Two weeks ago I was sat on the side of the road, a broken
bike in one hand and what seemed like dashed dreams in the other. It would have been all too easy to go home:
credit cards and the joys of the Eurotunnel have probably claimed many a
vulnerable man in his hour of need. It
seemed I had little to look forward to, so when the opportunity to attend a
Flemish wedding came up I was glad of the hours of diverted attention that it
would offer for me. The wedding was
between Nick, our landlady’s son, and his bride Ellen. I had volunteered my services the week before,
as after the crash I was in need of a good week off the bike. My assistance turned out to be every adolescent
boys dream (no, not that one). I was
given the task of driving the various wedding cars to their destinations the
night before. I was incredibly nervous
as I stepped into the brand spanking new Mercedes. After the first few minutes of getting used
to a left hand drive car, I gave it the beans… and I can confirm that nothing
handles like a hire car! This would
normally set a guy back over 100 euros for the day but I was getting it all for
free! The local girls must have thought I looked a true poser as I donned the
sunglasses, wound down the windows and cruised past the bus stop but how often
would I get the chance to do this again in my life… apparently twice. I capped the night off with a drive home in a
Porsche Boxster. The groom sat chuckling
away in the passenger seat as we both knew the Porsche was wasted on me, I was
so scared of sticking the thing in a hedge I barely had time to enjoy the
drive.
I attended the wedding after party the following
evening. I decided the occasion was a
true one off, so I splashed out on a shirt, dusted off the aftershave and took
my place as the only English man in a beautiful hall of some 200 suited and
gowned flandrians. The free bar was a
nice touch so I toasted the happy couple.
I picked up a few new words on the night just to give the evening an educational
justification. Before long the DJ was
churning out the party tunes one after the other. Interestingly enough it seems that Flanders
has its own mass participation dances that would make even Michael Jackson look
foolish. I seem to remember the chicken
dance… along with the usual Macarena and Conga. By 2am the grandparents had largely cleared
off leaving the DJ to strut his finest dance music. It had been a brilliant evening, a different
experience and as I drove home at some 5am I knew that I had made the right
call staying in Belgium.
By day 8 the craving for exercise was becoming
unbearable. I ventured out on the
Tuesday for a potter around Belgium’s back roads and I was pleased to be able
to ride pain free and at a decent pace.
Within two hours I was back home with my desire to race returning. Wednesday evening was a local race for
me. I felt the slight flutter of nervous
energy the first few laps as we sped around the village of Wiekervorst. 135 riders made up a good quality field but
the course was the great leveller. Long
straights with gentle headwinds made sure even the AnPost and Ovyta riders were
made to look average. I made only one
attack all race, bridging up to a tasty move of 4 riders but the race stayed
all but together for the 108km. I was
tentative in the finale; I was on the Specialized Venge, or to put it another
way… my last bike left. I rounded the
last corner and went through the motions in the hectic sprint for the
line. I had to check my speed twice to
avoid riders slipping back but as I rolled over the line 31st from
62 finishers I felt I had enjoyed my return to the kermisse circuit. I was handed a welcome 10 euros for my efforts
bringing this seasons bulging prize pot to ahem… 79 euros.
Barely 24 hours had passed since my last race but as the
saying goes ‘time waits for no man’, especially when he’s trying to
recover. I don’t mind warm weather but
as I arrived at the village of Oplinter the thermometer read a sweltering 34
degrees. I didn’t need a thermometer
though, the fact that various parts of my body were sticking to each other told
me this was going to be a sweat fest. I
barrelled into the first corner; the familiar smell of carbon brake pads clung
to my nostrils but even that was overpowered by the pungent body odour wafting
through the peloton. I was paying for my
exertions the day before. My tactic was
to try and get up the road in a break in the easiest move possible. I thought I had succeeded briefly as 20 of us
got a handy gap on lap 2 but the wind and the constant up and down nature of
the course reeled my group in. I was
being careful to ration my water. As the
bunch was strung out a fleeting glance up the line showed many a hand jut out
to collect a much needed water bottle.
The race began to really break up by lap 6 of 12 and I was once again
paying the price for the day before with probably a bit of dehydration just for
good measure. I had a couple of team
mates jump up the road in a counter attack which was a relief for me as It
ensured there was less pressure for me to follow every move. With a good 40 riders up the road my spirits
dropped a little towards the end of the race.
As we rounded the finishing straight some 5 minutes down on the leaders
the commisaire waved his flag as opposed to showing me the lap board… my group
had been pulled out with just 15km remaining.
I tried to feign disappointment at being pulled out but the race had
been over long before for me and I was happy to just get back to the car. The temperature was still a stifling 29
degrees by 9pm… maybe I should have had a barbeque instead! Below is an
excellent photo from Belgium’s finest snapper, Jean Bollaerts.
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