The best laid plans…

Being a foreigner abroad occasionally has its advantages.  We decided to go watch the new Spiderman movie mid-week at the local cinema in Geel.  The lady serving us at the desk was about as proficient in English as I was in Flemish but I finally got my ticket at a whopping 9 euros having probably been charged for everything from 3D glasses to a VIP backstage pass.  My fellow housemate Chris then showed me how it’s done as he put his newly shaven face to the test and unashamedly asked for a ‘kinder’ (child) ticket.  This redressed the balance of international relations as he smugly handed over his 6 euros and in we went.  The second perk of being an English speaker in Belgium then became apparent.  The movie was newly out and would have been packed with everything from popcorn rustlers to mobile phone talkers back home.  It was refreshing to see the place as good as empty as we walked in and sprawled out over about 5 seats.  The movie was entirely in English so I’m guessing that the Belgians opted not to spend the evening glued to the subtitles bar at the bottom of the screen and instead will just wait for the DVD release.   

The following day was spent in the Kitchen.  I’d agreed to knock up a few lasagnes for I think 9 of us so the majority of the afternoon was spent chopping, stirring and baking.  They turned out reasonably enough and as we all sat down 7 hungry cyclists tucked in accompanied by a Mclay signature salad.  The conversation turned inevitably onto the following days racing.  My 10 days training block had slipped by hampered by a bit of a cold and there was no amount of joking in the world that could deny the fact that tomorrow was the start of the tour of Vlaams Brabant.  I went to sleep hoping for good legs in the morning.

I turned up to stage 1 in the nearby town of Rotselaar with the mercury already touching 32 degrees.  I met my team mates and sat down for the team briefing where the main focus was on making the time cut for the days 150km stage.  I was filled with a nervous excitement before the start and as we lined up at 1:30pm I was hopeful for a good day in the saddle.  I sat mid bunch early on as all around me was a blur of colour: blue skies, different team kits and fields zipping past.  The constant chunter within the bunch was broken occasionally by the squeal of brake pads and the odd crunch as riders crashed behind.  I got over the days first few bergs (hills) pretty comfortably before I noticed my front skewer was rapidly unscrewing itself.  Opportunities to fix this problem were slim but I hopped off the bike at the top of a climb and quickly tightened the handle up before tagging onto the back of the bunch.  Having covered the first 50km loop I noticed my rear skewer had come loose as well and that the wheel was just moments from slipping out of its dropout.  I was cursing the bloke who’d so generously put my wheels in my bike at the start and also myself for not checking his handy work.  The wheel had slipped and had rubbed itself bare onto the frame and with a big bang the tyre burst.  I dropped back through the bunch and pulled over to the side of the road looking frantically for my team car.  This was one of those moments in time when the adrenaline is flowing, seconds feel like hours and as every car passed me I knew the task of regaining the bunch was becoming harder.  Finally my team car pulled alongside me and gave me a wheel after around 3 minutes of looking like a deranged hitch hiker waving the wheel in the air.   The chase was on as I struggled to regain the bumper of the car as it rocketed off at 70kmp/h.  Finally after about 5km we gained sight of the broom wagon, the last vehicle in the race convoy.  I was panicking a bit and immediately took off trying to weave my way through the cars.  The small lanes and constant corners made my job even harder, the cars shot off on the straights and crawled around the corners meaning I was largely on my own trying to close the 1 minute gap to the peloton.  I began slipping back through the cars after the days 4th berg… I was in real trouble now as I risked slipping out the race altogether.  Finally the game was over as the broom wagon pulled alongside me to tell me I was on my own.  I continued to push on but in my heart I knew the game was up, I rolled on for another 40km to the finishing circuit before being pulled out by the commisaires.  I sat down at the car feeling despondent.  This had been my chance to prove myself in a genuinely big race.  I was careless firstly in not double checking my equipment but most of all I was disgusted at myself for not making it back into the bunch.  I had based the second half of my season around this race with the aim of impressing a few big teams and taking a step up next year.  The commisaires handed me a discretionary 20 euro fine for grabbing hold of a couple of team cars in my attempts to get back up to the peloton, a small insult if nothing else.  Next up for me is a holiday in deepest Dorset on England’s south coast where I will take time out to think things over and decide where the path will lead me next.  Cheers for reading.         

It's good for the gardens

As Belgium is gripped with tour fever and I am forever answering questions about Bradley Wiggins it seems almost pitiful to be writing about my adventures in the lower ranks of cycling.  But Belgium is a hotbed of talent, the fans know who has a big career ahead of them but they get behind every rider regardless.  Well I think they do… either that or there is another Joel in my races and he always gets a cheer!

