Van der Poel crosses the finish line ahead of Van Aert.BAS CZERWINSKI (AFP)
The new dimension of cycling. In minute three they are already alone. An hour of film ahead and a drone chasing them like a gust of wind as they enter the dark forest, trees without winter, like a ghost on the run, headless horsemen in a Tim Burton film. Dirt. Grass. Gray sky over the North Sea. Behind, lost in their struggles, the others, fellow metal, the crazies who only think about cyclocross.
Also a manga comic. Two protagonists shaved, clean. Black glasses. winged helmets. rosy cheeks, one; dark complexion, other More than 40,000 spectators (30 euros for regular admission) at the fences, just breathing the atmosphere and drinking beer that warms them, and watching everything on giant screens. Rock concert atmosphere in Monterey. VIP stands and drunken screaming, just like the 16th green in Scottsdale. The whole life.
Mathieu van der Poel and Wout van Aert alone. Two kids on recess when things are more serious than ever in life and they shape it. An eternal bite. And defeat is harder. Van Aert, 1.90m tall, huge, dejected, elbows bent on the handlebars. Drooping shoulders. Dark look behind the black glasses. Like Roger de Vlaeminck, adored by today’s kids’ grandparents, his Brooklyn Bubblegum jersey, his muddy face, the bad days.
Still, everyone wants to be Van Aert; everyone also wants to be Van der Poel, the one with the pink cheeks.
The winner raising the bent arm. The winner by tenths of a second after an hour-long battle over pink and blue ramps, 34 steps with the bike on the shoulder, climbing two at a time, up and down, mud, up to the 26 meter high hill, the coat of arms of Brabant, Netherlands, Hoogerheide . The fifth world title for the son of Adrie, the grandson of Poulidor. 28 years. Van Aert, the other giant, follows in three. Third, 12 seconds back, was Belgium’s Eli Iserbyt, the best of the rest, the best specialist. Felipe Orts, the first Spaniard, was 19th; Kevin Suarez, 30.
Side by side in the last corner. Nothing could take her off until then. Neither the élan of the victor, nor the analytical reason of the vanquished. Side by side they jump, acrobats, the last boards, the tenth turn, the last 34 steps. Side by side they go around the last bend. You step onto the asphalt. Ahead of them 200 meters uphill, at 6%. Just over 12 seconds full, full. 1,200 watts. Fire Pedals Faster, more powerful, more space-consuming, those of Van der Poel, who knows this is his advantage, a sprint that starts almost from nothing. Van Aert, much bigger, more powerful, is slower. His advantage is the started sprints. But when they start it, they are practically stopped. Others, the normal ones, took the opportunity to catch their breath; They, the movie geeks, only think about shooting away, as if the curve hides a hammer firing them. Van der Poel, in his father’s town, who more than anyone else drew the circuit, the ramps, the labyrinths, the stairs, the finish.
“On the last lap I was very relaxed,” says Van der Poel, the poet, they say, of the mud, the unconscious, who gets carried away by pride and inspiration and his undeniable technical superiority, and he doesn’t always see himself so. Sometimes violence can only be defeated with common sense. And he also knows how to be reasonable. A Cyclocross World Championship against Van Aert is not just any race. Only a Tour of Flanders or a Tour of Roubaix, a duel with the Belgian on cobblestones or in the mountains, could match that. “Everyone thought I would be nervous and attack first, but I had already decided to wait for the sprint. I knew I had to wait. And I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know how to describe how I feel. I’m super happy. I think it’s the best win of my life.”
From a unique rivalry arises the new dimension of cycling, which is already moving onto the asphalt. Two child prodigies who met at their first race more than 10 years ago. Selfish and generous. His navel and the joy of the fans. They are both 28. As if a second Mozart had been born on the same day. An anomaly. One in a million years, but two at a time.
“Now we fight. We’ve been like this for more than 10 years and can hardly stand it or speak to each other,” says the winner with bright eyes, the blue glow in his eyes, free of the glasses, free. “But our rivalry shaped cycling. And I am sure that in a few years we will sit together and proudly discuss our battles. Now it’s time to follow them down the road.”
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