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TRO-BRO LÉON

Our favorite race.

By Gruber Images

April 16^th, 2015

why.

They call Tro-Bro Léon the Petit Paris-Roubaix and L’Enfer de L’Ouest – the Hell of the West. The nicknames sound nice — it seems every great race needs a nickname — but Tro-Bro Léon doesn’t need the Roubaix comparisons. It’s a proud event that stands quite well on its own two feet.

There’s no comparison between the cobbles of northeastern France and the dirt farm paths of northwestern France and none should be attempted. The cobbles are the cobbles, they’re like nothing else. So too are the 25 secteurs of dirt — ribinoù (singular: ribin) — that define Tro-Bro Léon. The ribinoù are simple, just tiny farm paths that criss-cross fields and connect paved roads throughout the region. The are generally just two hard-packed pieces of dirt linked by a grassy median in the middle. Double-track.

The fields outside of Roubaix, with their ancient cobbled sectors in the middle of nowhere, seem lifeless when you compare them to Brittany, a region so steeped in culture and history. Legends and myths have sprung from its verdant landscape, and its own language and culture have not only survived the centuries, but continue to thrive. The Bretons are a people apart, and their land is the same – perched far off in the north-western tip of France’s hexagon, unsheltered from the battering ram of the North Atlantic.

Up until recent times Brittany was an independent realm, more British than French. The region is French now, so French is spoken and seen everywhere, but along with the modern language, the Celtic language, customs, music, and culture flourish. Brittany is one of six Celtic nations: Brittany, Cornwall, Ireland, the Isle of Man, Scotland, and Wales. In other words, it’s not like the Roubaix’s Departement du Nord. Not even close.

Tro-Bro Léon is like nothing else.

ribinoù.

We won’t make Tro-Bro Léon this year. It was a difficult decision for us, but just as we went to this race to try something new, we’ve left another race - Amstel - without any attention. We’ve never really shot it, and that’s a shame. At the same time, as I’ve put these images together, my heart hurts knowing that we won’t get the chance to shoot this in 2015. I’m not sure if I 100% believe myself that we won’t go. It’s only eight hours away…

Special.

We came with hedged expectations both years and left speechless, wondering how it was ever in doubt that we’d come. The race showed so much of the region, from its unbelievably beautiful coastline, to its green, farmed expanses in the interior. The stone houses, slung low to the ground, built to withstand the outrageous weather of the region, the equally stout churches, the weathered people, their respectful excitement for the race differed so much from the near psychosis of Roubaix the week before. Roubaix’s excitement seemed built around alcohol and excess (what about Roubaix isn’t excessive? Isn’t that where its greatness lies?)

The excitement around Tro-Bro Léon wasn’t in excess, but in its humility. The race is modest and small when compared to a Monument like Roubaix or the Ronde van Vlaanderen, but its simplicity merely emboldens its essence: it’s the jewel of the region’s cycling culture. It’s Brittany’s most beautiful, and its people showed up in droves to enjoy their race. They weren’t crazy get-in-your-face fans looking to cause a scene, throwing beer or shouting obnoxious things at the riders.

They were families, men, women, young, old, out to enjoy a day out and watch a race that embodies their region: hard-working, tough, salt of the earth, proud. The race puts Brittany on display, honours it, holds it high for everyone who is willing to take a look. The people come to appreciate and enjoy being a part of the scene, rather than taking over the scene.

the approach.

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roadside.

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Working, Part I.

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flats.

Flats are a major issue at Tro-Bro Léon. As one person said, many a tubular met an honorable end on the dirt on Sunday. IAM came out of the day extremely well with only five flats, but unfortunately, they came at horrible moments. Some teams were in the double digits for flats. Ashley saw one rider in the break flat three times on consecutive secteurs.

wheels.

…and so there are wheels everywhere. I thought I had seen a lot of wheels at Roubaix, but TBL might have won top honors for sheer number of wheels.

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working, part ii.

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Uh oh.

A section of ribin, desperately muddy from the previous night’s downpour. The edge of the road looked hard and sound, but when a team car veered to avoid a pothole, it came too close to that unsound edge, and there it stopped. At this point, the right side of the one lane dirt road was blocked, but when the next team car tried to avoid the stuck car, it came to the same fate. Two cars, even, completely blocking the road, and the race was only moments behind.

The cars’ occupants, some dressed for a business lunch, others out for a Sunday in the fields, poured out and desperately pushed the more movable of the two cars, getting just far enough to open a tiny line between the two lodged vehicles, just in time for the approach of the race. The riders made it through, but if ever there was a moment where the accordion effect was shown its true, absolute power, it was here. Hard got harder.

crash.

