Words: The decline of Campagnolo? Part II

Before I floated the idea, I knew what the guy behind the counter at my local bike shop would say. But I went ahead anyway and said, “I’m building up a bike and thinking about using Campy.” I stepped back and waited for his reaction. He took a deep breath, gave himself some extra time to think of a diplomatic response. “I wouldn’t recommend that,” he said. When I asked why, he said that Campy still makes some of the best components in the industry, but the company’s service is light years behind the competition. He looked relieved when he saw me nodding in agreement as he talked. He shared a simple example. Once a customer needed a spring for a shifter and had to wait four months for it to be delivered. Yes, four months! This didn’t make sense to me. How could this be true in our modern age? Isn’t just-in-time delivery a standard now in most industries? I asked for an explanation, but he said he found it equally as bizarre. He shrugged and said, “Hey, it’s an Italian company They do things differently.”

Speed kills in the business world nowadays, and I think slow, stodgy service is one of Campy’s biggest problems. I don’t buy that crap from the Campy marketing guy quoted in Cycle Sport who said the company is a Ferrari brand that can’t compete on a mass scale with Toyota and Chevy. “We all have to protect our souls, our DNA,” he said. What a butch of bull. It really comes down to caring about customers like me. I suspect inefficiencies, ancient logistics are holding Campy back the most, decreasing its market share at such a rapid speed. It pains me to write this because I’ve long been a Campy fan. I have a Record gruppo on my Moots. I’ve been willing to pay the Campy price because I love the quality and beauty of the gear.

I’m also sucker for tradition and history. It’s hard to find another brand that has played such a big role in our beautiful sport. One of my favorite Campy stories is the one about the World Championships in 1973 when Freddy Maertens was leading out Eddy Merckx in a sprint against Fellice Gimondi. The Italian won and Maertens claimed that Merckx knew he wasn’t strong enough to beat Gimondi but tricked his Belgian teammate into leading him out anyway. Maertens claims Merckx wanted Gimondi to win because they were both riding Campy, while Maertens was equipped with Shimano. (Merckx claimed Maertens botched the lead-out by going to soon). Anyway, few other brands could inspire such passion and loyalty?

Although I’ve long considered myself a Campy man, I’m fed up with the Medieval service and the hassle and worry of finding parts. Since last summer, I’ve been trying to replace the bearings on my Campy Zonda training wheels. Most of the shops will do the obligatory computer search of their suppliers before telling me they can’t find them. One guy spent 30 minutes flipping through thick parts catalogues and surfing the Web before he gave up. Frustrated, I said, “Why is it getting harder and harder to find Campy parts in this damn country?” He told me that my anger was misdirected. The difficulty of finding Campy parts was a problem worldwide.  ”Shimano’s sales in Italy alone are now bigger than Campy’s global sales,” he said. I haven’t been able to verify that factoid, but I’ve mentioned it to others in the industry who are far more knowledgeable than I am and they found it credible.

The Cycle Sport article makes a good point when it says that Campy is ”far from being a stuffy, lagging-behind, retro brand.” It notes that Campy continues to develop products on the cutting edge of technology and design. Campy might have beaten Shimano to the market with an  electronic groupset if it hadn’t decided to focus more on developing its 11-speed cassettes. The Super Record 11 Group was voted best product of 2010 in Cyclingnews.com’s survey. So there appears to be a lot of life left in Campy.

Sometimes it’s good to be No. 3. Last year, James Surowiecki wrote an outstanding essay in The New Yorker about this topic. He looked at the top three makers, by market share, of computer games. I’m blissfully ignorant about this stuff and can’t recall all of the names of the companies. Anyway, Surowiecki’s point was that the No. 1 and 2 brands lost a ton of money slashing their prices in a bid to grab market share from each other. They also spent a bunch on marketing and advertising wars. Meanwhile, the No. 3 company mostly focused on refining its existing products and developing really good new ones. The No. 3 company ended up with a superior product line, higher profits and more loyal customers willing to spend more on their games. Could Campy achieve this, too? Is the company doing it already? Again, it would be fantastic if a cycling  journalist who also knows how to write a solid business story would take a look at the issue.

