I’ve never been much of a superstitious person, the modern day label is probably OCD but many an old pro has ingrained in me the belief that you make your own luck. Getting into the right break away isn’t luck, it’s brute strength, avoiding a crash, again a mixture of bike handling and bunch positioning. I made a brief visit home this past fortnight to see the family over Easter and to clock up some token gesture miles with the local riders. I set sail back to Belgium on the 100th anniversary of Titanic’s only voyage, but superstitions were on hold. The only drama of note was a drunken attempt at a strip tease by one well-oiled british woman, if you’ll pardon the pun. The ships security guards quashing the moment as the crowd chanted “off”, half of them wanted her removed, thrown overboard for mentally scarring their children, the other half chanted “off”, although for a very different reason I imagine…
I arrived back at our Belgian base with Britains finest Orange Cordial sloshing about in the back of the car; some things just can’t be cut out of a man’s diet. I was far from race sharp after nigh on a week off the bike gorging on Easter eggs so I pootled off for a couple of hours spin. Only an hour in and my front wheel pinged like a banjo as the first of two spokes gave up the ghost, the second throwing in the towel on the bike path on the way back home leaving me to nurse the bike back Apollo 13 style. Zonderschott was to be my first race back; I’d had 12 days out of competition, 7 of which were dedicated to remoulding my home sofa to my shape. The race was nothing more than a glorified criterium, 110 km of flat fast mayhem. Lap 2 was to prove the end of my night…officially. My chain jumped off the chain ring and wrapped itself into a knot my headphone wires would be proud of leaving me to coast to a premature ending. But I’m from Yorkshire, Value for money is everything. I hadn’t paid 5 euros to do 5km. As soon as you drop out the back of the peloton the commisaire crosses you off his list, I know this as I have endured his steely look of disappointment several times in my life. I made the quick decision to dive up a drive way, still mid bunch in an attempt to avoid the commissaries attention. I unknotted my chain for the best part of 2 minutes whilst overcoming my moral dilemma. Technically I was out of the race, but my quick thinking had given me a second chance, or at least an opportunity to get some racing practice in. I hopped out from behind a bush on lap 3 into the front of the bunch, not the breakaway…that would be a step too far (although the temptation was there!). I had no reason to race conservatively; chances were that I was spotted in my unofficial lap out so I put a couple of big attacks in during the first half of the race. The bunch was having none of it though as even attacking at over 50kmp/h I was being reeled in like a fish on a line. The race came back almost inevitably for a mass sprint. I wound it up nicely, only to find a rider dropping back and boxing me against the barrier in the closing metres. I was around 45th unofficially as the results were only posted down to 30th. I had no problems regarding taking the lap out, in British races of this style mechanicals are always granted a lap out. I backed it off a touch on the last lap so as to not affect the race results.
It didn’t take long for karma to rebalance itself. The following mornings recovery ride saw my rear tire blow out… my superstitions were starting to flare up. Sunday was to be another kermisse at Heverlee. This was one of two towns rocked by the tragedy that claimed the lives of the school children not 2 months ago. The race was a chilly 110km around tight bends, open roads and a finish climb rarely seen so far from the Ardennes. The pace was quick and coupled with the strong wind meant I was clinging on for much of the race. The hill offered respite for me as the bigger riders who had put me in so much pain in the crosswinds began to pay for their weight. The large laps of 12km ticked by as the field of 160 riders was shredded down to just 60 or so by the last lap. Having used up a lot of my facial repertoire for suffering over the course of the race I was relieved to approach the finish line. The 1 kilometre to go kite triggered a surge from the peloton, unofficial kermisse rules dictate anything above 30th is worth risking your life for. A split second after the ‘flame rouge’ (red kite, signalling the 1km to go mark) a sheet of metal was kicked up into my path, the horrible sound of a puncture rang through my ears as my rims began to reverberate every stone on the road through my tired body. A double puncture had befallen me just as I was preparing for the uphill finish. I was forced to roll in behind the bunch taking a gracious applause from the fans, the peoples hero maybe… but my god was I frustrated! Karma, a fickle mistress perhaps but I wish she would give me a break.
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