Three years or so ago, I discovered the trailer for a documentary about cycling in the Flemish region of Belgium; home to the Flahutes (or more commonly “Flandriens”). The title is, fittingly enough, simply Flandrien.
On Executive Order 260401, the return of the Tour de Trump, and what a sixty-metre hill in New Jersey tells us about the relationship between power, memory, and the indifference of mountains. By Claude Aurillac-Issoire Clermont-Ferrand, France (01 April 2026) Translated from the original French. My mother grew up in
At seventeen minutes past midnight Eastern Time, Donald J. Trump posted to Truth Social that the Tour de France was very overrated. Thirty-four minutes later, he announced he was bringing back the greatest bike race the world had ever seen. This is a record of what has happened. All times shown as EDT (UTC−4) / CEST (UTC+2). European times in 24-hour format. Updates added as events develop.
From the book of ROSSIN, 14:6: “He that regardeth the KOM, regardeth it unto the Lord; and he that regardeth not the KOM, to the Lord he doth not regard it.” [Editor’s note: With many, many, many apologies to Henry van Dyke (1852-1933)] Are you willing to forget what you
You probably haven’t heard of Jax Dierckx, but he knows more about betrayal than most people—both the kind that happens on pavé and the kind that pays his rent. This is about a time he decided to stop watching and start trusting again, if only in one simple thing.
Richard Sachs stands as an icon. He also breaks conventions as an iconoclast. He likes to say, “I didn’t want to be a framebuilder. I became one.” This phrase neatly captures the serendipity that shaped his career: a young man who intended to become a writer ended up becoming one of America’s most revered builders of the most finely wrought handmade bicycles in America.
There was a time when American gravel cycling felt like coming home to a family reunion you’d been looking forward to all year. It was farm roads and cow gates, a thermos of coffee, and an annual gathering built on trust, shared suffering, and the quiet understanding that some things in this world could remain beautifully imperfect.
In 1975, Bernard Thévenet—a farmer’s son from a village literally named “The Handlebar”—ended Eddy Merckx’s reign as cycling’s most dominant champion. On the melting Alpine asphalt to Pra-Loup, Thévenet watched the seemingly invincible “Cannibal” collapse into mortality, trapped tire-deep in liquified tar. This is the story of how a patient dreamer fed cycling’s greatest predator his final meal, proving that even the most ravenous appetites must eventually be satisfied.
I wonder if the State of Utah will ever update the traffic code to reflect the reality of driving a car here. For example, traffic lights: Green means stop, look both ways a minimum of three (3) times each, then prepare to go on yellow. Yellow means go. Red means FLOOR IT GO GO GO GO GO!
A detective’s prized custom steel bicycle is stolen from his garage. When the streets stay silent, he uses his badge and fists to hunt for the truth.
