Weathering the storms

Belgium has been no different to the majority of Europe this past week, each morning I’ve awoken to see the rain being propelled horizontally past my bedroom window.  On a training day this isn’t so much of a problem as I don the rain cape and head out into the wind watching the minute hand crawl by on my watch.  Sunday’s race was to be 120km in the small village of Kortenaken.  With myself and my roommate sat in the warmth of my car before the start, the heavens opened.  I elected to start the race warm, so contrary to every fitness DVD you’ll ever watch I sat in the car until a couple of minutes to go, watching as the field of 150 or so began to shiver under the start banner.  The race took off in classic kermisse style with riders throwing caution to the very strong wind.  A group of 8 slipped away very early and proceeded to pull out a good gap after 30km or so.  After 80km I made my main break away attempt.  I moved up the side of the bunch as the road climbed out of the village, sitting in the saddle to save my energy for one big push.  As we approached the crest of the hill I made my move, clicking through the gears and stringing the bunch out in my wake.  I pressed on as hard as I could over the top, trying to break the elastic of the peloton.  In a moment of Shakespearean drama the hail kicked in just as my legs began to burn, the pea sized balls bouncing off the road and stinging any exposed flesh.  I had pulled out a bit of a gap but with only two of us sharing the workload and 100 riders bearing down on us the move was doomed.  The attempt had however given me hope that I could make a late surge.   A crash in the bunch late on split the peloton just before the crosswind section.  I absolutely buried myself to get across to these riders but even at 50kmp/h I was a mere 10 yards off the back and unable to close the gap.  I settled into the main echelon thinking of a way to avoid a bunch sprint.  My opportunity came with just 6km remaining.  I rode solo across a small gap of maybe 10 seconds to a promising group of 9 riders.  I made the juncture just before the cross wind section.  We worked together as well as a bunch of selfish, tired and soaked riders could be expected to, swinging onto the finishing straight a handful of seconds ahead of a 60 man peloton.  I played my hand early in the gallop, kicking with 400 metres to go on the climb, as the lactate kicked in tactics went out the window and I pushed desperately on the pedals absent style or technique.  I took 7^th in the sprint, 31^st on the day… good enough to claim 10 euros.

Wednesday was to be 120km of rolling terrain on the farm roads around Kumtich.  The conditions were, in a word horrendous.  This wasn’t lost on the commissaire who gave each rider a pondering look as we put pen to paper, his mind clearly wondering whether we were all masochists. The wind touched 80kmp/h, the rain threatened to washout the car park and a 6pm start ensured any hope of decent daylight was rapidly fading.  As a general rule, if a kermisse starts easy then the riders will make it hard, if a race starts off hard then I would normally leave the car running in expectation of being sat in it within the hour! The bunch rolled out of the start, straight up a hill and out into the exposed farm roads.  I had managed no more than 4km when the race began to pull apart in an example of natural selection that Darwin himself would be proud of.  The echelons of riders spanned the width of the road, every man desperate for shelter from the wind.  I found myself in the 3^rd split, a quick glance in front and behind showed the field ravaged into more lines than you'd see in an after school detention.  160 riders had started and by lap 2, 50 had hit the showers early.  I plugged away in my group rotating through the echelon, taking my turn in the wind.  We pressed on, mopping up riders who had cracked further up the road.  The effort required in the cross wind was immense; the stronger riders taking the opportunity to put everyone in difficulty leaving only the fittest to make the finish.  With the field well and truly decimated after 75km my group continued to batter around the course, the ever looming presence of the broom wagon (last vehicle in the race) bearing down on us.  I finished like a drowned rat, tired but with the satisfaction of knowing I was starting to become a hardened Belgian as only 42 finished from 160 starters.  I coincidentally was 36^th. My performance had been gritty, certainly my clothing weighed considerably more, laden with thousands of years of Belgium’s finest dirt.  The way the road muck smeared itself across my teeth and burrows into every crevice… a souvenir if one were needed!

