It grew from a rumble, a low chorus of a group in suspense. Wout van Aert was on Pogačar’s wheel in the Roubaix velodrome and people weren’t daring to hope - yet. Another few turns of the pedals and Van Aert was pushing ahead of Pogačar. The crowd roared.
But this chorus of joy wasn't playing out in Northern France, or in a small bar in Flanders. I’d just walked into Herne Hill Velodrome’s club room in South London with three precious minutes of race time left, and the atmosphere was electric.
