🌀 Remco Evenepoel and the Golden Derailleur: A Liège–Bastogne–Liège Fan Fiction
Shimano built him a smarter derailleur. It sent him back to 1980—and then to 2011, 1969, 1997. Remco must ride through Liège’s greatest hits to make it home.
Hello cycling fans,
Happy Friday! One of the most arduous races on the calendar and the last of the Spring Classics is coming up this Sunday: Liège–Bastogne–Liège, the oldest Monument in pro cycling, first held in 1892. Known as La Doyenne—“The Old Lady”—it’s a race that rewards grit, timing, and an appetite for steep climbs. Eddy Merckx won it five times. Bernard Hinault once conquered it in a snowstorm. And now it may just be Remco Evenepoel’s era. Maybe.
So, I wrote up a new fan fiction; this time starring Remco, a golden derailleur fit for an Olympic champ, and a glitch that sends him spinning out through decades of LBL lore. One second he’s attacking Tadej Pogačar on La Redoute, the next he’s behind Hinault in a blizzard, trying to shift out of 1980 and back into 2025.
It’s a little sci-fi, yes, but hang in there. I’m sure you’ll love it.
In real life, you can catch the race this Sunday, April 27, with live coverage starting at 6 a.m. EDT on FloBikes and Peacock. Here are the men’s startlist and the women’s startlist powered by FirstCycling.
Enjoy!
–Rosael
Remco Evenepoel and the Golden Derailleur
The skies over Liège hung heavy—gray, wet, and indecisive. A cold wind curled through the Belgian countryside, and the roads glistened with dampness. This was no victory parade for those still chasing one-day glory. Liège–Bastogne–Liège is the last and most brutal chance in the Ardennes. The climbs come stacked and crooked, the legs are already tired, and the race rarely forgives.
But, Remco Evenepoel, fresh off a win at De Brabantse Pijl and a podium at Amstel Gold, showed up feeling fresh and with yet another gold-painted piece of gear bolted to his bike.
Trying new tech on a day like this? Bold. Possibly stupid. But the derailleur was gold. Literally. And Remco was grinning, feeling ready to undertake the seemingly unbeatable Tadej Pogačar and make up for his mistakes at La Flèche Wallonne.
Shimano, eager to keep its Belgian marquee rider ahead of the tech curve, had slipped a prototype rear derailleur onto his Specialized Tarmac SL8—one that supposedly micro adjusted shifting based on rider effort and terrain prediction. It matched the Olympic accents stitched and printed into his Soudal–Quick-Step kit and airbrushed onto his bike. Just enough gleaming gold to remind people.
But no one told Remco that this small and essential piece of gear also contained a quantum coil. “Beta mode for the golden boy,” the mechanic said with a wink, tightening the bolt. “Let us know how it feels.”
Remco nodded. Tapped his hood twice. And rolled out into the gray along with the rest of the peloton.
By the race’s midpoint, the peloton was a tightrope strung across the Ardennes—taut, trembling, and waiting to snap.
Rob Hatch, on the TNT stream: “This is the moment the race narrows. The break has been caught, the games begin. You can feel it.”
Sean Kelly: “You don’t wait in Liège. You hit them when they’re looking sideways.”
In the bunch: Pogačar, cloaked in his blacked-out World Champion kit, still wore shadows under his eyes from Flèche. Grégoire sat deep in the line, sunglasses on, bluffing or biding time. Skjelmose looked patched together, Nys jittered with adrenaline, and Pidcock? He looked like a man who knew today might finally go his way.
And Remco? Remco looked bored. Not tired or tense. Just… annoyed by the pacing, the poker faces, the lack of action.
Soul–Quick-Step DS radio: “Remco, you good?”
Remco, dry: “I’m in the middle of a royal tea party and nobody’s poured anything yet.”
Enough was enough. On the Col du Rosier, the bunch stretched. Riders blinked, repositioned. But Remco didn’t wait. He ghosted up the left side—no warning, no wind-up. Just a full-body decision. He stood on the pedals and pounced with a quiet violence putting a rupture in the rhythm.
Soul–Quick-Step DS: “Remco? Confirm move—are you going solo now?”
Remco: “Too late to ask.”
Pogačar followed instantly, the rainbow stripes on his back slicing through the haze. Behind them, Skjelmose twitched and slipped. Nys surged and imploded. Grégoire muttered and watched. Pidcock chased ghosts.
Rob Hatch: “Oh Mary, me! Evenepoel is going—and Pogačar is the only one who dares to follow!”
Sean Kelly: “Retirement, me arse.”
The duo blasted through Côte de Desnié, the gradient biting at tired legs. No one else made the bridge. The others hesitated and that was enough.
Then—La Redoute didn’t build, it ambushed. Crooked and cruel, lined with fans and foghorns. It didn’t ask for patience, it demanded ego.
Remco stood again, clean and crisp. And that’s where Pogačar cracked. Glorious, gallant, tired. He puffed out a laugh and muttered, “This tiger’s spring is over.” He couldn’t follow.
Remco didn’t look back. Three race days all spring. Two podiums. Legs fresh as lettuce. Mind sharp as vinegar. And just like that, he was alone.
Near Sprimont, just as the road began to twist like a ribbon left in the sun, Remco’s cadence stuttered. He tapped his shifter once. Then again. Nothing.
Remco: “My derailleur is stuck.”
DS: “Stay calm—we’re coming up.”
The team car glided alongside. A mechanic leaned out with a multitool, made some tweaks—then a faint click.
The bike shimmered. The road bent.