Friday’s race was as close to a criterium as Belgium gets… 30 laps of a 3km circuit featuring two drag strips and a twisty section down the bottom end of the course.  The aim of the night was unashamed prime hunting.  There was money for the first rider across the line on every even lap meaning 15 potential pocket liners.  Early ambitions soon went out the window when my stomach started playing up after just a couple of laps, perhaps I was paying for the last minute frangipane I’d scoffed in the car park or maybe this was the physical manifestation of tour fever...  It was a tough start to the race, I rode the first hour sat bolt upright on the bike to relieve some of the pressure on my stomach, not what you’d call aerodynamic as I sat last man on the back of the bunch clinging on.  Things started to pick up as the lap board ticked down and by the final hour of the race I was starting to move up, not easy when the race was spent entirely in one line.  The primes slipped by uncontested by me as I continued to nurse myself towards the finish line.  A 7pm start and some rather grey clouds ensured that as we took the lap bell the light was fading.  Two riders had been off the front for a handful of laps meaning the chase was on for a last lap catch.  I salvaged a bit of pride in the kick for the line coming home for 24^th, Lower than what I’d wanted that morning but considering I was close to climbing off in the first hour I was just happy to get the finish out the way.  I can’t say it was an honourable performance, Last week I was the one towing the peloton round on my wheel only to see it whizz past me at the finish, this week the roles had reversed and it had been my night to ride in the wheels and pop out late… c’est la vie.  On a positive note I did claim 10 euros prize money bringing me up to 99 euros for the year, not quite enough for me to be worried about a weak euro yet!

Sundays race was very nearly the ultimate test of man and machine, I had pencilled in Overijse as the destination.  I had heard the course was the hardest in Belgium with its infamous cobbled descent and I was praying the rain would hold off and keep my spirits up.  But this is Belgium, it had rained heavily over the last week and Sunday was no different.  As I sat at the traffic lights waiting to turn onto the motorway I cracked, I changed the Sat Nav to direction Neerlinter, the first time I’ve ever chickened out of a race because of the weather.  As it happened the weather at Neerlinter was horrendous, unless you’re a duck.  140 riders started and within minutes the heavens had opened.  I was feeling reasonably good early on as I slipped up the road in a group featuring the Ovyta team and Fidea.  We worked hard for around 5km as the high speed ensured the group swung raggedly into the main straight.  Queue the rain as it lashed the riders from all sides.  My comic moment came just as the rain really kicked in, I attacked shortly before a corner and carried way too much speed on the way in, I was forced to jump onto the curb mid corner and come within inches of both a spectator and a hedge before jumping back into the bunch.  As things settled down I began the grim process of watching the laps wash by through mud splattered glasses.  I tried to keep up towards the front and sadly this was to be my undoing.  I risked a gap as it opened up in front, unfortunately so did a rider from Bofrost, my front wheel clarted into his rear wheel and a split second later spokes were flying in every direction across the bunch.  I was lucky to keep it rubber side down as I quickly unclipped a foot to steady my bike as the front wheel wobbled violently between the brake pads.  I turned to the other rider who had also had to pull up, I was angry and ready to break out my newly learned profanities at him… but wow, this guy was huge, comfortably 6ft 5” and looking like an east German shot putter… was it time for ‘the thriller in Neerlinter’?  In a word no, for the second time that day I chickened out.  It had been my 35^th kermisse of the year and my 6^th mechanical DNF of the year.  But next up is a biggie for me, the ‘Ronde Van Vlaams Brabant’ or in English the tour of Flemish Brabant.

Come on Bradley!  

 

Above: A cheeky attack off the front early on Sunday
Below: massively paying for the above attack later on!



and finally the heavens open...

Carpe Diem

Belgium is sometimes a wonderful place to be.  The sun has been beating down, the skirts have been rising up above the knees and the racing is back on the menu for me.  It is easy to let kermises slip by and consider each one as ‘good training’ or fluffing them up and being blasé, knowing that the next race is just a day or two away.  I notice from reading the English press that the abbreviation ‘YOLO’ is becoming popular, meaning you only live once.  This is true, it’s also a more up to date/dumbed down version of ‘carpe diem’, meaning to seize the day.  Perhaps this was where I’d been going wrong in recent weeks, far too often I would use the excuse that I have been building towards bigger things and that each race is no more important than the last.  So after a motivational pep talk from my brother via a staggered internet connection I decided that the next race was all about ‘Carpe Diem’

