RETRO: PARIS ROUBAIX
TWENTY FIVE YEARS AGO A PARIS ROUBAIX STALWART BLAZED TO VICTORY IN HIS 14TH ATTEMPT AT THE RACE. PROCYCLING RECALLS THE GREAT GILBERT DUCLOS LASSALLE
We look back to the 1992 Roubaix, and how Gilbert Duclos-Lassalle won it at his 14th try
Just outside De Panne on the afternoon of 12 April 1978 is a good place to begin the story of the 1992 Paris-Roubaix. The North Sea coast is quite a way from the Roubaix velodrome. It’s not even remotely close to the race route, in a different country altogether. What’s more, 12 April was a sodden, frozen, miserable Wednesday, the day of Gent-Wevelgem.
The Flemish press had delighted in it, but for their French colleagues, that Wednesday afternoon had been humiliating. Forty Frenchmen had set out from Gent in the morning, and 39 had abandoned. Most had given up at the feed and only one (one!) had displayed the fortitude to ride to Wevelgem. That just about said it all.
Sure, there had been snow, sleet and freezing rain, and sure, the break had stayed away. Sure, Paris-Roubaix was coming up on the Sunday, but didn’t that make it still more important, not less, to finish the race? Wasn’t that the difference between Flemish cycling and French? Didn’t the French get it? Hadn’t the penny dropped that this sort of attitude was precisely why they weren’t winning any more? Hadn’t it been 22 long, shameful years since they’d won their own classic, and 18 whole years without so much as a podium finish? Did they have no pride? Had they ceased to understand what Paris-Roubaix actually meant?
The Italians Francesco Moser and Fabrizio Fabbri had ridden to the finish, and so too half a dozen Dutchmen. Even the English guy, Phil Edwards, had gone the distance, and it wasn’t because he’d had a chance of winning. He hadn’t, but he’d been prepared to tough it out, in the service of his team leader Moser. Guys like him had pride and courage and they understood that the
harder it was, the harder they’d be when it really mattered, on the Sunday. The crosswinds had been terrible and the temperatures barely rose above freezing. But wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t Gent-Wevelgem supposed to be a foretaste of Paris-Roubaix, and wasn’t Paris-Roubaix the hardest and best bike race of all?
The French had climbed off at the feed, and been bussed to the finish. Doubtless they’d congratulated themselves on not having caught a cold, and thus they’d ensured their nominal presence at another Paris-Roubaix which they had not a hope of winning. They’d be present in Compiègne, but absolutely invisible and absolutely irrelevant by Roubaix.
One exception, and one only. Gilbert Duclos-Lassalle was a 23-year-old kid from down in Lembeye, in the Pyrenean foothills north of Pau. He was riding his second season, yet he’d put the rest of the French ‘stars’ to shame in the midweek event. He’d rolled in nearly eight minutes down, but at least he’d finished. He’d shown some gumption, and it had stood him in good stead for the main event. He wasn’t as strong as young Hinault, but he had a similar mentality. This wasn’t very complicated: train long and hard, ride every race to win and never, ever give in. That’s why he’d won so often as an amateur, why he’d won a stage in the Tour of Corsica, and why he’d finished in the top 10 of Paris-Nice. That’s why he’d made it to the finish at Wevelgem in 1978 and, as a consequence, why he’d been able to get around Paris- Roubaix four days later. He was a natural for it physically, but then a lot of them are. The difference was that he understood what this kind of racing was about, and he wouldn’t lie down. He’d be a factor sooner or later.
