The Circus Clown

 This week Belgium has basked in 20 degrees and glorious sunshine, it seems months ago that me and my two room mates set out for a 3 hour ride in snow and rain but a glance at the calendar will tells me it has been less than 3 weeks.  But with the barbeque summer threatening to distract me from the real job at hand, it was time to get down to some racing.  We were accepted into a one off Criterium race in the Belgian town of Harelbeke on Friday.  This was far from your average Criterium though, E3 was the races proper name.  E3 for those of you who don’t have as anal an interest in cycling as me is a world tour race taking in Belgium’s hardest bergs and criss crossing Belgium’s gruelling farm track roads.  The Criterium that I was to take part in was merely a distraction to the main event, something to occupy the crowds and whet their appetites ahead of the finish to the pros race.  The race itself did come with the title of ‘under 23 E3 Harelbeke’ though so however small it may seem the prestige undoubtedly drew in a good quality field lured by this carrot and an enlarged prize pot.  The professional race was cheered off by the crowds, already some 2,000 strong as the helicopters circled over head, their dull whirr adding to the atmosphere.  Then as the field rolled out of Harelbeke for 200 kilometres it was our turn.  The rules were simple, this was a spectacle for the crowds, something to keep the jeering fans occupied and keep the tills ticking over at the many souvenir shops, Frituurs and Bars that lined the course.  I worked my way around the course early on sitting not too comfortably in around 30^th position for the opening skirmishes.  My breathing was laboured as I fended off the previous weeks cold but with the sun out and the crowds clapping every lap through the home straight I found extra power from somewhere.  The speeds constantly soared through the painful end of 55kmp/h as the bunch snaked its way round the streets of Harelbeke, motivated by a string of 50 euro primes.  A nasty spill between 3 riders took out pre race favourite Guy Smet as nerves began to creep in as we neared the finish.  I put my faith in my own tire gluing skills with a handful of laps to go, tearing through the streets in hot pursuit of a small group in front of me, but to no avail.  The elastic in the Peloton had kept the race all but together as riders lined up for a bunch sprint.  I was a tad boxed out of this but if I was to be critical a true sprinter wouldn’t have hesitated at the last bend.  I came in 33^rd, a reasonable placing given my ill health the week prior to the race. 

The crowd gave us a polite round of applause.  We had been nothing more than a prawn cocktail to them, a starter merely designed to wet their appetites for when the race went live on the 2 big screens around the village square.  I handed my number back in to be rewarded with my first envelope of the year.  The large prize pot meant I received 10 euros for my one and a half hour suffer session.  We had played our parts in the circus of Belgian bike racing well, now it was time for the big boys to give the crowds what they had been waiting for.  With only an hour to go the main square was crammed with 20,000 or so  well oiled Flandriens, supping Lager and soaking it all up with frites.  The tannoy crackled out ‘attack…Stijn Devolder’, a few puzzled looks went round the crowd.  Devolder was once the darling of the Belgians but 3 years without a win had seen him out of favour with the locals until the commentator confirmed that it was infact Devolder who was making his first attack in 3 years.  The crowd back in Harelbeke was suddenly cheering the name of their forgotten hero, here was proof that passion ignites the crowd more than any interview can.  The last kilometre saw crowds packed 2 and 3 deep on the advertising barriers, national hero Tom Boonen looked on the cards for a world record 5^th E3 win.  Signs of the race approaching could be seen, 3 television helicopters, dignitaries and VIP’s arrived and the tension in the corwd could be felt in the atmosphere.  As the race entered the last kilometre the fans banged the advertising boards like baboons hungry for action.  The first glimpse of the riders came through, Tom Boonen sprinted past in a blur of blue as the Spaniard Oscar Freire looked to be coming up fast on him.  The race passed  within a yard of my face but at 70kmp/h I caught only a glimpse before the roar of the crowd went up, this could mean only one thing… ‘Tomeke’ Boonen had won, a victory from the Spaniard would have been greeted almost mutedly in comparison.  The crowd had their winner, they had seen a glimpse of their hero reborn in Devolder and as classics season rolls around once again you can bet this circus will continue throughout Flanders for the next couple of weeks.  So there you have it, 33^rd in a reasonably prestigious race, one for the palmares…probably not, one for the memory book, most definitely!    