In the meantime, I’m not going to buy Campy anymore. I’ve never been much of a gear head. I’d rather be riding my bike than obsessing about equipment. Cost isn’t a huge concern for me because I’m happy to spend money on important things, and cycling is one of the essentials in my life. I’ll brown bag it at work and skip Starbucks to save money for my cycling addiction. What I really care about is durability and availability. My job frequently takes me and my bike to emerging markets where Campy simply isn’t available. I really need to be  able to get my bike fixed on the road.  So I’m switching to SRAM.

“A Sunday in Hell”: Hanging or being crafty?

The Eurovision TV cameraman is sitting on the back of a motorbike that’s roaring along  just behind the lead group of four riders in Paris-Roubaix in 1976. The race is being televised live now with only about an hour left. It must have been thrilling to listen to the early part of the race on the radio, then see the battle explode into images on TV just as the racing really gets heated.

Welcome back to our weekly series that takes a look at a scene or two from one of the world’s best cycling documentaries, “A Sunday in Hell.” Last week, we left off with Eddy Merckx inexplicably missing the most crucial break in the race. Roger De Vlaeminck was able to slip away with Francesco Moser, Marc Demeyer and Hennie Kuiper, wearing the world champion’s rainbow jersey.

This week, we pick up the race with a view of the back of the Eurovision cameraman’s red jacket as he follows the lead group on motorbike. “The live transmission has begun,” the narrator says. “And we’re into the final hour of Hell.”

We leave the race momentarily and find ourselves in a Eurovision studio, where three TV producers babble away in French as they watch the race shown on several small monitors mounted to the wall.

The camera moves back to the race and we’re shown the riders and their team cars tearing across the last stretch of pave. They kick up so much dirt and dust that it is hard to see the screaming fans lining the “road.” Despite all the flying debris, none of the riders wear sunglasses or any other form of eye protection. Nor do they have bike computers or race radios. It was a time when you raced by feeling.

The narrator counts how much time the leaders have on the chasers: “…10 seconds…15…20…25…30…35…40…45……….and here comes Merckx, Godefroot and the others. … More than a minute behind De Vlaeminck and the others.”

He adds, “Some of the worst pave lies close to Roubaix, and on these mishapen roads and amid these dust clouds, a lot can happen.”

Moser leads around a sharp corner and almost goes off the road as he dodges a race motorcyle that’s stuck in a ditch.  After the four leaders clear the tricky turn, a pack of race motorcycles panic and gets jammed up as they try to negotiate the turn. There’s chaos as team cars race up to the spot and then slam on their breaks and wait for the motorcycles to untangle themselves. The fans lining the road start going nuts and yell at the motorbikes as a couple gendarmes start blowing their whistles, trying to restore order and unclog the road.

 Just as the meyhem gets sorted out, the human locomotive Merckx pulls his train around the corner. “Now there are only 12 men in Merckx’s group,” the narrator says. “The rest are scattered in the dust.”

There’s an aerial shot of De Vlaeminck at the front of his group. The narrator explains that De Vlaeminck and Moser are doing all the work while Demeyer and Kuiper draft on them.

“Neither Demeyer or Kuiper take the lead. They are just hanging on or are they being crafty and saving their strength?” he says. “Demeyer glues himself to De Vlaeminck’s rear wheel. He’s been in that position since the start of the breakaway. He’s still marking De Vlaeminck. In so doing, he’s furthering the war that Maertens and De Vlaeminck are waging against each other.”

“A Sunday in Hell”: The decisive move

With the body of a power lifter, Walter Godefroot takes the lead. The wind blows back his gritty hair and exposes his tan forehead as he rattles over the cobbles at a great speed. “Now it’s his turn to force the pace so that it hurts,” the narrator says. “Godefroot, the former winner Paris-Roubaix, seems in good form, and he’s riding very well. With his smooth, powerful technique, he’s an expert in this terrain. He’s not nicknamed the ’Bulldog of Flanders’ for nothing.”   

Welcome back to “A Sunday in Hell.” Every Sunday, we try to review  a scene or two from one of the best documentaries about our beautiful but cruel sport. We’re getting close to the finish of the Paris-Roubaix classic in 1976. Last week, we re-witnessed  Freddy Maertens crash out of the race.

Today, we pick up the action with Godefroot at a crucial moment in the race. It’s when Eddy Merckx miscalculates or weakens and misses a decisive breakaway. First, we see a wonderful close-up, slow-motion shot of Godefroot riding in his drops, grinding away over the pave . The watch on his wrist is jiggling from all the intense vibration from the pounding by the primitive stones. Then the camera quickly pulls back and we get a big picture of how the race is developing. Godefroot is not alone.

