The moment our tires hit the cobbles, the legend of Roubaix snapped into brutal clarity. The pavé doesn’t care who you are. It rattles your bones, numbs your hands, and tests every fiber of control. Even on a recon ride, it feels less like a route and more like a rite of passage.

At every secteur pavé, tradition echoes louder than any drivetrain. Campers were already parked along the route, days, even weeks before race day. Flags waved in the wind. Locals set up chairs on grassy banks. It’s not just a bike race. It’s a pilgrimage. A celebration of suffering on roads that haven’t changed for a century.

As we rattled through Carrefour de l’Arbre, arms screaming, bars shaking, our thoughts turned to the riders we support. The ones we equip with gloves built to endure the unendurable. We’ve always believed in what we make—but after this ride, we felt its purpose in our bones.

And somehow, despite the toughness of the terrain and the cold morning air, it feels warm. The spectators, the hardcores, the families, the new fans. They aren’t just watching, they’re participating. Waving at riders, and encouraging like they’re old friends. Whether they’ve come from down the road or across the continent, they show up with the same spirit. It feels like one giant family, bonded not by name, but by a shared love for the madness of Roubaix.

Every vibration, every near-miss, every second we managed to hold the line, were all reminders of just how critical grip is on this terrain. It’s not just comfort, it’s control, of a sublte feeling of it. We thought about them—our athletes—racing at full tilt over this chaos. Not just surviving it, but pushing through with power, precision, and courage.

By the end, we were humbled. Spent. Shaken. But incredibly proud. Proud to ride these roads. Proud to have shared just a glimpse of what lies ahead. And proud to support the riders who will soon take them on, not for recon, but for real.

Call it a race if you want. We'll call it Roubaix.

STORY and pictures by GripGrab
© GripGrab 2025