:::::::::::::::::::::::::: Article and photos: Laurent Scavone ::::::::::::::::::::::::::
9:00 AM in Lelystad (Holland), the riders emerge from their vans, crumpled from a short and cold night. From the open carriers spill men, motorcycles, clothes, and equipment. The sky is threatening, the North Sea a few hundred meters away brings spray and clouds as dark as the fertile Dutch soil that grows red tulips. Red is also the color of the track that is eager to see these riders from all over Europe, without reward. Here, you earn respect and recognition, nothing else, and frankly, in a world where money has taken over, that feels good!
We drag ourselves to the refreshment bar for breakfast while the first motorcycles are already on the track, barely smoothed by the tractor. We’re anxious, it's cool, the French are here, I see them all, the terrace of the refreshment bar overlooks the Speedway! For people who have nothing to gain, the journey is long to Holland, about fifty kilometers north of Amsterdam, yet they are here because opportunities to ride are rare, as are opportunities to be together and share a passion that might seem ridiculous... Going in circles! Turning left.
From where I am, I see the team from Toulouse, Christophe Canitrot (Organizer of the Wheels and Waves motorcycle races) with his Triumph, Régis Guyot with his BSA-engined Rickman, accompanied by their wives. The team from Chartres with Frank Chatokhine in official Ducati colors, who needs no introduction, his partner Zoé on a hybrid Rickman, Rénia on a BSA who works in the workshop with Frank, the Decombard couple Christophe, who was returning to the discipline after a terrible fall in England in 2018, and his wife Laurence on a Suzuki 650 DR. The team from Paris with the pioneer of the discipline, Dimitri Coste on a Daytona mini Bike and his Triumph, and finally Hubert Bastie with a Husqvarna.
I could tell you about the races that followed each other at a rate of 10 sessions per hour, boast about the riding of some and the passion of others, explain how a motorcycle turns, or even give you some tips on how to slide better on all the tracks in Europe. Tell you how much I loved certain motorcycles in first place or trailing the losers, tell you also that the sausages were good, but I’d rather talk about two things: the contagious elegance of the French and the childlike spirit of the riders.
Let's talk about French elegance: French riders have this unique thing, it’s true, and no offense to the grumpiest among you, style is important! Why mess up something, especially when you're riding a purely beautiful old motorcycle that, in my opinion, should be enhanced by appropriate attire. That doesn't mean riding in your underwear; it simply means that the French respect the birth dates of their motorcycles! It means wearing vintage leather trousers that don't clash with a 70s Triumph, it means wearing a racing jersey that doesn't visually pollute the care taken to restore motorcycles where plastic has no place... And that's cool! It's so cool that photographers love it, and they're not the only ones; spectators adore it, and to be honest, I've noticed a change over the past 5 years among all participants outside our borders—they're following suit, and it makes these events special because they transport us to another time.
I assure you, it changes a lot of things; there's a relaxation that takes you back to the years when sport was a matter of free men—free to drink a beer between each race, free to help competitors during a breakdown, free to smoke a cigarette and agree to share experiences.
The childlike spirit of the riders: Have you ever seen eyes light up, bodies quivering with impatience, a stomach knotting visibly, stress rising, and that joy in the eyes of winners and losers, and that feeling of being king of the world for a moment after the race? I saw all of that in Lelystad, all those emotions thanks to the motorcycle, thanks to a dirt track. In Christophe Canitrot's gaze, in Régis's euphoria, even in Dimitri Coste, who you might think was jaded... Well, he’s not, it's just that thing that men who have kept their childlike souls possess.
