A Picture of Eddy
I came across this
photograph in International Cycle Sport, the trade magazine whose 199
issues were published in London from 1968 to 1984. This digital copy was
scanned from the original paper version of no. 85, June 1975.
CURATOR’S
CARD
Depicted here is a scene from
Paris-Roubaix, styled the Hell of the North, one of the official Classics of
world bicycle road-racing. Except for stoppages in World Wars I and II, this
one-day race has been held annually since 1896. The length is 277.5 kilometers
(172 miles), much of the route subjecting riders to long stretches of
cobblestone. Roger de Vlaeminck won the 1975 trophy in 6 hours and 52 minutes.
The man in the picture is runner-up Eddy Merckx, three-time winner of
Paris-Roubaix. Had he not flatted 8km from the finish, Merckx may well have won
his fourth title. Merckx, nicknamed the Cannibal because of his all-devouring
competitiveness, won the Tour de France five times. No racer has come anywhere
near his tally of 450 victories in the pro peloton.
•
Eddy Merckx did two things at once—mastered his
sport and delimited human limitation. He embodied the paradox of unattainable
achievement that’s nonetheless partially attained. In race after race, he
eclipsed conditions, opponents, and impediments of all stripes and types,
distilling conviction and sacrifice within the margins of hundreds of timed
events.
I don’t race bikes. I don’t follow the Tour de
France. I forget who won the last one. Like most people, I take my inspiration
where and when I can get it. At times it comes from this print of Eddy Merckx.
I mean, look
at him. Step into the scene. All of us have to travel the treacherous
cobblestones of daily life—the lawsuit, the sick child, the dying pet, the
broken bone and broken home, beholding in the mirror a person too weak for
hope, too late for love. We fly down the narrow corridor of faith, skittering
off, crashing, bleeding, forcing back tears, and re-entering the race, praying
for a taste of success, a flash of redemption.
Eddy Merckx bestows a truth about moral
discipline on those of us who will never win a trophy, medal, or plaque. We can
be great in our anonymity, in our struggles, whether physical or metaphysical.
Look at him grimacing in the foul weather, hunched over his machine, springing
beyond the bars, feet strapped into the clips. He launches into battle on 22mm
tubulars, body wracked by inconceivable odds, another day in the saddle,
undeterred, determined to take the prize.
A picture is worth a thousands words. I’ve used
468 of them to explain what this one means to me.
Roadysseus
10.31.14
Comments
Post a Comment