I did the Paris-Roubaix Challenge, and discovered the constant mainplaining of cycling

Sports writer(s), when I embarked on the adventure of the Paris-Roubaix Challenge, I thought the northern cobbles would be my biggest concern. On the contrary! The most complicated, in this challenge and in the cycling world in general, are… Men.

The bike, I learned to ride it three years ago. Then I discover a world of personal bests, of surpassing myself and sweating in tight-fitting chamois-padded cyclists. Put like that, it doesn’t really make you want to, but it’s actually pretty wonderful. However, when I look back on the past three years, I notice it my progress in this discipline has often been stopped, not by my weak cardio, but by menas my experience at the Paris-Roubaix Challenge shows.

Preparation for the Paris-Roubaix challenge: my physical abilities in the face of male convictions

It was during an interview about the Paris-Roubaix Challenge that the idea began to germinate. In front of me, three women from Girls on Wheelsh, a group of cyclists from the north. The questions keep coming, they explain everything there is to know about this cycle: from the posture on the pavement to the possible risks, passing through the feeling of accomplishment upon arrival at the Vélodrome de Roubaix. “Honestly, you can too”he throws me one.

I remember denying it, with a nervous chuckle. “No, really, you can do it.” Bingo, I leave this interview with an idea firmly rooted in my head: I will race the Paris-Roubaix Challenge and I will do it. They warn me all the same about some constant mansplaining. I smile, they motivated me like never before, I’m ready to eat the world.

I speak directly to a nearby cyclist, who answers “but are you sure? It’s really hard”. He will hear these words dozens of times in a few days. It’s tough, I know, everyone knows it, since the guys who raced it spend their time REPEATING it. However, in the words of these men, there is this nasty taste of “you don’t understand, idiot, go” that is starting to make me wonder.

Faced with pebbles like mansplaining, apparently, “you need to relax”

After doubt, the same advice is repeated to me over and over again. “You have to relax on the pavement”, “you have to catch them in the middle”, “wear gloves to avoid blisters”. Two days before the race I sleep badly. What if I screwed up? I’m trying so hard to get this idea out of my head, but nothing is working.

The day before the race, I collapsed. On the umpteenth “I need to relax”, I drop a “I KNOW” a little stopped. “Okay, fine…” this friend replies annoyed. I explain to him that I’ve already received this advice from women who have raced the Paris-Roubaix Challenge unlike him. “So they have the right to give you advice, but I don’t?” ” YES.

The difference is that in one case I asked the question in advance. In his, he takes me for an ingenue among the “real” cyclists, who knows, who executes, who is deemed legitimate. But I’m a cyclist too and I’m doubling down on my motivation. I’ll show them and make them all lie.

Under the cobblestones, feminist rage

On D-Day, when I get to the start of the race, I get a feeling of unease. Around me, a crowd of men prepares to hit the road and I do not distinguish any woman. I tell myself they must have gone awry, since the departure takes place in a rather large time slot. Nevertheless, I meet the first female cyclist only at the tenth kilometre, and will meet only a very few thereafter. And whyin the Paris-Roubaix Challenge, only 5% of the participants are women.

Frankly, I quickly understood why. Between traffic violation and the unwelcome comments as I went to get the cobblestones, my cheap bike, my gear, my performance, and even my thighs, I quickly got bored. At the exit of an asphalted area my wife is waiting for me. Next to him a passer-by waves “He’s been waiting for you for fifteen minutes, you have to pedal”.

Further on, my spouse waits for me (again, yes, I know) and tells me about an exchange with another passerby. “He told me ‘come on, let’s go ahead’, and I replied that I was waiting for my girlfriend, so he said ‘forget it, you’ll find one further away'”. Friendly, good atmosphere.

So when this cyclist took the liberty of placing his hand on my back and accompanying his gesture with a “Come on, you have to pedal my beauty”, I was struggling to contain myself. But as in any overly masculine environment, I interpreted him as a pseudo-diplomat: I withdrew his hand with a dry gesture, alternatively a tense smile.

However, if there is one thing I will keep from this experience, it is emotion when you enter the Velodrome. With 70km in my legs, I felt tears in my eyes when I saw the finish line. In my mind, that’s quite an accomplishment: I was right to trust this body that I’ve abused so much in the past and whose abilities all the men seemed to doubt.

I did it, I did it, and no one is going to take that pride away from me.