It didn’t take him long. Two years later, a Paris-Nice winner now, he was in the thick of it with Moser, Roger De VIaeminck and Dietrich Thurau. When he punctured he got back on, and when he fell he got back up. Moser was irresistible that year, a hurricane. He blew them away 45km from home, on the pavé of Cysoing à Bourghelles, but Duclos-Lassalle rode away from the other two. Second behind Moser, but first among equals. Paris-Roubaix it was, and Paris-Roubaix it would be. The die was cast. The following year Hinault resolved to tackle his own Paris-Roubaix neurosis. Three times he’d ridden it, three times it had ganged up on him, three times he’d told himself – and the press – that it was a “sh*t race”. What he’d meant was that it was the best race, that it appalled him and fascinated him in equal measure, and that he’d have no peace until he’d won it. Duclos-Lassalle attacked with the old lion Roger De Vlaeminck, but by now De Vlaeminck had become accustomed to losing. He no longer had the certitude nor the legs, and he didn’t believe the two of them could make it home. He sat up, and so now there was one. For a glorious half hour Duclos-Lassalle recalled the legend Jean Stablinski, slithering through the mud at the head of the race. Then Paris-Roubaix rebuked him for his revelry, and a puncture gave the chasers renewed hope in the form of 20 priceless seconds. Moser put the hammer down when he crashed, because Moser
In 1989, Duclos- Lassalle turned up with his knee barely recovered from a fracture, but still made it into the front group of six
couldn’t have cared less about fair play. There was nothing fair about Paris-Roubaix, and Hinault proved that when Moser shipped his chain. Ultimately it was he, the best cyclist in the world, who broke the French curse in the Queen of Classics.
Duclos-Lassalle was second again in 1983, as Paris-Roubaix rediscovered the Arenberg Trench. Here Moser’s tactic, if it can be called that, was simply to bludgeon the rest off his wheel, but the Moser of 1983 wasn’t the Moser who’d won Roubaix three times in succession at the end of the 1970s. He and Duclos-Lassalle pulled with all of their might, but Hennie Kuiper, the grand old man of Dutch cycling, simply bided his time. The more the two of them clubbed away at it, the more he sat on. Then, 20 kilometres from home, he just rode away from them. DuclosLassalle found solace of sorts in winning Bordeaux-Paris, but he wasn’t kidding himself. Bordeaux-Paris was 588 kilometres, and another throwback to cycling’s heroic past, but the cast was strictly C-List.
Like many cyclists, among them the new world champion Greg LeMond, Duclos- Lassalle was a winter huntsman, with his speciality being pheasants and wading birds. That winter he managed to shoot himself in the hand, and suddenly he had a lot more to lose than a mere bicycle race. He was rushed to hospital in Bordeaux and the operations, allied to the metal plate the doctors inserted, somehow put his hand back together. They told him it would eventually be serviceable (if not particularly aesthetically pleasing), and that in relative terms six months off the bike would be a small price to pay. They were right, at least objectively.
Sean Kelly won Roubaix à la Moser, on a pig of a day. Alain Bondue, Roubaix born and bred and debuting on his 25th birthday, led for 80 kilometres. He fell eight times and yet still, notwithstanding a cracked fork, he finished a defiant third. The following year, Marc Madiot and another son of the north, Bruno Wojtinek from nearby Valenciennes, completed a Paris-Roubaix 1-2 for France, and for Renault. Peugeot’s standard-bearer Duclos-Lassalle, the mind willing but the legs not what they’d been before his operation, failed for once to go the distance.
Things didn’t improve. He finished 34th and 17th in 1986 and 1987, and then, the nadir of his career, he didn’t finish at all. By now Paris-Roubaix had been mistreating him for over a decade. He seemed further away than ever before, but still he couldn’t leave the race alone. Every time it reproached him, humiliated him or impugned his dignity, his need, his love and his yearning grew.
In 1989 the race celebrated 200 years of liberté, égalité et fraternité. Duclos-Lassalle turned up with his knee barely recovered from a fracture, but still made it into the front group of six. However, when Dirk De Wolf attacked, he, Madiot and Edwig Van Hooydonck dithered, while the rank outsider Jean-Marie Wampers latched on, then went on to escape to an improbable victory. And Duclos-Lassalle took a creditable, worthless fourth. He came sixth the following year
as he and Laurent Fignon, the big pre-race favourite, let the wrong break go.
By the time he finished the 1991 edition (12th but well off the pace), he was everyone’s favourite nearly man. He was likeable and brave, and his Paris-Roubaix vicissitudes had made him a legend. However, he hadn’t won a meaningful road race for the thick end of two years, and he was the wrong side of 35. Moreover, the very qualities that had sustained him – the huge training rides, the fervour with which he raced, the totality of his commitment – had started to undermine him. He still had his moments, but 15 hard years at the coal face had finally begun to take their toll on his speed.
