September 16, 2026
Through the summer, as the Tour de France, Vuelta a Espana and Tour de France Femmes unfolded, we saw images of riders struggling up mountains at the back of the race, fighting to make it to the finish line within the allotted time. Behind them is a van, with Voiture Balai, or Broomwagon, painted on the front. The Broomwagon is always there, at the back of the motorcade that follows the peloton, haunting and taunting the riders. It is usually a minibus, or van that is large enough to hold a dozen or so riders. There are signs on the front and back signifying its purpose and, often, a couple of brooms strapped to the mirrors. It is there to ‘sweep’ up the struggling riders, who lag far behind the racing peloton and quit the race, ensuring the roads can reopen for traffic within a reasonable time and that no rider is left stranded. It signifies the end of the spectacle, the closing of the curtains, and time for the audience to head home. I rode in it twice, early in my career, and neither memory is pleasant.
In the back of a labourer’s panel van put in use for the day as a broomwagon, I gripped the wooden bench, bracing my body from movement but also to stabilize the bench, which was similar to those we had in the gymnasium of my high school. The heat was unbearable as we drove through the undulating arid countryside around Toledo, behind the peloton, which was splittering with each ascent of what was the final stage of a weeklong race. The bench tilted and tipped as we turned or the driver shifted gears. Flamenco played on the radio as he puffed away on a cigarette with his young son beside him. The radio faded in and out, losing reception, as we moved slowly behind the dropped riders. A pack of six bottled water, still wrapped in plastic, sat beside the bench. The plastic was hot to the touch. I was in the broomwagon because I had fallen on the first descent of the stage. The crash was unlike others, as I hit a rider in front of who had fallen and landed on him in the gravel. I had no scratches but was covered in dust like a baseball player who had slid to get on base. My back was immediately sore. The team encouraged me to get back on, as my fitness was good, I was near the top of the overall classification, and we all needed the results. The team directeur sportif left me at the roadside to push on, unaware my vertebrae were shattered, because, really, I looked fine. I rode for a few kilometers, only to realize, I couldn’t make it any further, not for lack of will but for the pain. The broomwagon was already behind me, looming. I pulled over, unclipped and climbed in. The driver had no pity hustling me with impatience to get in the back of the van, as if we had somewhere to be, but really we only had the long slow drive to the finish line ahead of us. I guess it was his son who had put my bike in a pick-up that followed us. The broomwagon is a symbol of everything unglamorous in cycling.
During every major tour we see images of riders fighting to make it to the finish, often sick or bleeding, with laboured pedalstrokes as the broomwagon looms, ready to pull up behind them if they stop to retire from the race or are outside of the time limit. Defeated, their bikes will be loaded on a trailer, and they’ll board the bus which will continue its slow procession to the finish line.
Cameras will follow those who are the stars of the sport in their moment of misery, as the weight of the race and the pain it can bring lifts and is replaced by the sense of failure. Those photos will be alongside the next day’s headlines. Adding to the ceremony of defeat, the commisaires used to unpin the rider’s numbers to ensure they didn’t hitch a lift and somehow jump back in the race. Timing chips now used in most races save the riders the added embarrassment.
Still in their racing clothing, soaked in sweat or rainwater, covered in grime, the riders will sit in the bus, often for hours, as it creeps along behind the race, following the slowest as they fight on against the temptation to pull over to end the pain. When the bus passes the spectators at the side of the road they will be packing up to head home. They will glance over their shoulders to peer into the bus to see those who the race has broken, deepening the guilt, shame and failure the riders who quit often feel. In the broomwagon there is only time for reflection. For some there is a sense of relief that the fight has finally ended while for others, who are ill or wounded, they’ll think about the months of training, the sacrifice they have given to be in the race chasing a dream, and how it has vanished in the blink of an eye. In a week, they may be healthy again but the sting of having to quit will last.
Paris Roubaix has the most crowded broomwagon of the racing season, as the attrition rate is higher than at any other race. When the weather is at its worst, I’ve heard stories of there being no room left on board and riders having to find alternative transport. Mud covered bikes are piled onto the overfilled racks in haste. Dirt and mud cover the seats as the riders settle in. They listen to their race radios catching clips of the action, as they try to find out what’s going on in the race and how their teammates are doing. In the broomwagon, they can laugh about the circumstances, and their shared experience and perhaps, for that it is also the most jovial broomwagon of the year. Everyone has a story from their race, that only those who have ridden can empathize with.
Fortunately for most racers, they may only ride in the broomwagon a few times in their careers. In the pro ranks the vehicles may be more comfortable but they rarely feel welcoming, even though some drivers may try to be upbeat to lift the riders’ spirits. Racers hitch a ride less frequently now as teams have their own vehicles across the course to pick up those who can no longer race on. One year in the Tour of Holland, the final stage was raced under pouring cold rain. Dropped from the lead peloton the majority of our team had no reason to race on as they were no longer of help to team leaders. Their bikes were loaded to a team car as the car raced along behind the peloton, passing groups of dropped riders to get to the finish line as quickly as possible. With the timing chips still on the bikes, the car crossed the finish line. The next day, when we looked online the riders who had quit were all in the results, just behind the lead group and in front of all those who had struggled to finish.
Although just a van driving behind a bike race, the broomwagon signifies something greater. In a sport with no time outs, no substitutions, months of restricted diets, cuts, scrapes, broken bones, time away from families, and hours of training, the broomwagon signifies the end of the line, for the race or longer. It is a ride few cyclists ever want to be forced to take but also one they know will get them safely heading towards home.