Time to blend in a little

With a Kermisse finish rate of just one in three I was praying for significantly better fortunes for my second week on the bike here in Belgium.  The week started in a decidedly ‘dodgy’ manner with a meeting with my new team ‘Lotto Olympia Tienen’.  Up until Tuesday night I had only ever exchanged emails with the manager and a rushed phone call between myself and the club president in a mixture of phrasebook Flemish and broken English did little to put me at ease.  I arranged a meeting down In Tienen at an abandoned military airfield after dark and in what sounds like a scene from crime watch.  I was due to meet the boss in the car park.  After a rather apprehensive afternoon filled with my housemates dividing up my possessions after my inevitable murder, I made my way down to Tienen.  I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived to find a good sized group riding in formation around the airfield and plenty of parents on hand clutching flasks as their children made their way back to the car park.  I asked around with my solitary phrase for the team manager.  I waited in a café just off the airfield nursing my cup of coffee and pretending to read my Flemish phrase book, not to actually learn anything, more to deter people from approaching me and quizzing me for a minute or two as I shrugged and smiled like the village mute.  Finally after an hour the Manager arrived and arranged to take me to his house to sort out the clothing.  A quick drive later and we entered his kitchen, there; perched on the table he had his air rifle…so much for putting me at ease! But never the less he was most helpful, kitting me out in Lotto’s vibrant red, retro black and high visibility yellow.  We parted with a handshake and another appalling moment of my poor Flemish as I wished him good morning…oh dear.

I have been here two weeks now and I am ashamed to say my Flemish is coming on like a hard kermisse…a tough start full of a lack of understanding followed by abandoning shortly afterwards.  Action was needed, or more importantly, Dutch lessons.  My first rest day came around and I decided to do something about my poor Flemish whilst combining it with one of my favourite past times…Television!  My new Dutch teacher is a 30 odd year old man, dressed mainly as a lion or a plant as he teaches me and thousands of other Dutch children aged between two and Five our alphabet and numbers 1-20 every morning.  Kids T.V is a decent way to learn actually, sure I feel abit silly but no more so than asking around half way through a race what the commentator called out.  I get to practice these few phrases occasionally on the local baker or shop assistant. 

Onto the racing then and I had a point to prove after 2 straight DNF’s.  Nieuwrode was Sundays venue for 116 kilometres of Kermisse action on a pancake flat course with a couple of tricky sections.  248 riders decided to make the most of the good weather and as the flag was dropped the bunch was in good spirits, largely due to the 16 degrees and sunny conditions.  My race started badly… Only 3 or 4 kilometres in I hit a pothole more like an uncovered manhole than a small crack in the road.  My handlebars turned down on themselves leaving me with 110km or so still to go and a position on the bike that resembled The Hunchback of Notre Dame.  I pootled around at the back sulking for several laps before I realised that abandoning simply was not an option when the course was this easy and the weather this nice.  I hung around the middle of the bunch, only once poking my head of the front of the peloton before we came round for the last lap.  I kept up the front and managed to avoid a couple of you’ve been framed crashes in the final kilometre and eventually I rolled over 36^th from 165 finishers…tantalisingly close to the prizes but a noted step in the right direction.     

The good, the bad and the downright ugly

Well as the calendar turned to 29^th February  2012 it could only mean one thing, nope, not that a girl would propose to me but that it was time to return to Belgium.   A quick blast through to my new home in the Belgian town of Olen seemed to brush off the gloss of my eight month long dream to return to Belgium.  I was reminded of how bleak the countryside is, how regional the radio stations are and by the grey clouds hanging over Zeebrugge, how I shouldn’t get the shorts out just yet!