I don’t normally mention recovery rides; they’re effectively a day of pootling along bike paths at tourist speed.  Thursdays ride was in every way a normal spin until I heard the call of ‘passop’ from behind, never a good sound as it meant I was soon to be overtaken… gulp.  I glanced over to be nothing less than star struck.  Swooping past me no more than 2 kilometres from my house was Belgium’s favourite son Tom Boonen.  He lives in nearby Mol but his god like status in Belgium means he spends most of his time in Monaco.  I tagged onto the back of him for a couple of kilometres, regretting I had neither my camera for a photo or a pen for a signed jersey. For casual readers this is about as likely as Wayne Rooney turning up at your local five-a-side league… a humbling experience.  Hopefully next time I can talk Tom into a café stop and I can listen to the great man like a boy scout around a campfire.              

    

If a photo is a thousand words than this miserable scene gives you an idea of Kumtich.  I'm 2nd from the left.  image courtesy of christel kiesekoms cnops.

Superstitions and Karma

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 100^th 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 45^th unofficially as the results were only posted down to 30^th.  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 30^th 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.

Two's company, three hundred and three is a crowd!

With growing confidence after a couple of decent finishes the previous week I was hoping for yet another opportunity to grow my palmares at Sundays Kermisse based around Boutersem.  I had been told before the race that this was the only kermisse in the whole of Belgium that day, so expect a big field was the message.  As I pulled out the car park 15 minutes before the race start hoping to get a warm up in, I noticed the start line was already crammed with the Belgian equivalent of eager beavers.  As a rule I try start as high up as I can, so I stopped the warm up after about 50 yards and took up my position.  The race organisers had clearly expected a big field but even they were caught unprepared for the final three riders who, with numbers written on scrap paper pinned to their backs made up the field of 303 riders! The race was made up of laps of a 17 kilometre circuit with the total distance creeping over normal kermisse distance at 125 kilometres.  I started bullishly, moving up to occupy a cushy position in the top 50.  Around half way through lap 1 the horrible screech of brakes and the pungent smell of rubber signified a crash.  With bikes scattered all over the road I unclipped my foot and just held the bike upright.  The crash was a classic kermisse pile up, lap 1, no one was familiar with the course and the narrowing of the road caused a pile up.  I survived and with the field at full tilt I got tucked back in again.  The race featured a ‘berg’ prize, rather generous considering the hill was little more than 300 yards long but it provided a pleasant enough change to the monotony of flat endless farm roads.  A group slipped away very late on over the final hill, I was trying desperately to move up but so were 285 other riders, motivated by prize money down to 80^th.  I rolled over the line 61^st having seen little of the front but plenty of pile ups on my way.  It had been a decent enough race but the field size meant a phenomenal amount of luck coupled with motorbike power would have been needed to escape the clutches of the peloton. At least I netted 5 euros for little more than participating!

Fast forward 6 days and my hopes for improving on the previous weekends placing lay in the village of Zele, just east of Antwerp. Anything around Antwerp is going to be pan flat and with the flags and the flagpoles bent over sideways I was expecting the potential for some crosswind racing.  Like the rest of Europe, Belgium had seen much depleted temperatures in the run up to the big day and strong winds meant a shivering bunch lined up at 3pm.  The flag dropped and the field sped away like the finish line was just down the road.  I was slipping back, digging for more power and my legs were offering me nothing.  The Peloton came out of the farm roads and onto the bypass, the crosswind hit us and within 2 kilometres I was in real trouble.  The wind forces each rider to do exactly the same effort and when a rider is on form this is brilliant, the selection is made for you.  Sadly my condition was mysteriously poor that day.  I was sitting too far back and a touch of wheels between me and an overly keen Belgian led to me stopping dead in the road, practicing my Flemish profanities watching as the bunch snake into the distance after just 10km.  I spent the next 20km on the front of the ‘grupetto’ but our efforts were stopped by the race organiser who pulled my group out after 30km.  I was left perplexed as to why I had ridden so poorly but to have a good day you must know what a bad day feels like…or at least that was my way of consoling myself!