Remco: “What was that?”
The mechanic paled. “That… shouldn’t have happened.”
Then—everything… shifted.
Not a shift, but a surge. The air folded and the road bent.
Remco: “Something’s happening. The bike feels wrong. Really wrong.”
The radio cut. The TV stuttered. In the team car, the screen blinked:
ERROR: NULL TIME
Everyone stopped talking.
Remco disappeared.
Remco blinked—and saw a blizzard. Chaos. A time fracture. It was April 20, 1980. The Côte de Stockeu was buried in snow, one of those freak spring storms Belgium conjures out of spite.
Up the road: Bernard Hinault, the Badger. Sleeves rolled. Chin down. Riding like he had a grudge against the weather.
Remco knew this story—Hinault would win solo, nearly ten minutes ahead of Hennie Kuiper. A gap so absurd it became legend.
He squinted through the flurries, eyes stinging, body shaking.
Remco: “Nope. Nope. Nope.”
Hinault, glancing back: “You gonna pedal or philosophize?”
Remco groaned. “You’re real chatty for a vision.”
Hinault smirked. “You want to ride with legends? Earn it.”
Remco stood. Shifted. And time cracked again.
Now it was April 24, 2011, and Remco was behind Philippe Gilbert, resplendent in Belgian champion stripes. Gilbert had already won the Amstel Gold Race and La Flèche Wallonne—and now he was going for the triple.
Frank Schleck was trying to hold the wheel. Andy had already cracked. Gilbert surged on the Côte de la Roche aux Faucons, dropped Schleck, and never looked back.
Remco tucked in, watching every micro-adjustment.
Then—click. Gone again.
Remco found himself behind Eddy Merckx during his first of five Liège wins, in 1969. A 23-year-old with the eyes of a killer and the legs of a god, Merckx had attacked solo from 98 kilometers out.
Remco: “Am I dead?”
Merckx: “No. Just late.”
At the base of a nameless climb, Merckx looked over. “You want this? Prove it. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
Remco shifted.
Click. Now it was 2015 and Alejandro Valverde surged ahead, out-sprinting Julian Alaphilippe and Joaquim Rodríguez to claim his third LBL title.
Click. Suddenly—it was familiar. There he was: riding solo. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked. A slightly younger, just-as-hungry version of himself tearing away toward his first Monument win.
“Damn,” Remco whispered. “That was clean. I better not mess with this.”
Then—click. The years spun: Van Lancker, Valverde, Hinault again. Remco groaned. “Okay, I get it. Legends, legacy, pain, whatever. Just—put me back on the road already!”
One final click. The noise stopped. The fog lifted.
And just like that—he was back.
Back in the present, Remco exhaled—sharp, shaky, half-relieved. The Roche-aux-Faucons loomed ahead, but it felt different now. The road was the same, yet he wasn’t.
The past rode in his bloodstream. He could still feel Hinault’s fury grinding through his quads, Merckx’s cold resolve in his chest, Gilbert’s timing echoing in his pulse.
DS radio: “Remco! Do you copy? You dropped off the GPS!”
Remco: “My shifting was acting up. I’m good now.”
DS (muttering, off-radio): “Jesus. What, did he fall off the map?”
Then—click. He went.
Rob Hatch: “Where did he come from?! Evenepoel is still solo—and he’s flying!”
Sean Kelly: “That’s not just form. That’s something else. That’s every ghost of Liège riding in his legs.”
Behind whatever just happened up the road, the race reset itself into chaos. Pogačar cracked for real this time, legs emptied by weeks of glory—he slid to sixth wheel, head down, stripes zipped tight. Skjelmose and Pidcock traded grimaces and half-hearted pulls on the false flat to Ans. Neither trusted the other. Both knew the podium was slipping. O’Connor, sensing hesitation, launched.
But ahead, Remco had the win in the bag. He crossed solo, 39 seconds clear. O’Connor took second with a roar. Pidcock, with a bike throw, beat Skjelmose to the line for third.
As he crossed the finish line in Liège, Remco didn’t raise his arms. He rolled over the line. No big celebration. No roar. Just quiet breath, glassy eyes, and a little ice in his hair.
His girlfriend ran up: “Rem… are you okay?” A drop slid down her cheek. Snow. “Is that ice in your hair?”
Remco smiled: “Stockeu. ’80. Long story.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you high?”
Remco grinned. “Only on history.”
Before she could press him, a voice cut through the crowd—gravelly, unmistakable.
“You rode well.” Remco turned. Eddy Merckx stood just behind the barriers, hands in his coat pockets, eyes sharp.
Remco blinked. “You look different than earlier.”
Merckx didn’t flinch. “Time does that.”
Then he nodded once, turned, and was gone.
Epilogue: The Shimano Situation Room
Back at HQ, two Shimano engineers stared at the replay.
“So… do we file a bug report or a patent?”
“Depends. Which firmware was that?”
“Beta. Quantum Sync 1.2.3.”
On screen, the derailleur pulsed faintly—still gold, still glowing.
The door creaked open. The team mechanic strolled in, holding a mug that read: I Void Warranties.
“You worked on his bike, right? Did he say anything?”
The mechanic shrugged. “Said it ‘felt right.’ Then he disappeared.”
“Disappeared where?”
A pause.
“Said something about altitude camp. Or... Alpe d’Huez, 1986.”
“Brilliant,” one of the engineers murmured.
“Lemond. Hinault. Tactics.”
“Call SRAM,” the other said. “See if they’ve had any temporal anomalies.”
The end.