First up was a visit to my new house and I must say it’s a cracking place, plenty of room, digital T.V and Internet, enough space for all our bikes… the foundations are in place for a good year.  Having had just the one full day to settle in, Saturday was to be my first race of the year.   Molenbeek-Wersbeek, a kermisse south of my area and for many a nice season opener.  We arrived a full hour before the start and thank god we did, the line for ‘inschriving’ or ‘signing on’ to us brits snaked round the block.  Having stood for over an hour in the line, watching riders meander back with numbers going into the Hundreds, we finally got to the desk and I was given number 204.  The line continued on a good half an hour after me until finally 283 other riders had paid their entry fee.  On this note I should give a quick mention to the world of kermisse racing which has been ravaged by the recession seeing entry fees for races go up a whopping 66%...from 3 euros a race to 5 euros.  Still in comparison to British races which require you to pay anywhere between £15 and £30 I guess Belgium will continue to be cheap as frites. 

Onto the race then, the course featured nice wide roads, a couple of 90 degree bends and a fairly easy climb which meant at least half of the course was downhill.  I was mainly after a good reintroduction to racing rather than a 120 kilometre break and with such a large bunch, sitting near the front was easy enough.  I avoided a couple of late crashes and kept  high enough up the bunch to roll over the line around 50^th after the days 75 mile jaunt.  I was pleased to finish so comfortably if not a tad disappointed in myself for not really taking as many risks as I should have done had I been riding for the win. 

Sunday… and now we get to the bad.  It’s never nice packing the car under a constant patter of raindrops.  Even worse when you emerge from the car at the start of the race and find the road nicely slick with water, diesel and a horrible coating of Belgian grit.  The race was a simple enough affair, 120km around a 5 kilometre circuit, a couple of tight bends and perhaps 160 riders.  I started well enough, finding the rhythm from the day before and I settled in for a long slug in the rain.  Sadly my race was cut short when after just 8 laps my front tire decided it was time for an early shower and gave up the ghost leaving me to nurse a puncture back to the car.  Kermisse races don’t have any follow on service vehicles so once your out the back it’s time to get back to the car.  If I was to search for a positive I would say that I was pretty comfortable in the peloton and I would likely have finished the race had lady luck favoured me more… but having a three hour race cut short by a puncture wasn’t the worst ending in the world!

And finally we get to the ugly duckling, the race nobody will ever love.  Wednesday was to be a 120km kermisse in the west Flandrien town of Gooik.  I raced there last year and knew from experience that the attritional course would provide a worthy winner.  As I rolled down to the start I was astounded at the varying levels of clothing the peloton had on them, from guys in shorts and Jerseys to guys in full blown windtex’s, leg warmers, buffs and rain capes.  I went for a mid range look with winter gloves, knee warmers and a thin top.  It became apparent on lap one when the heavens opened that perhaps I had got the dress code right.  The mercury touched only 3 degrees and by lap two rain was lashing the bunch as the wind whipped in across the open fields on every side of the course.  As the 11 lap race came round each time a steady stream of riders were making their way into their cars.  At first it was the guys in shorts, then the guys in leg warmers who pulled out until with around half the race gone the field had shrunk from 108 to around 50.  I had a brief bid for freedom on lap 3, dragging a couple of average riders with me over the courses main climb before being reeled in by the diminishing peloton a few kilometres later.  Each lap the main stretches of the course saw the strong riders split the race into echelons.  I finally met my demise with five laps to go when, unable to feel my hands and to be more honest, with legs that felt they were going to burst I was detached from the back of the echelons and left to limp into the cars.  The kermisse had a deserving winner as only 11 hardy souls finished, these were the guys who I was laughing at on the start line, who I thought were wimps for wearing too much clothing…how wrong I was.   There is precious little to take away from a horrendous race like Gooik, but finishing a race shivering and soaked to the skin does force you to learn how to take care of yourself.  You learn quickly how to strip down to your birthday suit and part with your dignity as you throw on every item of clothing you can find before heading off to find a hot drink. 

In a slightly lighter look at international failures my shopping experience this morning highlighted our inability to read Flemish when we picked up two cartons of apparently full fat fresh milk.  Upon reaching home my roommate Rob poured himself a glass and promptly spat the contents down the sink.  A bit of googling the label revealed that what we had in fact bought was called buttermilk.  Sure it sounds nice but in reality it is simply the waste product of the process of making milk into butter.  Still at least we only bought a couple of cartons as opposed to stocking up!