What a difference a week makes

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 31^st 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.       

Thrills and spills

Temptation rears its ugly head many times a day when you’re a cyclist. The list of things you can do is significantly shorter than the list of don’ts.  With this in mind I found myself in the beautiful student city of Leuven on Thursday night with the aim of enjoying a nice meal and watching the European football on one of the big screens.  Sure enough temptation caught me off guard when I found myself chatting to a few of Leuven’s students who were enjoying a post exam season blow out.  Before I knew it I was sat with a group of 15 or so, dusting off my GSCE French, Spanish and Flemish with one of the local beers in my hand and listening as they wet my appetite for the night ahead.  I had planned a reasonably early finish but as everyone else was heading for Leuven’s various clubs and bars I was invited to tag along.  Forgive me if I skip the several hours of dance moves and resurrected chat up lines but to cut a long story short we all enjoyed a thoroughly good night and met some great people.  It had been 6 months since I had even drunk alcohol but the Belgian drinking culture is vastly different to England’s.  Almost everyone drank a few beers, had a good time and went home sober enough to pass their exams the following morning in some cases!

My test was to come on Saturday evening in the village of Sint-Katherine-Waver.  The race started at 6pm and promised 106km of blustery conditions, long exposed straights and a reasonable field.  I took a dive off the front on lap 1 and was joined by a nifty group of 4.  Within a couple of kilometres of riding through what felt like treacle we were reeled in as the headwind took its toll.  I sat in the slipstream as the field was stretched on the crosswind sections, watching carefully to make sure I could always ride across the echelons.  My legs were incredibly average after a hard week of training and as we entered the last 20km I could see the elastic that had held the peloton together beginning to snap.  My housemate Chris put in a big turn of speed as the break threatened to pull clear and I used that as my springboard, attacking in the crosswind section so as to avoid dragging half the peloton with me.  After a little over a minute of full throttle I had reached the back of the swelling break and with around 25 riders clear it seemed as though this was to be the winning move.  We had less than 10km left but as the sole representative of my team it was not my job to drive the break.  I gambled that the Ardela team with 5 riders would drive the break and this largely worked out.  With 5km to go we still had around 10 seconds on the peloton as I squeezed the gels in.  My legs were feeling the night’s exertions big time by this point and my prayers for a bunch gallop offered me my best chance of getting up there.  With just 2km remaining the Ardela boys let 2 riders slip off the front.  This was like bait to the break, if I sprinted across now I risked bringing the rest of the break with me and having nothing left for the sprint.  This time I gambled and lost as the 2 riders hung on to win by just 2 seconds.  I gave it my best in the sprint but the wind sapped my strength leaving me to come away with 15^th on the night.  It was a case of what could have been but I welcomed my second top 15 of the season and a return to the first page of the results. 

Sunday was to be a similar affair with 130 riders lined up for my 28^th race of the season on a tricky course in Halen.  I started with heavy legs having finished a 70 mile race no more than 17 hours beforehand.  Peter Van Petegem was in attendance in the crowd, helping to whip up the anticipation.  By the half way mark I was feeling significantly stronger than at the start and I began to plan more than just hanging on until the finish.  The course had many pinch points and I feared a crash from the start but as a racer this is never more than a fleeting thought in the back of your mind.  With three laps to go I approached the finishing straight.  Suddenly the front wheel went from under me, without warning I was hurtling into the tarmac at 40kmp/h with nothing more than a polystyrene helmet and some lycra to protect me.  I went down hard, taking gouges out of both knees and taking a knock to the head in the process.  The art of crashing is entirely involuntary, all I saw was tarmac, sky, a blur of riders, more tarmac and finally sky as I ground to a halt at some poor spectators feet.  I was helped straight away by the ambulance crew and various spectators.  As I clung on to the stretcher as the ambulance hurtled round the streets, the young paramedics bandaged me up like a mummy.  The crew dropped me off at the finish line were my bike was propped against the railings looking very sorry for itself.  The reaction of the old boys said it all, the word ‘kaput’ was thrown in for good measure as I saw the handlebars snapped in half, the frame cracked clean across the head tube and the front wheel resembling a rugby ball.  This was insult to injury. 

It has been two days since that grim crash, retrospectively I consider myself relatively lucky.  I fell within 2 feet of a barbed wire fence and avoided breaking any bones.  My knees resemble a tin of corned beef but time will heal them.  As for the bike… the damage is about two thousand quid’s worth and at this point of the season that kind of hit is about as welcome as a hog roast at a veggie convention.  I have a few days of enforced rest now but I must give my special thanks to the ladies who patched me up in the ambulance, the spectators who took my bike to the finish and to my landlady who has taken it upon herself to make sure I get back up and riding soon.  One final word of thanks must of course go to the Dave Rayner fund for helping to fund my ambitions out here in Belgium.  A quick mention also to my trusty mechanic at home, Joe who I know is currently ill, so fingers crossed for a speedy recovery! 

