Dylan Van Baarle, in apotheosis on Paris-Roubaix – L’Équipe.fr

There is nothing more beautiful than a runner who extricates himself solo from the Hell of the North, who survives 260 km of fighting, dried up by a desert of dust, his legs pale but intact from the bites of the mandibles of stones, to seek the light at the velodrome, to present himself as a hero in this last right bend, the clamor which rises as he enters the enclosure, the hands which clap on the advertising panels and then this ray of sun falling on Dylan Van Baarle’s black helmet as he speeds down the track. Whoever is chosen, it’s always the same shivers, the same retinal tingling.