The last hour or so of the 2011 Ronde Van Vlaanderen produced probably the most exciting racing to be found all year, indeed perhaps in many a year. I joined the race coverage at this point, with Sylvain Chavanel in the lead, having just dropped his fellow escape artists Edvald Boasson Hagen and Lars Boom.
Here, back home, cup of tea was made as I waited for the Fabian Cancellara show to begin. Then, in just that short time, boom! (No, not Boom). Tom Boonen attacked. Quite why he attacked, with his teammate in the lead, I don't know. Perhaps even Tornado Tom himself doesn't get that one, since all it achieved was to draw out Cancellara into the inevitable counter punch. Cleverly, he used the ailing Boasson Hagen and Boom (who were going backwards quickly) as a buffer, skipping round the pair on a narrow, crowd-lined section of road - thereby blocking the way for the following Boonen. Tom had no response. The Tornado, it seemed, had blown.
Cancellara, (the hurricane in all this meteorological metaphor) was on a charge. Still with 50km to ride to the finish line, he decided that this was the moment. Was this the error? Did Fabian simply believe his own hype, his own invincibility? Whatever, Fabian did what Fabian does. He hammered at the pedals, rapidly eating up the ground between him and the still-leading Chavanel. Our frontrunner relented, and the catch was complete as Fabian took over the pace. A flick of Swiss elbow yielded no response, as Sylvain did the only sensible thing and lock onto the wheel of Cancellara.
And so it was that the greatest pursuit match of them all began. Cancellara versus the world, versus the peloton, versus the climbs, the cobbles, the works. BMC, a squad boasting some of the finest classics men in the field, committed almost their entire workforce to the chase, and even they struggled to bring him back. The gap hovered at a minute. Still Chavanel clung on to that wheel for all he was worth, and he was worth a hell of a lot today.
The writing, it seemed, was on the wall. And, in a sense it was, for the Wall of Geraardsbergen and its cracked cobbles cracked Fabian, aided undoubtedly by the man of the moment, Phillipe Gilbert (and that BMC TTT effort). Unperturbed, Cancellara went again over the top of the climb, forcing a selection of five. Most of the names were present - enough, surely to carve the spoils between them?
Again, they were foiled. Enter (stage left) a Welsh Dragon, young Geraint Thomas, who pulled and then pulled some more for his man Flecha who had missed seemingly the crucial move. The chasers poised to bridge on the Bosberg, but then Gilbert went for glory. The group imploded on the berg, and Cancellara was beaten. Even then they wouldn't work with him, as Scheirlinckx followed his every sway and stagger with laser precision, as Chavanel once more flew free over the summit in chase. Gilbert was brought back. That man Thomas once again hauled himself back into the second group of chasers, then brought that group up to the leaders.
None of these riders, by the way, would win the race.
Today everyone said ‘I am Spartacus’. A flurry of attacks followed from the twelve-strong lead group, perhaps buoyed by the great man’s infallibility, before Cancellara summoned (from where I do not know) one final effort to reduce the final selection to three (as if to say, ‘No, boys, this is how you do it’). In the selection was Fabian himself, of course, plus the indefatigable Chavanel and a previously anonymous Nick Nuyens. Cancellara and Chavanel shook hands, proving that the kinship in survival and suffering overcomes competition and corporate clothing. That so, a race was still there to be won. Comrades no longer, Cancellara found himself (where else?) but hung out to dry on the front as the race entered its final turns. He had no choice but to go early - too early - as Boonen broke free of the chasers and threatened to unleash his formidable finish. As he opened up the sprint, all those efforts - the break, the catch, the counter, the chase - all that pain seeped into Fabian's sizeable quads and he began to falter. A man of that frame punches a big hole in the air, and sprinting behind Cancellara must be like sprinting in free space. Suddenly, free space was all Nick Nuyens could see in front of him. Then a finish line. Then a win, no, the win.
And the best bit? Next week we do it all again. Roubaix waits.
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