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ysobelleStage Four: Seraing, Belgium to Cambrai, France 223.5km, 139 miles
Longest stage of the Tour today. Four guys off the front again. I don’t get it— is this some new rule this year? I know they pick the guy who gets the honour of leading out the peloton— yesterday, it was the Tour’s first black African rider and youngest rider, 21-year-old Merhawi Kudus Ghebremedhin (MTN-Qhubeka) from Eritrea— but is the key now they pick four guys to go off and try to kill themselves first?
Today is going to be a pretty sadistic day. After the meat grinder of yesterday, today we have cobblestones. Ugh. Cobblestones.
My neighbours just heard me howling. Across the bottom of my screen: “Stage 4 DNS: Fabian Cancellara.” I actually think they heard me in Jersey. No, not New Jersey, Jersey, U.K. I’m that gutted. I am not in the least surprised, given the look on his face yesterday after I watched his bike and his body fly, cartwheeling through the air yesterday. I mean, bright yellow, the both of them. Hard to miss. But G-d. I am gutted.
Sigh. Anyway.
The gap is coming down from four minutes to less than one as the first of seven sections of cobblestones approach. And there they are: tiny stones, on a road no more than ten feet wide, through beautiful green fields lined with cheering spectators. And…uh…agricultural workers have formed a bike made of tractors in one field. Including wheels that spin. No, I’m not joking. You can’t make this stuff up.
On we go, up to the sprint point. Most of the points have been taken by the four lead riders, but there’s a bit of a gap to a secondary group of seven or so sprinters. Andre Greipel, John Degenkolb, Mark Cavendish. Today, Cav’s feeling a bit feisty, I suppose. It’s not a fast sprint, but he whips out from a slipstream, and takes the remaining points for himself.
They fade back into the group, and now they’re all together chasing the four. Gap is down to 20 seconds as they hit another patch of cobbles. The road here is even narrower, and dusty as hell. Nevertheless, the pace has increased. Twelve seconds now, and they’re back on paved highway. One of the frontrunners has dropped. One of the three remaining riders is an Astana rider, and he’s trying to control the pace for his GC man: last year’s winner, Vincenzo Nibali. Those few seconds back, a group of about 40 riders is being spearheaded by the rest of Astana. The front three are starting to look over their shoulders at the looming mass on their rear: the peloton has split, and this front group is about to swallow them up.
14km to go in the stage, and more damned cobblestones. 1.6km of them. They are rough and ugly, but Lars Boom of Astana is leading them out with grim determination. Astana is still pulling for Nibali, but Chris Froome of Sky is having none of it. He’s gone out by himself to reel these Astana riders in. On cobbles! And it’s worked: they’re all together again, in one line. Off the cobbles, thank G-d, but the group is still strung out. Tony Martin is near the front, and he is avid for this stage. By G-d, the Maillot Jaune has been juuuuuuust out of reach— by fractions!— for four days, now.
Back on cobbles. Back on badly-paved roads. There’s a bit of a break— team staff on the side of the road holding up power drinks and packs, which the guys grab as they go. (It looks almost like they’re giving spectators high-fives for a minute, which is very disconcerting.) We have three more sections of cobbles to go. You really start wondering about the proclivities of the Tour organizers at times like this.
Back on the treacherous bastard cobbles again, and Froome is really looking out to prove himself. There’s jockeying for position again, lots of planning and pushing and swirling around. I wouldn’t want to tackle these damned lanes in a Land Rover, and these guys are all, “Yeah, whatever, get out of my way.” Nairo Quintana is also making sure no one forgets he’s in the running for top of the GC, too. The dust is ridiculous. I’ve lost track of who’s where— half the race is on the cobbles, half has already left them. I’m hearing that “these aren’t the really rough cobbles of Paris-Roubaix,” (a different race) but man, this is more than sadistic enough.
Ooo— Thibauld Pinot of FdJ has flatted. On the incredibly narrow roads, there’s no way his team car can get to him fast enough to keep him with the leading group. He’s lost his temper at the mechanic who finally arrives to change out his tire. I can’t blame him, but until race officials allow drones, I”m really not sure what could have happened. Ooo. Drones. Okay, no, never mind.
Back into town, and Tony Martin is in the gutter with a flat, changing bikes with one of his teammates, Matteo Trentin. (Trentin stays behind and is fixed by the neutral Mavic mechanics, who are the only ones who can get to him in time.) His teammates have come back to help him, and he’s back in the lead group. Pinot, however, is by the side of the street yet again with another teammate, screaming in frustration once more. It’s either that just-replaced tire, or the whole damned bike at this point. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him right now. Several thousand miles and four or five hours is just fine, thanks. Soon enough, he’s back in the peloton, but man, he’s pissed, and that’s not an advantage. He was one of those favoured to podium this year, and this may well put him completely out of the running.