The final skirmish in my triple bill of racing was to be in the lumpy region around Sint-Truiden.  I had unfinished business with the race from last year where I was dropped 40km from the finish.  Signing on was a typical affair, a line of skinny riders sporting haircuts last seen in ‘Dragonball Z’ and not helped by garish tracksuits.  The race set off in decidedly warmer conditions than the previous day and with the wind considerably more understanding of my need for results I felt more upbeat about the potential for a placing.  The first lap of the race strung the bunch out up the climb.  My legs responded much better than the previous day as I sat comfortably up front.  The laps ticked by as a group of 20 or so took off up the road.  I didn’t press the panic button but I was far from happy.  The kilometres creeped by as the climb began to take its toll on the weaker riders.  As the bunch went through 3 laps to go the race blew to bits.  The break turned on itself as half the riders were brought back, similarly a group of the strongest riders slipped off the front of the peloton, my housemate Chris Nicholson amongst them.  I was in a bit of trouble as the much depleted peloton made its way up the hill for the final time.  The break had stayed clear and the chase was up.  I had made an unsuccessful bid for freedom with 3 laps to go but I had to console myself with somewhat of a sprint from my group.  I exited the last corner winding up the speed, the finish line still nigh on a kilometre away.  I took around 10^th in the gallop for the line, around 40-45^th in the race, the field rolled in as the riders various gurns told the tale of a hard race.  I was pleased with how I had ridden physically, tactically I need to risk more in favour of netting that big result.  One 10^th followed by a bag full of 80^th’s is better than my current collection of mid bunch finishes.  A brief but honourable mention to Chris who rode across to the break and netted himself a fine 12^th, proof that big risks offer big gains.  Also a less than honourable mention to the photo finish man who failed to acknowledge my efforts listing me as a ‘DNF’ and robbing me of a sure 5 euros…   

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!         

No Train, No Pain, No gain

Ah training, as athletes this is where it all started.  Nobodies first ever bike ride was a race.  Whether it’s a leisurely spin on the canal on a warm evening, a dull day on a gym bike staring out at the rain or a 100 mile epic with your mates, training is where it all begins.  I once read a quote by Peter Van Petegem that said no one ever got lucky at Flanders and Roubaix.  This is my basic principal, the goals may be slightly scaled down for me but the hard truth is right there.   As I look out at snow laden fields and the slivers of tarmac that criss cross the dales like a chess board, it’s all too easy to sit behind a window, sup your hot chocolate and look at equipment that claims to make you faster.  And this is where Van Petegem comes in.  For six weeks now I have been back in the endless routine of getting up, fueling up on porridge and heading out into the cold, with nothing more than my pockets crammed with homemade flapjack and an ipod full of motivational beats for company.  I train largely alone; weekdays are where the real difference is made for me.  My standard training consists of a couple of back to back days of long rides, on average 4 hours long, followed by a shorter harder day for speed, then back to the monotony of a couple of long rides again with either a rest day or a spin on the rollers to let the body recover.  I am sticking to a set plan every week of around 20 hours riding and a strict café budget of 5 pounds so as to not get lulled into easier rides.  

Training days are rarely the same.  There are days when you go out and feel as though the wind is on your back the whole way round, when the pedals turn effortlessly in a smooth action and where you head thinks… faster and the body delivers.  If you manage a couple of these a week then the form is coming along nicely.  Then there are the days when you curse every little rise in the road, when the slightest gust from a passing car is resented for the next hour and when no matter what track your listening to it just doesn’t ‘do it’ for you.  These happen a couple of days a week as well but if every day was a good day then you would never have a good day…something to think about.   In between my outings into the dales there is normally at least 1 day a week on the rollers.  Rollers are an example of brilliantly simple engineering, 3 rolling pins and an elastic band, so simple and yet so painful! I remember my first experience of rollers, I hopped on a pair before a prologue at the junior tour of wales and within 3 seconds I was on my backside with half the car park staring at me wishing they’d had a video camera and an envelope for you’ve been framed.  Since then I have come on a lot.  The rollers teach you to be smooth, efficient and allow you to do all this without leaving the house.  So once a week I don the summer kit, set the bike up in the garage and ride for an hour with nothing more interesting to look at than the pointing on the garage wall and the clock as it creeps by.  An hour is perfect, any shorter and you don’t get the race rhythm in your legs, any longer and your prostate goes to sleep for a couple of days.  The controlled environment is the perfect place to measure efforts without being interrupted by a poorly timed railway crossing or an overly keen motorist.  So there you have it, training, come March and the training will be put to the test as all eyes will be on who rode through 3 chains in winter, who trained abroad, who put the hours in down the gym and who partied a little too hard over winter. 

I should give a brief mention to this year’s team which I am pleased to announce as ‘Lotto Olympia Tienen’.  I know little of them so far but I will be giving the new bike it’s first competitive outing on 4^th March so stay tuned for my first race report with the new bunch of lads.