Belgium has been no different to the majority of Europe this
past week, each morning I’ve awoken to see the rain being propelled
horizontally past my bedroom window. On
a training day this isn’t so much of a problem as I don the rain cape and head
out into the wind watching the minute hand crawl by on my watch. Sunday’s race was to be 120km in the small
village of Kortenaken. With myself and
my roommate sat in the warmth of my car before the start, the heavens
opened. I elected to start the race
warm, so contrary to every fitness DVD you’ll ever watch I sat in the car until
a couple of minutes to go, watching as the field of 150 or so began to shiver
under the start banner. The race took
off in classic kermisse style with riders throwing caution to the very strong
wind. A group of 8 slipped away very
early and proceeded to pull out a good gap after 30km or so. After 80km I made my main break away
attempt. I moved up the side of the
bunch as the road climbed out of the village, sitting in the saddle to save my
energy for one big push. As we
approached the crest of the hill I made my move, clicking through the gears and
stringing the bunch out in my wake. I
pressed on as hard as I could over the top, trying to break the elastic of the
peloton. In a moment of Shakespearean drama
the hail kicked in just as my legs began to burn, the pea sized balls bouncing
off the road and stinging any exposed flesh.
I had pulled out a bit of a gap but with only two of us sharing the
workload and 100 riders bearing down on us the move was doomed. The attempt had however given me hope that I
could make a late surge. A crash in the
bunch late on split the peloton just before the crosswind section. I absolutely buried myself to get across to
these riders but even at 50kmp/h I was a mere 10 yards off the back and unable
to close the gap. I settled into the
main echelon thinking of a way to avoid a bunch sprint. My opportunity came with just 6km
remaining. I rode solo across a small
gap of maybe 10 seconds to a promising group of 9 riders. I made the juncture just before the cross
wind section. We worked together as well
as a bunch of selfish, tired and soaked riders could be expected to, swinging
onto the finishing straight a handful of seconds ahead of a 60 man peloton. I played my hand early in the gallop, kicking
with 400 metres to go on the climb, as the lactate kicked in tactics went out
the window and I pushed desperately on the pedals absent style or
technique. I took 7th in the
sprint, 31st on the day… good enough to claim 10 euros.
Wednesday was to be 120km of
rolling terrain on the farm roads around Kumtich. The conditions were, in a word horrendous. This wasn’t lost on the commissaire who gave
each rider a pondering look as we put pen to paper, his mind clearly wondering
whether we were all masochists. The wind touched 80kmp/h, the rain threatened
to washout the car park and a 6pm start ensured any hope of decent daylight was
rapidly fading. As a general rule, if a
kermisse starts easy then the riders will make it hard, if a race starts off
hard then I would normally leave the car running in expectation of being sat in
it within the hour! The bunch rolled out of the start, straight up a hill and
out into the exposed farm roads. I had
managed no more than 4km when the race began to pull apart in an example of
natural selection that Darwin himself would be proud of. The echelons of riders spanned the width of
the road, every man desperate for shelter from the wind. I found myself in the 3rd split, a
quick glance in front and behind showed the field ravaged into more lines than
you'd see in an after school detention. 160 riders
had started and by lap 2, 50 had hit the showers early. I plugged away in my group rotating through
the echelon, taking my turn in the wind.
We pressed on, mopping up riders who had cracked further up the
road. The effort required in the cross
wind was immense; the stronger riders taking the opportunity to put everyone in
difficulty leaving only the fittest to make the finish. With the field well and truly decimated after
75km my group continued to batter around the course, the ever looming presence
of the broom wagon (last vehicle in the race) bearing down on us. I finished like a drowned rat, tired but with
the satisfaction of knowing I was starting to become a hardened Belgian as only
42 finished from 160 starters. I
coincidentally was 36th. My performance had been gritty, certainly
my clothing weighed considerably more, laden with thousands of years of Belgium’s
finest dirt. The way the road muck
smeared itself across my teeth and burrows into every crevice… a souvenir if
one were needed!
I don’t normally mention recovery
rides; they’re effectively a day of pootling along bike paths at tourist
speed. Thursdays ride was in every way a
normal spin until I heard the call of ‘passop’ from behind, never a good sound
as it meant I was soon to be overtaken… gulp.
I glanced over to be nothing less than star struck. Swooping past me no more than 2 kilometres
from my house was Belgium’s favourite son Tom Boonen. He lives in nearby Mol but his god like
status in Belgium means he spends most of his time in Monaco. I tagged onto the back of him for a couple of
kilometres, regretting I had neither my camera for a photo or a pen for a
signed jersey. For casual readers this is about as likely as Wayne Rooney
turning up at your local five-a-side league… a humbling experience. Hopefully next time I can talk Tom into a café
stop and I can listen to the great man like a boy scout around a campfire.
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