What remained was the stamina, the tactical nous and an unshakeable and inexhaustible conviction that he could win the Hell of the North. By the eve of the 1992 race, most people reckoned he was deluding himself, and his 67th place at Flanders suggested they were right. The favourites would be Madiot, Franco Ballerini, Johan Museeuw and Van Hooydonck. Then maybe Olaf Ludwig, possibly Kelly, conceivably Rolf Sørensen. It would be cold, dry and fast. Most likely too fast for a 37-year-old attempting, for the 14th time, to break his duck. He’d animate the race once more, and once more he’d fulfil the role assigned to him. ParisRoubaix would beat him again, but again it would fail to break him. Good old DuclosLassalle had become the perfect ParisRoubaix metaphor; gallant, redoubtable, noble in (inevitable) defeat.
Only good old Duclos-Lassalle hadn’t read the script. He told those still prepared to listen that Kelly had just won Milan-San Remo aged 35, and Pino Cerami had won the 1960 Paris-Roubaix aged a few days short of 38. He was still only 37, and the legs were good, thank you very much. He’d ridden the Tour of the Basque Country in preference to Gent-Wevelgem not because he didn’t feel he was ready, but simply because he had wanted a change. And besides, back in 1980, when he’d finished second behind Moser, he’d prepared by racing down there.
His domestique de luxe would be a certain Greg LeMond, who himself had previously returned to the peloton following (wait for it…) an accident with a shotgun while out hunting. Throw in Christophe Capelle and Philippe Casado, and the Z team ought to be a match for the rest. They would have a revolutionary bike at their disposal, LeMond-branded of course. It would feature a hydraulic, shock-absorbing front fork developed by Rock Shox for the burgeoning mountain bike market. ‘Gibus’ wasn’t entirely convinced, but eventually he agreed. The suspension could be neutralised, and a fit, motivated LeMond might just make the difference. Moreover, in Jean-Claude Colotti they’d have an extra card to play. He’d come in second the previous year, and with luck the favourites might just see him - and not the old-timer - as the major threat.
Ariostea, devoid of their leader Moreno Argentin, sent three up the road. They were joined by Roberto Pagnin, whose nickname was “Crazy Horse”. The Italian rider was ostensibly working for Kelly, but in reality he was driven purely by impulse. Next came a group of five, among them 1988 runner-up Thomas Wegmüller, as the real race started to happen. Duclos-Lassalle, the wind in his hair, made his move in the Arenberg Trench. He was joined by Jean-Paul Van Poppel, a sprinter with seven Tour de France stage wins. Also Lotto’s Rik Van Slycke, a good
engine and a big heart, but not a winner and not a man of Roubaix. Then Wegmüller, able to hold on when they caught the remnants of the break, but unlikely to go all the way after having worked all day, though he had past form in long Classics breaks.
Into sector five, Cysoing à Bourghelles, where Moser had dropped him all those years ago. Wegmüller out the back, the favourites still procrastinating, Z still blocking for all they were worth. Van Poppel, one of the fastest in the world, starting to ease off. Van Slycke right on the limit, starting to miss turns. One minute and 15 seconds to the group, just 45 kilometres to Roubaix. Little more than an hour.
Not a moment too soon, LeMond held Ballerini’s charge and then Colotti spoiled selflessly as Van Hooydonck and De Wolf sought to galvanise the group. However, the dam, so magnificently constructed by Z’s willing hands, was starting to break apart. The formidable German Olaf Ludwig breached it 20 kilometres from the finish but now, crucially, with LeMond still blocking, nobody went across to him. Ludwig closed to within 20 seconds, but then was checked. And then, slowly but very perceptibly, the German rider began to fall away. To rapturous acclaim, Gilbert Duclos-Lassalle positively thundered into Roubaix that afternoon. He’d had 14 long years to contemplate the magnitude of what he was about to achieve, and now he had time enough to enjoy it to its fullest. Never had a smile so lit up the velodrome, and never had a Paris-Roubaix winner been more popular with the fans and spectators.
He’d finally achieved his ambition, Z were pulling out of cycling sponsorship, and the team manager Roger Legeay didn’t have a replacement lined up yet. He’d turn 38 in August, and his money was made. He had two children who needed him and a wife, Marie Françoise, who missed him. Someone asked him what, given that his 14-year journey was complete, he’d do next in life.
“Are you suggesting I give up now?” he said to the journalists. “After this? Are you mad? I’ll do what I’ve always done – ride my bike. I’ll be back next year. I think I can win Paris-Roubaix.”