Six Days of Rotterdam

by Kåre Dehlie Thorstad

By Soigneur

January 11^th, 2018

PANIC AT THE DISCO

Showtime!

A new season kicks off with the Six Days of Rotterdam, and at the Ahoy venue in the south of the city athletes make their appearance to a backdrop of deafening euro-beats amid sparkling pyrotechnics.

The crowds roar in delight as the warriors line up on the wooden boards of the track. Many before have compared track racing to the times of roman gladiators. Beloved by the masses and sometimes scorned by the elite, they were slaves or working class heroes, and the populace flocked to the arena to watch these highly trained warriors engage in blood-soaked spectacle — equal parts sport, theatre and cold-blooded murder. If one skips the last part and leaves out some of the blood, it bears a just comparison to today’s Six Days racing events.

I’m here because Christian Grasmann, or Grasi to friends, asked me to come. The tall and slender German Radrennfahrer is one of the most accomplished Six Days riders in the business, and has a reputation for being the one of the best taxi drivers on the track.

After a long life as a roadie in various lower division teams, he knew it was time for a change. Rather than living by the cruel regimen of training and competition, Grasi decided to go back to the simple pleasures of cycling and the freedom of moving on two wheels.

Maloja Pushbikers Team was the outcome, and six years after its inception the German team is now at a peak. Grasmann has attracted a band of strong riders who share the same philosophy. They don't count podium spots and UCI points. They don’t care about numbers on a power meter. For them it’s all about the joy of crossing the finish line in the company of friends, revelling in the crowds plaudits. The Pushbikers embrace the sweat on their foreheads and relish the acid burn in their legs. Cycling will never be pain free and it will certainly never be easy, but for Christian & Co fun is the most important factor. Basta.

Meanwhile at the Ahoy venue, everything and everyone is rotating: disc wheels and chain rings, disco lights and mirror balls, the deejay’s turntables. On the track, riders grind relentlessly through lap after a lap, like small satellites in orbit around a microcosm of sound and light, while the audience's attention drifts slowly away, from bike racing to beer drinking. Glamrock bellows through the speakers, abruptly zapped by a bizarre folk tune, only to be overpowered by the pulsating beat of the Chemical Brothers an instant later. I struggle to keep my head straight, and try not to panic. Surely, there has to be an inner logic in all this chaos and insanity?

Only on the third night inside the funhouse does it fall into place, when my bewilderment suddenly switches to fascination and admiration for what's happening on the track.

On the sixth night in Rotterdam the atmosphere inside the velodrome is tense. The battle for the overall honours isn’t settled yet. The mellow, laid-back spirit of the previous nights is gone, and fierce rivalry has taken its place. It's getting late, and every little point counts in the fight for the final podium. The evening progresses and overnight leaders De Ketele and De Pauw keep their cool and skilfully neutralise every attack during the last discipline, The Final Chase. They walk off victoriously, wreathed in golden ribbons and drenched in cava, as I stumble away punch-drunk from the Ahoy venue. In less than 48 hours, the same riders will line up for another six-day battle in Bremen, Germany. I respect them, ever so much.