Baroud. A fight.

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The word came into French from the Arabic bārūd: gunpowder. French soldiers brought it home from North Africa, and it became baroud d’honneur, the last fight for honour. The one you take on knowing you probably can’t win.

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Cycling has a name for the riders who live that way. The baroudeur attacks from kilometre zero, alone or nearly so, knowing the peloton will almost certainly catch them.

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And goes anyway.

 

This isn’t our story. It’s yours. The climb you nearly got off on. The headwind all the way home. The February club run when nobody else turned up. The day you finished last, and finished.

 

Every ride is a baroud d’honneur.