The race was in the nearby village of Herenthout.  The course was flat, twisty and lined with fans knocking back many a cold beer in the 30 degree heat.  I started near the back of the 150 rider field but quickly found myself cruising up the side of the bunch with my legs feeling stronger than they had for some weeks.  The early skirmishes that normally take place seemed to have been replaced by the Mark McNally show.  He was possibly the favourite so naturally he was shadowed by the bunch which clung to his every attack.  The fast pace down the country lanes finally split the bunch after around 50km.  I was one of the last to jump across to the group, inching my way up to the break away as we pulled onto the boulevard.  There was no time to catch my breath; I was straight into the line and onto the front taking my turn in the wind.  After a lap of grimacing I looked back to see around 35 of us had pulled clear by some 20 seconds.  I was overly keen to drive this group, never missing my turn when 20 or so riders avoided any work.  With just 50km to go I went for what I thought was a prime (money awarded to the first rider across the finish line on a designated lap) and I was pleasantly surprised as I rolled over the line uncontested….hmmm.  I wasn’t sure whether my poor Flemish had finally caught up with me as I sprinted for the wrong lap.  My group was joined by another 25 riders with just 40km to go, meaning the race had split into 2 large groups.  By this point my exertions had really sapped me.  The attacks came once again from the front of my group.  This time I was in real trouble.  I felt like an England football manager approaching a penalty shootout, there was a certain inevitability that defeat was just minutes away.  The final 25km saw me trying hard to bridge the gap in a group of some 30 riders but to no avail.  I spent the final lap trying to carry as much speed through the corners as possible to avoid the sudden accelerations of the bunch as I feared the dreaded cramp.  In the finale I had nothing in the tank and didn’t contest the sprint rolling in 56^th.  The result was a tad disappointing as the evening had promised so much more an hour previously.  And just in case you’re wondering… no, I didn’t get the prime!  

The following night it was decided the British boys this side of Belgium were to get together for an impromptu night of go-karting.  It’s a great way to talk to other riders without having to sit in a café clad in lycra dodging the showers.  After 15 minutes of being thrown around and sucking in the fumes I felt like a novice coming out of his first yoga class, muscles were aching that I didn’t even know I had.  All in all a cracking evening though, so much so we pencilled in an optimistic barbeque for the following evening.  After half an hour of dousing the coals in lighter fluid trying to get some heat out of them, chef and former boy scout ‘Macca’ began loading up the barbie whilst trying not to dramatically shorten his life through smoke inhalation.  He did a great job though, it seemed everyone had brought enough for a small army so the sausages, steaks, ribs and drumsticks just kept on being served up until my arteries could take no more.  We had a truly British moment midway through as a downpour swept over the area, leaving us all trying to be manly and standing around the BBQ when really the house was beckoning.

It was back to the day job by Sunday, a 116km kermisse in the flat town of Ramsdonk.  It was to be a race of 3 seasons.  After a minutes silence in memory of local pro Rob Germis we started briskly under summer sunshine.  The constant battering of the wind was to be the main challenger of the day and from the off  I was struggling down the back with poor legs knowing that the race would quickly disintegrate.  My team mate Birgen did a sterling job of taking me up to the front after a couple of laps.  The early break finally got away after around 30km leaving the bunch to try arrange either a concerted chase or a counter attack.  It was to be the latter as two more groups of 10 riders slipped up the road.  I knew that my poor legs would have to be ignored for the time being.  The break had nearly a 2 minute advantage and with 50 kilometres left I had to start chasing now or never.  No sooner had I made my way up the front when an absolute deluge soaked the remaining peloton.  I pressed on aided by my team mate and around 6 others who all wanted to win as much as me.  The gap slowly began coming down and the carrot out in front gave hope to our chase.  We reeled the first two groups in and as we took the bell lap the leaders had just 20 seconds and 6.4km to hold on.  By this point I was feeling stronger than ever and taking long turns on the front.  With around 2km to go I realized the chase was up, the win wasn’t to be ours and we were left to sprint it out for 18^th downwards.  Inevitably the guys who had benefited from my hard work had more in the sprint and came round me.  I finished 33^rd, Only 12 seconds down on the winner but I’d raced with my heart on my sleeve and earned a respectable result.  It had been one of the fastest races of the year for me as the average speed was a tough 46kmp/h (27mph), certainly the 10 euros prize money pushed me to within seeing distance of three figures.      

1st pic: from left to right, Me, Stephen Roche, Joscelin, taken at the tour

2nd pic: Wednesdays grim day in Ramsdonk and the dogged chase...

go karting...

and BBQ'ing!

