Everything or nothing, in a moment. Roubaix — just like life.
The day after Paris–Roubaix is not a normal day. You are back home with your family, but the noise, the excitement and the aches are still there.
We find Emīls at home, a little tired but still happy to talk about his Paris–Roubaix.
Emīls Liepiņš is a Latvian rider living ten minutes from Riga, together with his wife Anete and their two children, Beatrise and Zemgus.
There is something almost contradictory about Paris–Roubaix. It is chaos and clarity, violence and beauty, all at once. And for a rider like Emīls Liepiņš, it begins long before the first cobblestone.
The night before, everything slows down, but only on the surface.
Sleep comes easily, as it always does for professionals used to racing at the highest level. Yet somewhere beneath that calm, something is different. Not fear, not even real stress, just a sharper awareness of what lies ahead.
"Roubaix can bring you opportunities. Roubaix can bring you disappointments. Roubaix can bring you everything. You never know. Even if you are helping the team… if you are in a break, you can go for a really high result. This can change your career."
It is that “everything” that makes it unique. Every rider on the start line knows it. Even those with a defined role, even those there to work for others, carry a quiet thought with them into the night. It is not a dream. It is a possibility. And in Roubaix, that is enough.
Morning arrives without ceremony. The routine is the same, the gestures familiar. But the feeling is not: “You wake up and you are fully switched on.”
There is no gradual build-up. No need to search for focus. It is already there, fully formed, waiting.
The outside world begins to filter in, messages, calls, small reminders that today is not just another race. From family first, then from a country that, for one day, is watching more closely than usual.
"In Latvia, cycling is not so popular. But Roubaix… a lot of people are watching. You get many messages. And then you understand, this will be a big day."
For Liepiņš, that connection carries responsibilities and honour. He is not just another rider in the bunch: “I’m just a rider from Latvia. When I see the flag, they are looking for me.” And somewhere in that awareness, the race becomes something slightly bigger than itself.
At the start line, the poetry is real, but it is brief.
There is a moment, just a moment, where everything aligns. The history, the legends, the simple fact of being there: “For most riders, it’s a dream just to be there.”
And then, almost immediately, the dream gives way to reality. Even before the official start, the tension snaps into place:
"In this kind of race, even the neutral start is different. Ninety per cent of the bunch is already fighting for position."
There is no easing in. No soft opening. Roubaix demands everything from the first metre. Adrenaline surges, sharp and immediate, but it must be controlled: “You can burn yourself fast. You need to keep your mind clear. Ride with your head.”
Because this is not just a race of strength. It is a race of restraint.
The early kilometres are carried by instinct. Not pain, not yet—but anticipation:
"I was thinking all the time, this is an opportunity. One moment I was too excited. Following too many moves. Then I told myself, calm down. Ride smarter."
It is a constant negotiation between instinct and control. Between the urge to act and the discipline to wait.
And then, inevitably, the race reveals itself. Arenberg. Not as a place, but as an impact. The entrance is fast, almost violent. A downhill rush into noise and movement and uncertainty: “You don’t even hear your bike. Only voices… crashes… everything.”
There is no space to think. Only to react. A crash ahead. A bike lying across the cobbles. No time to go around: “I jumped over it. And I was like, okay… I’m still on the bike.” And in that instant, everything simplifies. Not the race. Not the effort. Just the focus: “Just keep the middle. Don’t change your line.” It becomes a mantra. A rule to survive by. Because on these stones, every deviation has a cost. Every hesitation opens the door to chaos.
The cobbles strike back with every metre. The tyres compress, again and again, down to the rim: “Three times I felt it, boom. But still no puncture.”
Around him, the race fractures. Riders stopped. Others falling. Even the strongest are not immune. No punctures. In Roubaix, that alone is a victory. There is a hidden logic to the madness.
“Punctures come when riders start to stress. When they change lines.”
So he doesn’t. He stays in the centre. Trusts the line. Trusts the preparation: “I was comfortable on the cobbles. Comfortable on the tarmac.” It sounds simple. It never is.
As the race stretches on, the fatigue begins to surface—not suddenly, but gradually, like a weight that becomes impossible to ignore. Still, he remains there. At the front. In the race: “I was right there with the leaders. For a long time.”
The role is clear, support, sacrifice, execution. But within that, there is something personal taking shape: “I did a big race for myself.”
But even in that moment, there is a quiet satisfaction: “I blew up from the front. Not from the back.”
And then, in the final sectors, the illusion disappears completely.
There is no more strategy. No more calculation. Only distance. And the effort required to close it: “You really count the kilometres.” Every sector feels longer than the last. Every acceleration heavier. Every wheel harder to follow: “I could not follow any more.”
This is the brutal truth of Paris–Roubaix. It strips everything away until only the essential remains.
And still, riders come back. Year after year, again and again. Not in spite of this brutality but because of it. That is Roubaix. A race that offers no guarantees, no protection, no certainty.
Only the chance, just the chance, that for a few hours, in the dust or the mud, in the noise or in the silence, everything might align. And in that fragile, unpredictable space, a rider might discover something more than a result.
Something that stays with you.
