They are, almost certainly, the most famous words ever written in any book about cycling: Meyrueirs, Lozère, June 26, 1997. Hot and overcast. I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching form sidewalk cafés.Non-racers. The emptiness of those lives shocks me.
They are the opening words in Tim Krabbé’s The Rider, the cycling memoir masquerading as novel, originally published in the Netherlands in 1978. They perfectly set the tone for the book itself: laconic, filled with diary-like, banal observations, but then subtly exploding into terse kernels of truth, pathos, and caustic humor.
The Rider, which did not appear in English until 2002, has become a touchstone in cycling, passed like samizdat among a clandestine tribe. It wasn’t long after I set…