Vive Le Tour

Le tour de France is supposed to be the pinnacle of my sport.  Tell the man on the street you are a road cyclist and he will either say “Lance Armstrong” or “tour de France”.  So it was a small personal embarrassment that by the not so tender age of 21 I hadn’t ever actually been to see Le Tour.  The Race started in Liege with a prologue and although only 150km from my house I elected to race instead.  Stage 1 was a similar idea; I had talked myself into foolishly saving money and elected not broaden my horizons with a visit to the tour.  I thought my opportunity had slipped by when I was pleasantly surprised to open an email inviting me to go down and watch the tour road side with Joscelin, our Dave Rayner liaison here in Belgium.  The plan was to make a day trip of it, to drive to within an hour’s ride and to meander through the villages of Belgium’s Walloon region.  I was playing wieler tourist for the day with my rucksack packed full of the days essentials.  We parked the car in Oplinter and set off leisurely with just a map and a loose idea of the tours course.  After a rather amusing photo opportunity stop at the aptly named dog grooming salon…’Doggy style’, it was time to swap languages completely as we entered Belgium’s French region of Wallonia.  The quietness of the roads was eerie, yet as we crested the rolling hills I began to feel a sense of excitement that somewhere in the distance I was about to watch first-hand my boyhood dream.

  

After a couple of scenic but rewarding detours we finally found a large gathering of people taking up their positions and no doubt claiming their road side seats with deck chairs.  This had to be it.  The crowd were glowing with anticipation, although this was probably the first signs of sunburn as many had no doubt been there for hours.  Joscelin provided the crowd with a fleeting moment of entertainment as she took a rather ungraceful tumble at less than walking pace.  She was immediately up and dusting herself off like a gymnast who’d just fluffed the dismount but she saved face with a smile and a sudden rush to ride off at a brisk pace.  We had planned to meet up with Tim Harris in order to get a quick taste of life in the VIP entourage of the tour.  We turned up at the rendezvous, an innocuous field by the road side and waited as the cavalcade of support vehicles made its way along the course.  As the convoy of official skodas parked up, out steps a grey haired man sporting a decent tan and the sort of middle aged spread only a retired athlete could pull off without looking chubby.  I recognised this man from my teenage years of being glued to the television watching the tour de France.  The man was Stephen Roche.  Irelands only Tour de France winner and an in demand celebrity around the tour as it’s the 25^th anniversary since his achievements.  I was casually introduced by Tim, the handshake followed and before I know it he was asking me if I race in Belgium.  I was still rather in awe at this point and managed a pathetic “yes” before Stephen took over and realised what I really wanted was a photo with him.  He was a true gent though, bantering Tim with how he looked fresh but how his cool sunglasses hid the previous evening’s 3am finish.  I tried my best to make the most of my time, chatting with many of the drivers.  I asked about how much a day in a car in such esteemed company would set me back… “2,000 euros, but you get a glass of bubbly with that” was the answer from the South African driver.  Jos had told me beforehand that a couple of helicopters were expected with the other half of the VIP’s.  Sure enough over the horizon came not 1 but 5 helicopters in formation, coming in to land just a dozen or so metres away.  At this point the drivers were back in work mode and we made our way back to the grass verges with the main act just minutes away.  A couple of spectators tried to speak to me at one point, I stood there looking puzzled, they tried another language before giving up and signing off with a ‘vive le tour’.  There it was, many different nationalities were road side but the tour was the one thing we had in common.

The helicopter camera was the first sign of the tour.  The distant whirr is then followed minutes later by the local gendarmerie on motorbikes that drive through ahead of the race to make sure there is no anti-EU protest blocking the road ahead.  Then the leaders come over the horizon, 3 riders including the king of the mountains are up ahead of the bunch and chewing through the kilometres.  I offered some polite support as I faffed around wondering why my camera had given up life at such a crucial moment.  They passed in just seconds as half the road craned their necks to see where the bunch was.  A good 5 minutes later and the bunch appeared, there was no urgency about them as they’re only 45km into a 200km stage.  By that point my camera was back up and running so I frantically clicked away like a distracted kid with a ballpoint in an exam hall.  The race passed just a metre from me and just as quickly as it came it had disappeared over the next hill and onto Tournai where ‘Cav’ was to take his 21^st stage victory.  It had been a brief but thoroughly enjoyable moment.  The riders could have been in any other bike race but the entourage and the spectacle really made the occasion live up to my expectations.  We set off back to the car at Oplinter, Jos had 80km on the clock for the days trip and as I rode all the way home I reckon I comfortably had a 100 mile day in my legs.  But I can now say I have seen the pinnacle of my sport on the road side.  I would recommend it to anyone who has even a fleeting interest in cycling as the road side atmosphere is a truly memorable feeling.  As for the VIP treatment, I think my address book will have to become significantly weightier before I get invited into that circle.  Vive Le Tour!