At the lack of pictures from this weekends races I had a look back at the archives to find this beauty, sadly this is the last time you'll see me atop this awesome machine...

They came from a land down under

Well the season is now just passed the half way mark with 24 races done.  So like the football which is occupying every T.V channel I felt the need for a half time interval, time to refresh my mind, my body but sadly not my bank account.  Two weeks ago I was physically still strong but the spark had gone, that top 2% that you have to really push for seemed too much for me.  Since then I have been training steadily and making some massive improvements… on the PlayStation… which has seen me dedicate many tedious hours over the past 2 weeks.  It also gave me a chance to see my Grandma from Australia who came for the day and a quick jaunt into Holland gave me the chance to support my dad who is riding from Bradford to Hamm in Germany for charity.  On a physical note I have lost form but this was only to be expected, I made the call to refresh my head which in a season packed with over 50 days of racing will in time be more important. 

Onto racing then, following 2 weeks of rolling around Belgium at 30kmp/h I was always going to suffer when the pace was piled on.  The first day back is traditionally never more than a slacking off day.  Back in my office days it would be a day for a bit of light filing, followed by an early lunch and rounded off by never quite making it back into work and calling it a day by 11am…. Not in Kermisse racing though.  The course was effectively a massive criterium, which for those of you who are new to cycling is a race based around a town centre featuring harsh corners and short straights.  The village of Herselt was to be my reintroduction to racing.  16 tight corners on a 12 kilometre lap ensured some violent accelerations coupled with a strong wind which ensured the race was spent almost entirely in a single line.  Initially I struggled, the sudden accelerations put several bike lengths into me but as the races 120 kilometres passed in a blur I began to feel better.  The race split badly at the half way point, a slight let up in the pace every now and then had until that point kept the race together but with a solid 15 kilometres of brutal speed the damage was done and gaps appeared.  I was in the second split on the road.  We had little to race for with 35 riders up the road but as I expected the word gruppetto (Italian, meaning last group on the road) means nothing in Flemish so the attacks kept on coming from my group… much to my annoyance.  In the end the needless attacking blew my group of maybe 30 to bits and I rolled in 50^th from 112 starters, not a bad result by any means as over half the field retired, but it was well below my best.  The race was won in impressive style by a young rider called Shane Archibold of the New Zealand team.  The part that pleased me most was not the result, nor the way I’d ridden, it was the fact that I was more than up for the following day, the spark of competition was back and I was ready for action once again.

Sunday was the second part in my racing weekend double bill.  I was looking forward to another bite of the competitive cherry and the village of Hoegaarden didn’t disappoint.  The course was as lumpy as school dinner custard and the field was stacked with more hitters than an international cricket team.  We started straight out the blocks and rode up the first hill before I’d even had a chance to catch my breath.  The pace was not overly fast by kermisse standards but the poor road surfaces and nagging wind were taking their toll on my tired legs.  It became very much a race of attrition as each time we crested the finish hill more riders would climb off.  I was gritting my teeth but with poor legs I was having to make up places in the corners and slipping back on the climbs.  Sure enough my cards came up with 3 laps left, I crested the hill a few bike lengths off the remaining 60 riders and even riding at full stick for half a lap I was watching the group pull away.  I was left to ride back to the finish with a rider whose wife regularly serves me at the local bike shop.  I tried to make light conversation, explaining to him how his wife was generous enough to give me discounts but at this point he had heard enough and mysteriously felt fresher all of a sudden… so much for international relations, although I reckon he thought I had been working on those with his wife.  The victory went to an amazingly strong rider by the name Tom David, another kiwi.  I’ve not come across him before which is probably due to my lack of result scouring but I’m sure with the ride he did on Sunday I will see his name atop the podium in much bigger races soon.   

So there we go, not a particularly successful first week back in the office but a welcome one.  Below are a few novelty shots that I spotted pootling around the Belgian countryside

                                                      They start them young in Belgium...

                                                     This thing even had a cycle computer!

And finally a race shot from Saturday, and yes that does say baby dump on that blokes shoulders.

The Renners prayer

Out torturer who art in Belgium

Kermisse be thy name

3 O’clock come

Then begins the Fun

On Tarmac, or worse on the pave

Bakery give us our daily rice tart

And bless us with good legs

Yet strike down our competition with punctures

And lead us not into  doping control

But into the arms of the waiting podium girls

Amen

In the absence of any racing over the past two weeks I thought I better keep the literary juices flowing with my take on the only prayer I know.  Below is a start line snapshot where these moments of inspiration strike and you have to try and remember them 3 hours later… the guy next to me looks less inspired, more like he's wondering whether he remembered to record the football.

Photo courtesy of Jean Bollaerts