One more section of cobbles. Tony Martin is up towards the front, surrounded by teammates, though it’s hard to see anyone for dust. The riders are trying to keep to the center of the ten-foot-wide road, where the cobbles seem to be smoother. Sometimes. Sometimes, it just means that’s where the weeds are growing. The front group of the field is where all the GC men are— Pinot is not amongst them: he’s now a disastrous two minutes down. Vincenzo Nibali is shoving to the front, pushing the pace. Seven or eight riders have made a bit of a gap as they come off the cobbles back onto the paved roads of another town. Nibali is part of what’s now an eight-man group. Froome is with him, Tony Martin is there. Peter Sagan. There’s too much time and distance left for Froome to be serious about winning today’s stage from this moment. Geraint Thomas is there. Will they work together to keep up this gap? No. They can’t maintain it. The front group of thirty-five or so riders is back together. Whoever wins today— they’re in that group right there. Poor Pinot— he’s not amongst them. Alberto Contador is. Tony Martin only has to be in the top three to take yellow. There is a LOT of ambition here, and a lot on the line.
Chris Froome is scarfing something that I imagine may well taste vile to get as much energy as possible for the end. His arms are covered in dust. Everyone is. Every rider has two distinctive patches of brown French dust around their armpits, and they’re going to look like negative raccoons when they take off their sunglasses.
OMG, Tony Martin has broken away! He’s got a gap of a few seconds, and he’s pushing harder and harder to enlarge it! 3km to go, and one of the sport’s best time trailers has obviously had MORE than enough of this down-by 6-10ths-of-a-second stuff. 2km to go, and he wants to get close enough to get the time bonus of finishing early. Oh, Christ, I am SO pushing for him! There’s the 1km banner! Screw the time bonuse, he’s going for the stage win! If anyone catches him, I will SCREAM. GO GO GO!
Sharp left-hander, he’s still alone. Will he? GO MAN!! His teammates are trying to slow the field behind him— 400 meters! GO MAN GO!
YES! FUCK YES! My dog has her nose in my ear, the cats have fled, and I am ABSOLUTELY sure they heard me in France. Tony Martin has crossed the line all by himself, and gotten himself not just the stage win, but a ten-second bonus, and his first-ever Maillot Jaune!
Man, I am cheering so loudly. He’s in a heap backstage at the finish line, his Etixx - Quick Step teammates are beating him up in that way manly men do, and then there’s a huge group hug that just makes me so happy. This was a crazy four days for him, and even with a flat in the final miles of this stage— remember, he changed bikes with a teammate! He wasn’t even on his own bike!*— he has his win. Man, you so deserved this.
He looks like he’s so happy, later, up on the podium, he might just cry. I’m thrilled as hell for him. Well done, mate. Well done.
*Trentin, in a post-race interview, laughs that Martin’d better not want to keep the bike, because riding Martin’s bike was incredibly uncomfortable.
Longest stage of the Tour today. Four guys off the front again. I don’t get it— is this some new rule this year? I know they pick the guy who gets the honour of leading out the peloton— yesterday, it was the Tour’s first black African rider and youngest rider, 21-year-old Merhawi Kudus Ghebremedhin (MTN-Qhubeka) from Eritrea— but is the key now they pick four guys to go off and try to kill themselves first?
Today is going to be a pretty sadistic day. After the meat grinder of yesterday, today we have cobblestones. Ugh. Cobblestones.
My neighbours just heard me howling. Across the bottom of my screen: “Stage 4 DNS: Fabian Cancellara.” I actually think they heard me in Jersey. No, not New Jersey, Jersey, U.K. I’m that gutted. I am not in the least surprised, given the look on his face yesterday after I watched his bike and his body fly, cartwheeling through the air yesterday. I mean, bright yellow, the both of them. Hard to miss. But G-d. I am gutted.
Sigh. Anyway.
The gap is coming down from four minutes to less than one as the first of seven sections of cobblestones approach. And there they are: tiny stones, on a road no more than ten feet wide, through beautiful green fields lined with cheering spectators. And…uh…agricultural workers have formed a bike made of tractors in one field. Including wheels that spin. No, I’m not joking. You can’t make this stuff up.
On we go, up to the sprint point. Most of the points have been taken by the four lead riders, but there’s a bit of a gap to a secondary group of seven or so sprinters. Andre Greipel, John Degenkolb, Mark Cavendish. Today, Cav’s feeling a bit feisty, I suppose. It’s not a fast sprint, but he whips out from a slipstream, and takes the remaining points for himself.
They fade back into the group, and now they’re all together chasing the four. Gap is down to 20 seconds as they hit another patch of cobbles. The road here is even narrower, and dusty as hell. Nevertheless, the pace has increased. Twelve seconds now, and they’re back on paved highway. One of the frontrunners has dropped. One of the three remaining riders is an Astana rider, and he’s trying to control the pace for his GC man: last year’s winner, Vincenzo Nibali. Those few seconds back, a group of about 40 riders is being spearheaded by the rest of Astana. The front three are starting to look over their shoulders at the looming mass on their rear: the peloton has split, and this front group is about to swallow them up.
