Riders who exceed the limits of a polite margin spoil everyone's day with their showboating victories

Michael Hutchinson

Michael Hutchinson is a writer, journalist and former professional cyclist. His Dr Hutch columns appears in every issue of Cycling Weekly magazine, this piece was first published in print on 2 May. 

The men’s side of the Classics this season was dominated by two riders and one tactic. The riders were Tadej Pogačar and Mathieu van der Poel, and the tactic was the boringly long solo break. [Pogačar hasn’t exactly let up at the Giro d’Italia, either - ed].

Don’t misunderstand me – I’m still very impressed by both of them. We’re talking about two of the most effective riders the sport has ever seen, who can win across different terrain, different races, and different disciplines. They can not only deploy a long boring break under the most unpromising of circumstances, they can win sprints, mountain stages, cross races and probably would have what it takes to win the world cycle-ball championships if only anyone knew the rules. I don’t for a second think it’s easy to be that good.

And yes, I feel bad complaining that something so superlative is also a bit dull to watch. But as a time trial specialist whose sole road-race tactic was the long break, I know what I’m talking about, even if at a much less elevated level. I also know that it’s a tactic with its own unique problems.

For a start, where do you attack? The starting points for the solo raid have been getting not so much further from the finish as closer to the start and not always, I think, by design. I once attacked by accident at 75 km to go because I was trying to reset my computer at the front of a slow-moving bunch and neither I nor the bunch was paying much attention.

At a more elevated level, in Liège-Bastogne-Liège, Pogačar rode off in a manner that suggested he’d only half meant it, like a little testing attack to see what would happen.

The risk is that what happens is everyone else says, “Thank God he’s gone. Now lads, who’s going to lead me out for second?” (That’s when Pog does it.) Or alternatively, “Thank God he’s gone, he nearly knocked me off six times – there’s no need to chase him fellas, he’ll crash on the next corner anyway.” (That’s when I do it.)

And then you’re stuck out there with a 30-metre lead, a 50-metre lead, and growing. You don’t want to waste the opportunity, but the overwhelming thought is, “If I’d known it was going to be that easy to get away, I’d have done it 40 km later.”

So you have to put your head down and ride. Now, assuming you’re capable of putting time into the bunch, your next problem is, how much time? Ideally enough to get the team car in behind you, to provide you with a steady supply of snacks and some conversation to help pass the kilometres. The car also means you have enough time to take a wheel change if you need it. But if you can get that much time, well, you can probably get more.

Then, as the ride goes on, you start doing maths. “If I have a minute lead and 40 km to go… well, that’s a second and a half a kilometre… so that’s about fifteen watts in hand…. I think I need a bit more.” Then later, “Two minutes and twenty kilometres… six seconds a kilometre… sixty watts… well, there are 40 of them to find a watt a half each, so let’s keep going.” Well, you never know, they might decide that they’re going to sort their lives out and chase you properly, might they not?

Next thing you know you’ve got three and a half minutes lead and five kilometres to go, and you realise you’ve exceeded the limits of a polite margin. You’ve spoiled everyone’s day with your showboating victory. And you didn’t even mean to do it.