“Suddenly it happens. Four men have broken away. Godefroot, DeMayer, De Vlaeminck and Kuiper,” the narrator says. “De Vlaeminck looks back and proceeds to increase the speed even more. Notice Demeyer tucked into De Vlaeminck’s slipstream. He’s riding for himself now. The crash by his captain, Maertens, has released him from all obligations.”

This image came up in a search for a Moser photo, but I think it's actually Beppe Saroni. I decided to keep it anyway because it's such a great picture.

About 200 yards behind, there’s a chase group of two French riders, including our old friend Raymond Poulidor. The Frenchmen are riding side by side with barely enough room for another cyclist to fit between them. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, a rider rockets in between them and flies up the road. The narrator identifies him: “It’s Francesco Moser, with his distinctive style. His still, aerodynamic position on the bicycle is an imposing sight of almost effortless rotary action.”

Moser is in his drops with his nose almost touching his front wheel as he powers away from Poulidor, who seemingly can’t hold his wheel for even a second.  Moser bridges the gap, making it five men in the leading group. But wait a minute, Godefroot punctures! From an aerial shot, we see him take his right foot off the pedal and slow down as he rounds a bend. The rest of the group speeds off. A cruel sport, indeed.

The camera moves back to Merckx, who is in serious trouble now.  ”Merckx unaccountably wasn’t there when (the break) happened,” the narrator said, “but naturally, he’s leading the pursuit.”  

 In 2005, Cycle Sport devoted its entire January edition to Eddy Merckx, and it features some great interviews and anecdotes. Some of the most interesting were about the rivalries between Merckx and other Belgian greats, like De Vlaeminck and Godefroot.

De Vlaeminck was quoted as saying his rivalry with the Cannibal was largely built up by the media and fans. He said he admires Merckx and even named his son “Eddy.” But he added, “Merckx made his marriage vows in French, and that angered people in Flanders. I became their champion because of it. I am Flemish through and through, and I won’t even speak French.”

“A Sunday in Hell”: The real thing is the road

Sunday is when we revisit Hell. Not the fiery one. No, a version far worse, one paved with sinister stretches of cobbles that are well described in our favorite cycling documentary, “A Sunday in Hell.”

In our last installment, Eddy Merckx was hammering like a crazed demon, trying to split the field. But he has eased up and the leading bunch is back together again.

The camera skips to the velodrome in Roubaix, where the fans are already waiting for the finish. Some have small transistor radios pressed against their ears. Others are smoking. One guy holds up a sign that says, “Merckx-Moser-Maertens.” They’re being entertained by some track riders. But the narrator adds, “Track racing is onlya substitute. The real thing is the road, and the crowd is awaiting its heroes.”

He adds, “This old track’s most distinguished function has been to provide the setting for the conclusion of one of the world’s greatest road races.”

He says, “Roubaix is close to the Belgian border and today the track is a Mecca for thousands of them.”

“A Sunday in Hell”: A Golden Age

Welcome to the weekly revisit of “A Sunday in Hell,” a fantastic documentary about the 1976 Paris-Roubaix classic. This week, we see a paceline of cyclists barrelling over a brutal stretch of pave that cuts through a farm field. They’re actually riding on a thin ribbon of packed dirt on the road’s shoulder, sparing themselves the jarring, torturous experience of riding over the medieval stones better suited for ox carts and hooved ungulates than thin bicycle wheels.

 The narrator explains that with only about two hours left in the race, the riders are going crazy fast now. It’s hard to hang on to the wheel in front of you. Then he names the leaders. It’s a list that sends a chill up the spine. ”Maertens, Demeyer, Dierickx, Godefroot, De Vlaeminck and Merckx leading,” he says. “Merckx tries to break the others with his tremendous power.” They were all part of a Golden Age in cycling.  I planned to say a bit more about these guys, but I’m not. For those who know them, nothing more needs to be said. We just bow our heads and let ourselves be overcome with nostalgia.  For those who don’t know what I’m talking about: I can’t help you. Please go off and do your homework.

“A Sunday in Hell”: Slogging away

Seated at the keyboard with a micro brew from Michigan served up in a tulip-shaped Duvel glass bought at the Metro superstore in Guangzhou of all places, it’s time to do what we usually do at this time of the week: revisit “A Sunday in Hell.”