14km to go in the stage, and more damned cobblestones. 1.6km of them. They are rough and ugly, but Lars Boom of Astana is leading them out with grim determination. Astana is still pulling for Nibali, but Chris Froome of Sky is having none of it. He’s gone out by himself to reel these Astana riders in. On cobbles! And it’s worked: they’re all together again, in one line. Off the cobbles, thank G-d, but the group is still strung out. Tony Martin is near the front, and he is avid for this stage. By G-d, the Maillot Jaune has been juuuuuuust out of reach— by fractions!— for four days, now.
Back on cobbles. Back on badly-paved roads. There’s a bit of a break— team staff on the side of the road holding up power drinks and packs, which the guys grab as they go. (It looks almost like they’re giving spectators high-fives for a minute, which is very disconcerting.) We have three more sections of cobbles to go. You really start wondering about the proclivities of the Tour organizers at times like this.
Back on the treacherous bastard cobbles again, and Froome is really looking out to prove himself. There’s jockeying for position again, lots of planning and pushing and swirling around. I wouldn’t want to tackle these damned lanes in a Land Rover, and these guys are all, “Yeah, whatever, get out of my way.” Nairo Quintana is also making sure no one forgets he’s in the running for top of the GC, too. The dust is ridiculous. I’ve lost track of who’s where— half the race is on the cobbles, half has already left them. I’m hearing that “these aren’t the really rough cobbles of Paris-Roubaix,” (a different race) but man, this is more than sadistic enough.
Ooo— Thibauld Pinot of FdJ has flatted. On the incredibly narrow roads, there’s no way his team car can get to him fast enough to keep him with the leading group. He’s lost his temper at the mechanic who finally arrives to change out his tire. I can’t blame him, but until race officials allow drones, I”m really not sure what could have happened. Ooo. Drones. Okay, no, never mind.
Back into town, and Tony Martin is in the gutter with a flat, changing bikes with one of his teammates, Matteo Trentin. (Trentin stays behind and is fixed by the neutral Mavic mechanics, who are the only ones who can get to him in time.) His teammates have come back to help him, and he’s back in the lead group. Pinot, however, is by the side of the street yet again with another teammate, screaming in frustration once more. It’s either that just-replaced tire, or the whole damned bike at this point. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him right now. Several thousand miles and four or five hours is just fine, thanks. Soon enough, he’s back in the peloton, but man, he’s pissed, and that’s not an advantage. He was one of those favoured to podium this year, and this may well put him completely out of the running.
One more section of cobbles. Tony Martin is up towards the front, surrounded by teammates, though it’s hard to see anyone for dust. The riders are trying to keep to the center of the ten-foot-wide road, where the cobbles seem to be smoother. Sometimes. Sometimes, it just means that’s where the weeds are growing. The front group of the field is where all the GC men are— Pinot is not amongst them: he’s now a disastrous two minutes down. Vincenzo Nibali is shoving to the front, pushing the pace. Seven or eight riders have made a bit of a gap as they come off the cobbles back onto the paved roads of another town. Nibali is part of what’s now an eight-man group. Froome is with him, Tony Martin is there. Peter Sagan. There’s too much time and distance left for Froome to be serious about winning today’s stage from this moment. Geraint Thomas is there. Will they work together to keep up this gap? No. They can’t maintain it. The front group of thirty-five or so riders is back together. Whoever wins today— they’re in that group right there. Poor Pinot— he’s not amongst them. Alberto Contador is. Tony Martin only has to be in the top three to take yellow. There is a LOT of ambition here, and a lot on the line.
Chris Froome is scarfing something that I imagine may well taste vile to get as much energy as possible for the end. His arms are covered in dust. Everyone is. Every rider has two distinctive patches of brown French dust around their armpits, and they’re going to look like negative raccoons when they take off their sunglasses.
OMG, Tony Martin has broken away! He’s got a gap of a few seconds, and he’s pushing harder and harder to enlarge it! 3km to go, and one of the sport’s best time trailers has obviously had MORE than enough of this down-by 6-10ths-of-a-second stuff. 2km to go, and he wants to get close enough to get the time bonus of finishing early. Oh, Christ, I am SO pushing for him! There’s the 1km banner! Screw the time bonuse, he’s going for the stage win! If anyone catches him, I will SCREAM. GO GO GO!
Sharp left-hander, he’s still alone. Will he? GO MAN!! His teammates are trying to slow the field behind him— 400 meters! GO MAN GO!
YES! FUCK YES! My dog has her nose in my ear, the cats have fled, and I am ABSOLUTELY sure they heard me in France. Tony Martin has crossed the line all by himself, and gotten himself not just the stage win, but a ten-second bonus, and his first-ever Maillot Jaune!
Man, I am cheering so loudly. He’s in a heap backstage at the finish line, his Etixx - Quick Step teammates are beating him up in that way manly men do, and then there’s a huge group hug that just makes me so happy. This was a crazy four days for him, and even with a flat in the final miles of this stage— remember, he changed bikes with a teammate! He wasn’t even on his own bike!*— he has his win. Man, you so deserved this.
He looks like he’s so happy, later, up on the podium, he might just cry. I’m thrilled as hell for him. Well done, mate. Well done.
*Trentin, in a post-race interview, laughs that Martin’d better not want to keep the bike, because riding Martin’s bike was incredibly uncomfortable.