Pierre de Coubertin's heart pounded in his chest, mixing with the sound of thousands of bicycles crushing gravel around him.
Soon, he was swept up in a torrent of steel, rubber, and human flesh, inevitably rushing forward.
The first few minutes were chaotic and intense, with a faint haze of dust kicked up by the wheels forming a blurry barrier, and the scene before his eyes was bizarre and kaleidoscopic.
The gleaming "Sorel-1" was undoubtedly the mainstream on the track, but they weren't the only ones dominating the field—traditional "penny-farthings" were mixed in, standing out conspicuously.
Riders sat high on huge front wheels, attempting to seize the initiative with the advantage of wheel diameter; some even rode unicycles, mixing in with the traffic.
These "acrobats" waved their arms to maintain balance amidst the bumps, drawing laughter and cheers.
Coubertin noticed a "Sorel-1" not far from him, with its mudguards and rear seat removed, the chain and gears directly exposed, and the frame looking much lighter.
The frame of another bike was extra reinforced with rough, sturdy steel bars, clearly to prevent the bicycle from falling apart during the long race.
Pierre Coubertin naturally also "modified" his own bike; he wrapped thick strips of cloth around the handlebars, which not only increased friction but also reduced vibration.
In addition, he re-covered the seat cushion with soft leather and stuffed a large amount of cotton into it, greatly improving comfort.
The roads in the early stages of the race were in the suburbs of Paris, flat and firm, and the penny-farthings, with their large wheel diameters, once enjoyed boundless glory.
Several riders on "Penny-Farthing" type high-wheelers quickly surged to the front of the pack, like charging knights.
Pierre Coubertin suppressed the urge to accelerate; he believed that in long-distance races, rhythm and endurance were far more important than an initial burst.
He pedaled steadily at his predetermined pace, staying in the middle of the pack, observing the waves ahead like an old captain.
When the road encountered its first sharp turn, the disadvantages of the penny-farthing were completely exposed.
The leaders had to slow down significantly, stiffly leaning their bodies and cautiously searching for a balance point, fearing that their high center of gravity would cause them to flip over instantly.
Coubertin and many "Sorel-1" riders seized this opportunity, nimbly and easily cutting through the inside lane to overtake.
The dense buzzing sound of the chains seemed to mock the clumsiness of the penny-farthings.
The real watershed was after leaving the suburbs of Paris, a place gentlemen from Paris rarely visited; the once well-paved roads began to become bumpy and uneven.
For the "Sorel-1", rubber tires, front forks, and a diamond-shaped frame provided stable support and good shock absorption, and handling wasn't too difficult, only requiring a slight reduction in speed.
But for the penny-farthing, this terrain was simply a nightmare!
The huge front wheel was extremely sensitive to potholes; every impact was directly transmitted to the rider's arms and hips.
From time to time, penny-farthing riders lost control and fell while bouncing, with screams and curses rising and falling.
Some riders who fell hard or realized the arduous journey ahead could only reluctantly push their "tall steeds" and withdraw from the competition.
Pierre Coubertin passed a young man who had fallen into a ditch, slowed down, and cast an inquiring glance, but the other party waved his hand dejectedly, signaling him to continue.
The real test was climbing hills; even with gentle slopes, penny-farthing riders struggled to keep going.
The direct pedaling front-wheel drive system appeared so inefficient and ridiculous in the face of gravity.
Most of them could only awkwardly dismount halfway up the slope, panting and laboriously pushing their large contraptions forward.
The chain of the "Sorel-1" ensured that power was effectively transmitted to the rear wheel, allowing for a smooth uphill climb even when tired.
Pierre Coubertin adjusted his breathing and continued pedaling at a steady rhythm, leaving one opponent after another behind.
He even overtook the rider who had removed his mudguards; the latter's frame seemed to have a problem, and he was annoyedly squatting by the roadside inspecting it.
His position kept moving forward, gradually entering the leading group of about twenty to thirty riders, pacing at the front.
Sweat soaked his shirt, clinging damply to his back; the wind blew across his hot face, bringing a touch of coolness.
But he felt exceptionally refreshed.
He sped past freshly harvested wheat fields, the remaining stubble gleaming golden in the sunlight;
In the distance, ancient farmhouses stood quietly among rolling hills, with wisps of smoke curling from their red-tiled roofs;
In the occasional small villages he passed, dogs barked, children stopped their games of chase, and villagers stood by the roadside, curiously waving and cheering at them.
Some even spontaneously prepared cool water drawn from wells, placing it on tables by the roadside for the riders to drink.