I saw the race from a privileged position. I saw landscapes that made me talk to myself, that made me reach down for my camera, only to realize that it was probably best to just look at it. I saw suffering like I had never seen it before, and I saw it from a foot away. I saw riders crash. I saw the wide eyes of the recognition of a broken bone, the acknowledgement that they’d lose opportunities and time, and maybe, by way of this impact, a lifetime’s dream cast asunder. I saw fear, I saw anger, I saw desperation, I saw resignation in the eyes and bodies of the dozen crashes that left the newly injured - moments before so focused on their survival and possible success - without an answer. They stood there - just a crudely cradled arm, a grimace…and we were gone. Their misfortune was somewhere behind us. In front of us - riders dangling unceremoniously in ones and twos at the end of the race that devoured all but the strongest - and luckiest.

abandon.

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coast.

There are a couple of coastal sections along the race route - and they’re gorgeous.

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looking in.

As the race went on, I saw riders drift slowly off the back - off the back of the group, off the back of the break, right out of the top ten. Done. They had nothing more to give. There was no violence, no last ditch effort, no Voeckler tongue, no tossing of the bike with powerful purpose, no point where you could say - they’re digging deep. Those times were long gone. The shut up legs, the HTFU’s, the standing struggle, the drops, the tops, the hoods, the coming off the nose of the saddle, because they’d slid so far forward in search of an extra watt, the opposite move to the back of the saddle and a big gear pummel, the desperate spin, the deep breaths, the loose grips - all options had been exhausted, the rider was left with nothing, and when the bell tolled at last for its victim, there was nought he could do but accept his fate and let go of the day’s dream.

In those moments, I was within an arm’s length. I could have just reached out and given them a push. It hurt to watch.

And then we’d blast on somewhere far ahead of the race. I’d walk into a field, and the race would come by, and I’d see the riders come by. I couldn’t hear them now. I couldn’t see their faces. It felt so peaceful from off the road. It felt like I was looking in on a pretty movie.

feet.

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windmills.

Yet another section of ribin about midway through the race - lined with giant modern windmills - at least 15. The dirt strip of earth that marked the path to the finish for the racers was lined with white propellers, turning lazily in the axis altering wind, buffeting everything in its path but the windmills. Below their slow turning blades, the race climbed to their green ridge high above the ocean below, the field stretching further still, and finally, splitting in the middle, at its core.

the tunnel.

What a piece of road! We missed this spot our first year, but not in 2014.

working, part iii.

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the chateau's driveway.

They raced up what amounted to a driveway - a muddy, dark, lusciously green, tree-lined driveway, but a driveway nonetheless. It reminded me of the approaches to the ruined plantations of the old South, except this was the grand approach to a chateau in Brittany, and there was a bike race being decided on its five feet of goop.

The driveway was being ridden away from the residence, toward the road, as if they had left a nice Sunday lunch and were headed home. The race had entered the path through a doorway of sorts, and exited a kilometer and a difficult hill later. The breakaway was falling apart, the field was seething only a breath behind - the race was on, and a motorbike crashed on the rain slick path taking up precious mud space, sending riders on a diversionary course into the tire sucking, young grass of spring.

It was chaos fueled by exhaustion and suffering, topped off with a motorized victim of the mud. Only steps away, the fans stayed well off the track in the center of the playing field. They watched as the riders fought for purchase and speed on a road that stole both, trying to hold on that little bit longer. The fans gazed on intently as driver and friend tried to move the motorbike, struggling alongside the weary riders, who adjusted course, pedaled a little harder still, and made their way to the gate, a tight right-hand turn, and still more to endure.

final kilometers.

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the crowd.

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finish.

In 2013, FdJ put together a fantastic 1-2-3. As the burly crosser rejoiced just after the finish line, his teammate, Le Bon, pulled up - second place. Moments later, as the duo were just completing their wild gesticulations and hugs, third place rolled in - another FdJ rider, Geslin. The sweep was complete, the trio went bonanza, team boss Marc Madiot sprinted up, kissed everyone in sight, one, two, three times. It was as if a child had been born.

And then the rest began to trickle in. Battered riders, caked in mud, blood, slobber, and grime. IAM Cycling’s hometown Breton hero, Sebastien Hinault, performed well, but didn’t have the legs to take on the FdJ juggernaut - 14th place. He sat quietly against the barriers a few meters past the finish line - riders trudging by with worried soigneurs doling out their bits of rejuvenation to his left, his friends and family looking on with eager concern to his right, on the other side of the barriers. He put his head down, took a long drink of Coke, seemed to consider his day, perhaps rue the final result. A moment later, it was gone. He looked up, smiled, and continued on as if nothing had happened, as if he weren’t straddling his Scott bike, wearing a suit of mud, and saddled with the fatigue of 200 kilometers of Brittany’s most difficult. The race was over. He was home, in front of everyone who watched him grow up to become the man he is today. Despite missing out on a win he obviously wants, he was still king for a day.

In 2014, Cofidis’s Adrien Petit took the day and was suitably overjoyed at this first professional win on European soil. A little while later, the top placed Breton took home a piglet - the customary prize. The rider and his team weren’t sure what to do with the pink, squealing thing - they even asked us if we wanted it. We declined, a decision we still regret.