In cycling, to a certain extent, anatomy is destiny. There’s really no good way for Andy Schleck to race like Andre Greipel, or vice versa. Sometimes, temperament is destiny, too. Something about the brain chemistry in a baroudeur like Johnny Hoogerland or Juan Antonio Flecha propels them onto suicidal attacks. These are all fixed states of being as a rider: whether it’s February or October, a sprinter is gonna sprint and a rouleur is gonna roll. Being a Classics rider, though, isn’t so much a state of being as a state of becoming. State of being allows for extremes—Hello, Wiggins! Hello, Kittel!—but a state of becoming is something transient looking for homeostasis. An ideal Classics body—a beefy waif—is hence an oxymoron.