These sights could not be seen or experienced from inside a closed carriage.
In the afternoon, a dark cloud drifted across the sky, releasing a sudden sun shower, and the road instantly became muddy and slippery.
Riders cursed the terrible weather, but could only grit their teeth and push on.
Soon, rain and mud caked their eyes and splashed all over their trousers, making the already tiring journey even harder.
One rider fell after riding over slippery moss, rolling in the mud.
Pierre Coubertin and several other riders stopped to help the fallen rider and his bike before rejoining the race.
As the sun set, and the horizon glowed orange, the exhausted riders finally reached the first day's finish line, "Saint-Victor Town".
In the town square, rows of neat olive-green canvas tents had already been set up.
The town's only inn, "The Plough," and several larger private homes were also rented to accommodate the riders.
Of the thousand riders who started, less than two-thirds remained; many collapsed as soon as they entered the town, sitting or lying on the ground, gasping for breath.
Staff and temporarily hired townspeople moved among them, distributing drinking water and food.
When night completely enveloped Saint-Victor Town, the square was livelier and more boisterous than on any festival night.
Riders who completed the first day's race broke free from their restraints and flocked to the town's small taverns and cafes, quickly drinking up all the stocked beer, cider, and wine.
They simply lit a bonfire in the center of the cobblestone square, and someone, from who knows where, got an accordion and played cheerful folk dance music.
Among them were noble scions and bank clerks from Paris, as well as provincial artisans, academy students, and young people from the countryside...
Riders of different bicycle types, youths from different social strata, had at this moment set aside competition and erased identity differences, leaving only the camaraderie forged through shared trials.
They gathered around the crackling flames, sharing food, drinks, and tobacco, recounting the day's thrilling experiences.
Laughter, singing, French with various accents, the sound of the accordion... echoed and intertwined in the warm night sky.
The air was filled with the scent of roasted meat, alcohol, sweat, and bonfire.
Pierre Coubertin sat on a log by the bonfire, holding a glass of wine, his body and mind filled with an inexpressible sense of emotion.
He looked at the happy faces illuminated by the firelight, each brimming with excitement, frankness, and friendliness...
This simple emotional bond, naturally forged in challenges, transcended identity and background, feeling more real and touching than any salon he had attended in Paris.
This was not just a race; it was more like a collective pilgrimage, a rediscovery of oneself and one's companions.
"To the survivors of today!"
A voice rang out, and a rough earthenware wine cup reached over, gently clinking against his cup.
Pierre Coubertin awoke from his reverie and turned to look.
A man had sat down on the log beside him at some point, his face somewhat blurred in the flickering firelight.
The man took a sip of wine, his gaze sweeping over the boisterous, celebrating crowd:
"Look at them, just a few hours ago, they were fiercely competing, overtaking each other for a curve, a hill-top.
Now, they can sit together and share the last bit of bread and sausage like long-lost brothers. No distinction of identity, forgotten social status...
This is the true spirit of sports, isn't it?"
Pierre's heart stirred; this was precisely the idea he had vaguely felt moments ago, so he nodded vigorously.
The man seemed not to need his answer, continuing in a calm tone:
"In sports, in the face of shared hardships and challenges, people can set aside prejudices, understand each other, form friendships, and unite.
Of course, fair competition is also necessary; it stimulates potential, promotes progress: higher, faster, stronger.
But ultimately, in the long journey of life, lasting friendship is often more important than temporary victory or defeat!"
These words were like a resounding bell, striking directly at Coubertin's heart, lighting a beacon for his muddled thoughts and dispelling the fog.
Sports!
It is not merely a display of individual heroism; it is a great force capable of transcending class, regional, and language barriers, promoting human communication and elevating the spiritual realm!
This idea, like a seed, instantly took root in his heart.
He abruptly turned his head, eager to clearly see this kindred spirit who had hit the mark with his words.
A night breeze blew, and an exceptionally bright tongue of flame suddenly shot up, its orange-red light clearly illuminating the face close at hand...
But Pierre Coubertin instantly recognized the face that frequently appeared in newspapers.
He almost exclaimed:
"Ah! You are So..."
Lionel Sorel quickly raised his index finger to his lips, making a silencing gesture.
He raised his rough earthenware wine cup again, signaling to Pierre:
"Good luck, young man. Get some rest early; tomorrow's journey is still long."
After speaking, he tilted his head back, drained the remaining wine in his cup, then put down the empty cup, stood up agilely, and quietly left the bonfire, disappearing in an instant into the deep night and the clamor of human voices.
(End of chapter)