“That was nuts. But one of the most amazing days on a bike. And having just sat and watched the pros race P-R, I’m genuinely in awe of their abilities. 24 hours after we did a beautiful lap of the Roubaix velodrome, I can finally clench my fist / hold a beer glass.

I first thought about heading to Roubaix when my beer fuelled enthusiasm got the better of me and I offered to run the Easter Classic, and then realised I would miss Flanders. More recently, I thought I should spend my pennies on some more family-oriented excursion but as it drew closer, the idea got more appealing. The cycling Gods then said “Do it” when the other 2/3 of the family decided to go to Wales for a long weekend. Result!

So David W and I finally agreed to nail this last Tuesday. About two mins after I booked the ferry, Andrew also threw his hat into the ring and we had a budget trip to northern France in the bag. £25 for a return ferry trip, a crappy hotel and a bit of diesel to get us there and back. Ace!

So we catch the 9pm Friday night ferry to Calais and 90 mins later we’re trawling a fairly dubious looking housing scheme looking for a fairly dubious sounding hotel which is surrounded by a huge fence that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a high security prison. It’s cold, it’s drab and the bar is shut. The rooms are about the size of the cupboard under our stairs at home but, it’s okay, the bikes fit in the shower cubicle.

We get to bed about 1am, we rise at 5.30. By 6am, Andrew’s found a kettle and we’re, cough, “feasting” on porridge, muffins, dodgy coffee from a sachet and chocolate milk. 30 mins later and we’re speeding up the A25 towards Dunkerque. By 8.30, we’re parked up outside the Roubaix Velodrome.

For ease of logistics, we’re signed up for the 153km route on the sportive. Our route takes a south-easterly spin from the Roubaix velodrome down to the Arenberg Forest to begin the last 18 secteurs of cobbles. So the the first 50km of riding is (a) flat (b) without cobbles and (c) on this occasion has a tailwind. For 50kms we’re averaging about 34km/h and it’s erm, rather easy. We form a small peloton with fours chaps from a French team who contribute zero effort to our cause but we plough on and, just like the pros, even speed up as we head towards the Trouee de Arenberg. Eventually, David decides he doesn’t want to hit the cobbles with a full bladder so we call a halt to towing four burly French chaps onto the cobbles and take a break.

As the first part of our parcours is different to the pro race, we turn onto the cobbles at 90 degrees rather than full pelt over the railway crossing. There’s also a van on the road so we couldn’t have ridden faster if we’d wanted. But the cobbles loom and off we go. Now I walked along the Arenberg cobbles when the Tour finished in Wallers in 2010 and, at a glance, they don’t look THAT bad but riding really is a different thing. You hear the stories of riders suggesting the stones have been thrown onto the road from a helicopter and think that’s bollocks but it’s actaully not too far off the mark. The cobbles are big and the gaps between them even bigger, none of them are straight and they look sharp. I’m also in the wrong gear and I’m wrestling with my handlebars to try and change so I can pedal at a lower cadence and increase speed. It takes about two mins to gain control on the hoods and flick the gear lever, and my heart rate is through the roof. 3kms and what feels like a lifetime later and we’re back on the tarmac. Never has a non-descript trunk road been so welcome and felt so silky smooth.

After three or four secteurs I felt as if I was starting to get to grips with the cobbles. My legs felt good and, dare I say it, I was working out a reasonable technique (must be the CX racing!!). Hey, it was fun! 11 secteurs later we’re flying but make the mistake of stopping for food. Five waffles and a banana later (don’t ever go there, kids) and I feel sick as we continue bumping along the farm tracks of northern France. The next three secteurs are horrible as, I assume, the sugar rush is making my head throb. By now my hands are also numb and I’m struggling to grip the bars and point the bike in the right direction. Yep, it’s Hell.

Four secteurs to go and there are two (English) idiots flying down the crown of the cobbled road in the wrong direction straight at Andrew and I’m convinced they’re about to ride into him. The avoid us but ride off with a stream of expletives. It’ll be a shame if the increased interest in cycling in the UK attracts these people and spoils it’s appeal.

Three to go and it’s the Carrefour de L’Arbre. Maybe not quite as bonkers as the Arenberg but still 5 star bonkers. I’m bouncing along one of the most gruesome “roads” in all of France, I’m shattered and I need a wee. It’s not a good feeling but I’m determined to carry on riding down the middle of some of the nastiest stones you’ll ever see. We reach the end and it’s relief in more ways than one. Two to go and it’s nearly done. One to go and I’m really starting to get grumpy. This is supposed to be an easy section but my tiredness and numb hands see me bouncing across the road like an Euskatel rider. But we’ve paid hard cash for this so unlike the MTB-ers or the guys riding in the grass at the side of the road, we’ll do this properly right until the end to get maximum cobble value for our money.

We’re almost back in Roubaix. After a slow roll through the town traffic we enter the velodrome with Andrew on my wheel just like Fabian and Sep this afternoon. Unlike Fabian or Sep, I stop to take off my gilet so I can display my Phoenix jersey as we circle the track and cross the finish line.

Amazing stuff. It’s becoming a cliche but in what other sport can you do as ther pros do? You can’t have a kickabout at Wembley, nor have a knock at Lord’s. But you can ride the cobbles and roll round the Cote d’Azur of the Roubaix velodrome (it’s steep y’know!) and it was all rather good.

All that was left was to have a shower in the fabled Roubaix shower block. But there’s no water on and there’s a marshal keeping an eye on things. It’s also bleddy freezing in there. So we have a look round, pack the car and race back to Calais on our last diesel fumes to catch the ferry by the skin of our teeth. Shame to feel so tired today and miss the Hell of the North. But a fantastic trip and, once I get the feeling back in my hands, I might even do it again.”

Steven Drew