The riders are powering over a hilly section of pave. Freddy Maertens, one of the great Flemish riders, gets dropped. The film never explains what happened, but Maertens rides like a madman to catch up. There’s a great shot of him riding alone up a long cobbled hill. I can’t imagine how much effort must be expended to catch riders like Eddy Merckx and Roger DeVlaeminck. I’ve been in this situation (but not behind Merckx, of course!) far too many times, and catching the group often seems nearly impossible.

The narrator says, “There’s not much distance between the two leading packs. In other words, Merckx’s section has closed on DeVlaeminck’s group. There are about 15 men in the first group, and Merckx at the head of the second group commands another 18. But Maertens isn’t in either group. He must have had problems. But there he is, hidden behind a motorcyle, a little ahead of the main field. Now, Maertens must catch up, alone with no help from his teammates. A mile later, and the situatin is fairly obvious. They’re still pounding away in the leading groups. Several in that company don’t want to make it easy for Maertens to join on. … Once again, the Flemish riders are dictating the pace.

Only seven seconds separates Merckx’s group with the lead group. “A merging of all the men who matter is imminent,” the narrator says. “How far back does the hapless Maertens lag behind. He’s got to slog away at it in order not to lose his chance. If the main group swallows him, and they’re not far behind, he risks getting stuck with them. Maertens is a strong rider, particularly in time trials, but it’s remarkable that none of his teammates up ahead has come back in order to help him. The gap is 40 seconds between Maertens and the leaders.”

Maertens does finally get help from his team and he catches up on the group. There’s a great scene with DeVlaeminck’s team car roaring up behind him, with the coach yelling at DeVlaeminck that Maertens has caught up. DeVlaeminck first says, “Huh?” He understands when his coach repeats himself and just puts his head down and starts hammering.

“A Sunday in Hell”: Panic, signs of disintegration

It’s not Sunday yet, but let’s take an early look at the latest installment in our “Sunday in Hell” series for two reasons: 1) I’m going on a trip tomorrow and won’t have time to post in the morning and 2) this is one of my favorite segments and I can’t wait to discuss it. The scene has all the things I love about the documentary: the music, narration and a bold move by Roger DeVlaeminck – one of my all-time favorite cyclists.

Picking up from last week, the riders have hit the first stretch of cobbles. The three-man breakaway has been reduced to one, who is rapidly losing ground. It’s time for the real Belgian hardmen to take control of the race. On a long hill, DeVlaeminck gets out of his saddle and powers past the lead rider, whose name I can’t spell (Many apologies. My background is in Asian languages.)

The narrator says, “But then it happens. The front of the field catches up to him and streams past. It’s Roger DeVlaeminck followed by Walter Plankaert. DeVlaeminck is now in the clear and forcing the pace. There’s panic in the field and signs of disintegration.”

I love that line: “There’s panic in the field and signs of disintegration.” When a friendly weekend group ride becomes a survival-of-the-fittest hammerfest toward the end, and I’m able to start the fun with an attack, I always like to say to myself: “There’s panic in the field and signs of disintegration” as I try to pull away from the group. Invariably, my attack is neutralized by the time I finish the line! But it’s always fun.

As DeVlaeminck opens up a gap and looks back to see if anyone is pursuing, the soundtrack plays a deep, woody cello solo.  The narrator says, “DeVlaeminck continues his tremednous push, not that he intends to go it alone, but rather to provoke a state of alarm and split the field.”

Another great line: “Rather to provoke a state of alarm and split the field.”

The cello continues and we see DeVlaeminck partly shrouded in clouds of dust kicked up on the rural roads by the motorcycles in front of him. Wonderful cinematography.

Next, we hear the deep sound of pounding drums. It’s another Belgian hardman. Freddy Maertens appears in his blood-red Flandria jersey, gripping the top of his bars with his cap turned backwards.

The narrator says, “Behind him (DeVlaeminck) and leading the pursuit is his sworn enemy, Freddy Maertens.” There are more pounding drums as Maertens catches DeVlaeminck.

“But the wild dash for the lead has had a dramatic effect. It took just a couple of miles to split the field, the merciless weeding out process has begun,” the narrator says.

More drums with a long shot of the peloton in disarray, strung out on a dusty, winding farm road.

“