Welcome to the great classic of white roads, where the word “comfort” is left at home along with your will to live. Forget Paris-Roubaix: here, there’s no cobblestones, only gravel that looks like it came from a geological nightmare.

32 sections of gravel. Or, as we call them, Russian roulette with gravel. Every entrance is a promise: “I know how I’m getting in, but who knows how I’ll get out?” Throw in a bit of mud, and you’ll watch the bike dance like at the Rio Carnival, but with less samba and more curses.
Your body will be tested: teeth that clink like Morse code with every bump, arms that vibrate more than the speakers at a rave, and lungs full of dust competing with your home vacuum filter.

And the priest was right: you are dust, and to dust, you will return. Maybe he was thinking of this race, but he didn’t mention there would be mud, some rocks, and probably an existential crisis at the tenth kilometer.

But why do it? Because glory isn’t earned on smooth asphalt, but in the battle against gravel that spits in your face every meter. If you finish, you’re a hero. If you don’t… well, at least you’ll have a good excuse to complain all week.
Clench your teeth (while you still have them) and go. Here, we’re really cycling.