no other bike race which has the power to do this to a person. The Hell of the North takes place in a nondescript area of France which, every other day of the year, is never talked about. It transforms these landscapes into an arena for greatness where hearts and bones are broken. It is nasty, extreme and verging on maniacal. But it is also magic. It is men and women turned into gladiators, pushing themselves to the furthest extremes, taking risks that no normal person would. It is the type of entertainment that makes you want to look away and soak in every minute of it all at the same time.
Read more: Paris-Roubaix men’s 2026 preview: The contenders for the Hell of the North
It happens in an afternoon, in one quick explosion of life and vivacity created in a way that only bike racing can. If you return to these roads a few days after the peloton has been and gone you would find no trace of it happening at all. The cows would have their peace again, there would only be the soft sounds of long grass blowing in the wind and the movement of old men tending to their crop. The cobbles would take their rest for another year, cycling’s sleeping giant, but they would live long in the minds of those who have ridden over them. For some, a nightmare, for others a fairytale.
For me, Roubaix will always be as good as it gets. Standing by the side of the cobbles and seeing it for the first time cemented that. I didn’t get a viral video, in fact, I didn’t really do my job at all that day when I watched the moment Deignan rode to a historic victory. But I truly fell in love with this race. I’m still not sure whether Paris-Roubaix is heaven or hell but, like everyone, I’ll keep coming back each year to try and figure it out.
Read more about Paris-Roubaix 2026:
