Youthful exuberance

Like two strangers who meet for the first time I thought I would start off by talking about the weather.  It has been scorching in Belgium recently on the widely accepted ‘ginger thermometer’.  Tuesday topped out at 29 degrees with barely a cloud in the sky.  I had been fending off a cold ever since my decent ride the previous Thursday with a concoction of multivitamins and Yorkshire tea… reasonably unsuccessfully I might add. It was a toss-up as to whether to race or not.  On the one hand a rest would give me a chance to be stronger for the days to come, but on the other, at 5 euros a race it would probably be cheaper to race than to watch as I’m sure my 5 euros would be swallowed up within a couple of trips to the ice cream van.  I signed on rather reluctantly. 

As the clock struck 6pm we careered into the first bend and off into the back lanes.  The course was pretty flowing meaning I could sit in without having to suffer through the endless accelerations that normally come with a town kermisse.  My initial fears about being under the weather were confirmed as I followed a move on lap one, I crept across the gap sucking in the air like a 20 year old vacuum cleaner before tagging onto the group and regretting the exertions.  I was forced to sit back and watch as the race disintegrated, unable to really attack.  I finally came around by the final 35km but by then the race was as good as over with over 40 riders up the road.  I tried to avoid the dangers of a bunch sprint late on, attacking through the finish line with one 8km lap left.  I looked around for help, hoping a strong rider would tow me away from the bunch but I was alone.  I make no secrets about my hatred of time trialling.  It has been 6 years since I bored myself half to death battering down an ‘A’ road on a midweek evening but right now I was going to have to call on those very skills.  I tried to be aerodynamic like the TV shots we all see of Bradley Wiggins but I might as well of had a parachute attached I felt I was going so slowly.  A quick look down at my gears showed I still had 3 left to push the pace on.  I plugged away, looking over my shoulder more often than back street drug dealer.  I had maybe 300 yards on the peloton, with 1km to go I was caught by 3 riders who had used their collective strength to reel me in.  I didn’t even go for the sprint, taking a distinctly average 48^th.  But at 5 euros an entry it was definitely cheaper to ride then to sit in the bar working my way through the range of fruit juices.   

If Tuesday felt hot then I was in for a melting on Thursday.  Multiple laps of a rolling course and 31 degrees ensured it felt more like a rotisserie than a kermisse.   I threw a couple of testing attacks in on lap 1 but these were a preliminary throw of the dice that came to nothing.  I let the laps tick by as the 150 rider field was stretched like an elastic band over the finishing hill each lap.  With 50km to go I spotted the perfect counter attack, the problem was 15 riders were already in it… and rapidly riding away at around 20 seconds in front of the peloton.  I used my main strength to bridge the gap, hitting out at the bottom of the climb and pressing as hard as I could on the pedals, finally making contact just metres from the top of the hill.  There were perhaps 20 riders in this counter attack, too many to work cohesively and I should have known this.  I gambled my energy on this move, taking more than my fair share of turns at the front in the hope we could bridge up to the leaders.  With just 30km left things were beginning to get painful.  As we approached the hill I played the same trick I used a week earlier in Kumtich, riding at the head of the break to ensure I was still up there at the top.  This week the gamble failed… so did I to be honest as my legs simply weren’t up to the task and I was left in the second split over the crest.  I tried to stay calm, draining both my bottles to try and summon something left inside me.  I was experiencing ‘the bonk’, ‘the hunger knock’, ‘hitting the wall’, call it what you will because at that point I had more words than energy.  I was left to nurse myself home in a group of perhaps 15 riders.  In the kick for the line had nothing and rolled over for my second 48^th place in 3 days.  If I started like a grape, I now resembled a raisin.  My under vest had tripled in weight and felt as though I had showered in it.   I have ridden on a good vein of form for perhaps the last month.  I think my capitulation in Thursday’s finale may have been the last dregs being forced away through the pedals.  I look forward to the inevitable visit from the anti-doping van next week having used the words vein and form in the same sentence but having raced over 1000km this month alone on top of training I am looking ahead to a mid-season break away from racing over the next couple of weeks.  The hot weather also seems to have awoken belgiums student population, all of whom seem to be at a dance music festival down the road from me partying until the sun rises… so much for a decent nights kip!

Below is a quick pic of last thursdays race in the gallop for 13th, I like the picture partly because I clearly look like i'm giving it the beans, but mainly because the spectator on the far right of the shot is swearing at us...  photo courtesy of Belgiums finest photographer, Jean Bollaerts   

Make hay whilst the sun shines

Pressure is something we all have to deal with in our everyday lives.  A lot of people think the life of a cyclist is care free and more like a gap year than a tilt at being a professional.  But the truth is I feel pressure, from within, from the Rayner Fund who so generously support me and also from my team who put their faith in me and spend their energy working for me.  I try to feed off pressure… not in an ingenious weight loss way, but in a positive way where I dig that 1% deeper because of pressure.  My personal goal has been to crack the top 20 as early as possible this year and without trotting out the excuses I had so far failed with more top 40’s than a second string pop star, all without really threatening the single figures. 

Thursday was to be ‘ascension’ day in Belgium. It’s effectively a bank holiday so what better way to celebrate than by shutting the streets for a bike race!  This ensured a mid-week Kermisse of 119.5km was on the calendar.  I journeyed alone to the Village of Kumtich, not far from the Walloon border, knowing with my good form and a bit of luck that anything was possible.  My team entered 7 riders in the field of perhaps 120 but with many other teams all boasting a full team we were going to have to play the numbers game.  I got a real shock on lap 1 when the bunch turned up what seemed at first to be a small climb… and on and on it went until after over a kilometre of 10% gradient it flattened out over the top… not too bad but with a lap board that read ’16 to go’ this was going to become a race of attrition.  I had mediocre legs early on but with a break of 6 up the road and with 12 or so riders speeding off into the distance to join them I was forced to lay all my cards on the table with just 4 laps gone.  I took off over the summit of the climb, quickly finding top gear and being cheered on by the supportive crowd.  The gap was perhaps 12-15 seconds, enough to deter anyone from coming across with me.  I put my head down as the break snaked away on the descent through the village. I glided around the bends like Alberto Tomba using every inch of tarmac and honing in on the break.  The lactic acid was threatening to overcome my pursuit but in my head I recalled the frustration and disappointment of Mondays race where just that bit more effort would have changed everything.  I vented my frustration on the pedals, tagging onto the back of the break as the group hit the town cobbles halfway around the course.  The first few minutes were horrible, my face was screwed up in the sort of grimace you would associate with constipation. I was forcing my way through to the front, desperate to escape the clutches of the peloton.  After only 3km out in front we hit the climb once more.  I was in trouble as the speed and my recent exertions threatened to drop me from the group.  I decided to risk riding on the front, normally a sign of strength but this was no more than a bluff, I was at full throttle and all I was hoping for was that everyone would be satisfied at the pace and not push on any harder…. It worked.  Within a couple of laps we had mopped up the leaders and with another group having bridged across the break numbered nearly 30 riders.  I was nervous, I was obviously desperate for a good result and as long as the peloton was held at bay I was on for a top 30: so with that in mind I worked hard on the front of the break.  Each lap the break would split up on the climb before coming back together over the top with the exception of a couple of stragglers who were tailed off each ascent.  Back in the peloton many riders were having an even harder time with a dropout rate higher than the first week of a college sixth form.  With 5 laps to go I was beginning to struggle, my big turns on the front had ensured the race was over for the peloton and I was suddenly in with a shout of a top result.  I followed the crowds chants of ‘eaten jonge’ (eat boys) as I squeezed the gels in like a fatty at an all you can eat buffet, the last thing I wanted was to blow now.  To be completely honest I had scarcely been at the pointy end of a kermisse before.  I was tactically a bit naïve in the finale, a couple of groups of 4 skipped away on the flat.  I elected to ride the last climb at the head of the remaining break, more in the hope that I would still be in the group by the top than actually attempting to drop anyone.  As we approached the sprint for 13^th I lurked at the back of the group knowing the headwind coupled with a hard race meant I would be better sprinting late.  It worked out nearly perfectly as I burst round all but 1 rider in the closing metres to take a hard earned 14^th place. I was chuffed with the result, on a day where I was my team’s sole representative in the break and in front of my team manager.  I was rewarded with 15 euros, enough to cover the petrol but the real bonus was my breakthrough performance.  My manager had also been impressed, within 24 hours I had an email selecting me for 2 week long stage races in the month of July.   Seeing as this is my first ‘result’ of the season and my planned Oscars acceptance speech is long overdue, I owe a huge gratitude to the hard working volunteers who are helping to fund me out in Belgium, without the hard work and financial support of the Dave Rayner Fund I simply would not be able to ride over in Belgium.  My form is good at the moment; hence… make hay whilst the sun shines, se keep everything crossed for some more results to follow.  Below, the pressure is on, i'm 3rd from left.  Photo credit Laura Van Hasselt.

Tactical torment and tasty tarts

Every race day starts with a routine.  Belgian races typically start at either 3pm on a weekend or 6pm if they’re on mid-week.  This is probably the best part about Belgian racing.  It allows you to get up after the sun has risen and leisurely get ready for the days exertions.  This is in comparison to England where you typically have to watch the sun rise whilst doing 85 down the motorway to get to sign on before it closes at 8am… And now you know why I’m here! Porridge is the staple of a bike rider’s diet, every morning I dine like a peasant on this super food.  Then it’s on to cleaning the bike, sure it will be dirty within 10km but a clean bike is as much about having a race ready mentality as it is about the machine actually working.  Finally it’s onto 3 hour pasta… pretty much what it says on the tin, it’s plain pasta eaten roughly 3 hours before the start.  The drive to the race always takes in a visit to my local bakery in Olen to purchase some last minute tarts, essential race food you know!

Saturday was to be my first race back after Wednesday nights crash.  I was happy enough that the ibuprofen had worked its magic so I set off for the town of Sint-Niklaas for stage 1 of the 2 day race, pulling in for a brief pit stop to take on the days choice of sustenance… a Frangipane tart.  I had a slightly awkward moment upon arriving when I struggled to get parked, finally finding a place outside the windows of a local nursery.  At first the kids gathering at the window was a humorous distraction until it came to getting changed… there were no changing rooms meaning it was to be an undignified wriggle in the car as I tried to shield the seemingly engrossed youngsters from catching an eye full of a semi naked bike rider.  Thankfully I saved face with a well-positioned flannel and managed to keep my name on the start sheet as opposed to a very different kind of register.   Onto the race then, 19 laps of a ‘D’ shaped course, a sector of cobbles every lap and rather ridiculously, a curb that the entire field had to hop over each lap… only In Belgium! The pre-race reconnaissance paid off as half the field ploughed into the curb on lap 1, no crashes thankfully but a ‘you’ve been framed’ moment none the less.  The cobbles were taking their toll on my bike, Lap 4 saw both my bottles jump out of their bottle cages, I managed to lodge 1 between my knees and avoid a pile up at the same time… 19 laps and down to 1 bottle after just 4… it was time to ride like a camel.   The races main break pulled clear rather frustratingly at the half way mark.  I planned a counter attack and by the 70km mark I was in hot pursuit with 5 other riders.  A break away succeeds or fails on its compilation, of the 6 of us, 4 were working well.  Sadly one rider at the back insisted on sitting on, avoiding his share of the work and then doing a ferociously fast turn once a lap.  We exchanged a barrage of insults in atleast 3 languages before all but giving up our pursuit of the group in front.  Sadly this inconsistent pace put pay to our efforts and we were reeled in by the bunch after 10km or so.  I gathered my strength and made a surge with 40km to go to get across to yet another counter attack.  My legs were starting to feel better after a poor start so I clicked down 3 or 4 gears, riding across the 10 seconds gap and settling into a chase of the leaders.  With 30km to go it was clear we had rid ourselves of the Peloton behind.  There were 11 in the move, surely enough to catch the 12 riders in the lead.  I pressed on hard at the front, I had a team mate with me to drive the pace but out of the 11 only maybe 5 of us were fully committed.  The 3 riders from Bianchi were relying on their sole representative in the front group meaning they were missing their share of the work.  We rode the last 3 laps with no great urgency, the leaders were in no danger of being caught, and we were in no danger of being caught by the peloton.  In the end we were left to sprint for the minor placing’s.  My team mate jumped away in the last kilometre leaving me blocking on the front.  I hit out with 250 metres to go with 8 riders on my wheel, one rider passed me in the gallop for the line leaving me with a respectable 34^th for the day.  It was by far my hardest fought 10 euros of the season as I’d tried everything and spent half the race in various moves.  A quick mention for my old room mate Mike who rode unselfishly and got a deserved 37^th in the race.   

Onto stage 2 then, which was weirdly on Monday.  God bless the organisers who felt us under 23’s needed a rest day after Saturday.  The race was started under pleasant sunshine, the wind had changed slightly meaning the headwind finish from Saturday had been replaced by a strong tailwind for the finish.  I felt great early on, my time to shine came on lap 4, five riders sped away into the distance followed by another 6… I was sat around 30^th wheel but it was now or never.  I raced up the side of the bunch, passed the first rider and sprinted off down the road.  The gap was around 15 seconds to bridge up to the breakaway which had by now combined and was pulling away into the distance.  I kept my speed above 50kmp/h in the pursuit and by the time I was closing in on the break I was panting like a dog in a hot car.  I finally made contact with a last gasp sprint going into the races hairpin.  In my state of exhaustion I made a dogs dinner of the hairpin.  I entered it too fast; Instead of latching onto the wheel in front I braked heavily and lost half a dozen bike lengths.  This was it, the move that could give me my first top 10, I delved into the suitcase of courage but the riders at the front kicked too hard out the corner, I was already well untruly on the rivet of the saddle.  I had been in the break no more than 5 seconds before being spat out.  Inevitably the break pulled clear, it was agonizing to watch.  I spent a couple of laps recovering before spending the last 60km peppering the bunch with some strong attacks.  Sadly I never got a successful counter attack going and eventually rolled over 32^nd.  It was a case of what could have been, I had probably the best legs of my career but I honestly couldn’t have given any more to make the break.  I got a token gesture of 10 euros for my efforts but at heart I knew this could have been the one.  On the plus side if I continue to improve at this rate I am confident I can nail the top 10 in the near future.    

A quick shot of me and my team mate trying to get across to Saturdays winning break... unsuccessfully.  Image credit: Isle cyclingpics.

Tired of tyres and ticked off with tubs

We are now into the month of May and the calendar on my wall looks as packed as a Christmas turkey.  A heavy race schedule can only be a good thing, after all I’m here to race, to learn and to get results so the more practice I get the better my chances of a decent result.  The week started off poorly.  Saturday was to be a 140km race in Vilvoorde although by the number of roundabouts on the course… ‘Belgium’s Milton Keynes’ would be a more appropriate name.  I shall spare you the dramatics as there were none, I was eating well, conserving my energy and after an unspectacular 80km my new rear tubular tyre gave up the ghost.  I felt let down, if you’ll excuse the pun, but at 70 euros a new tubular should fare better than that.  Onwards and upwards then… to the northern town of Herselt for Sundays saunter of just 100km.  The short distance made the race increasingly nervous, several times I was anchoring on as the bunch hurtled through town centre streets being shepherded by barriers.  I played my cards early and by lap 2 I was blasting across to a 6 man move, the first 15 seconds of the 20 second gap flew by, then I hit the lactate wall.  I was grinding away on my 13 sprocket, watching as the riders up ahead showed no sign of letting up.  As I pressed on down the home straight at a wind assisted 55kmp/h I was reeled in by the Peloton as the break pulled clear.  Each lap was like a mini bunch sprint as the 150 field barrelled into the farm road down the backside of the course.  The width of the road halved each time through meaning the pace was constantly tough.  The break stayed agonisingly clear by a handful of seconds leaving the 100 man peloton to risk everything in the gallop for 7^th.  I came in 34^th, not the result I was looking for but when you walk away from a bunch sprint you count yourself reasonably lucky. 

I didn’t have to wait long for my next bite of the kermisse cherry.  Wednesday was to be 118km of endless kicking out of corners in Beveren.  I had elected to ride on ‘clincher tyres’ for the evening as my luck with tubular tyres seemed to be non-existent. I was aggressive early on, getting in 2 small moves in the first 15km and even coming within a bike length of the first prime (money put up for the first rider across the finish on a designated lap).  As would inevitably be the case the main break of the day rolled off the front just after I had been reeled in… typical.  I tried hard to get across in a group of 3 but with heavy legs and a nagging wind my efforts came to nothing.  The laps ticked by in an endless series of tight bends, entering at 20kmp/h and accelerating up to 55kmp/h within 500 yards.  The pace was frenetic as a dozen or so riders pulled hard on the front of the bunch for a good 80km, never giving the breakaway more than 30 seconds.  I was suffering but as the last lap loomed and the break was reeled in I was gripped by optimism, adrenaline and above all hope that this was to be the night when I creeped into the top 15 for the first time.  We came through the speed trap with 3 km to go as one big bunch; the sign flashed 53kmp/h.  I kept my wits about me, moving up when there was a gap but never putting my nose in the wind.  The black clouds over the course burst with 2km to go and with it went my luck, the atmosphere which had been stiflingly humid all night was beginning to tip its load on the course.  I approached the final corner 16^th wheel, brimming with a tonic of excitement, nervous energy and adrenaline.  Disaster… the two riders in front of me went down hard; the rain had made the last corner slick.  I had nowhere to go, I tried to avoid the crash but my quick change of line quickly took my front tyre out of contact with the tarmac leaving me to flop down like a seal.  I was full of emotion, getting back up almost before I’d hit the ground, I hopped back on, cyclo cross style, only to find the chain had been knocked off in the accident.  The rain poured down… leaving me to limp in one legged close to a minute down on the bunch.  Within 2 minutes I had gone from a potentially excellent position to picking myself up off the deck to rolling across the line despondent.  I was barely able to congratulate my fellow room mate Rob who played his hand superbly in the sprint to race home a valiant 6th... chapeau. 79^th place was my official position, the full story doesn’t replace the fact that at the end of the month I will have to provide results in order to justify funding from the Dave Rayner Fund.  I had and still do have very good form but with time running out to prove I can cut it in this country I was in need of a big result at Beveren.  Fingers crossed for this baron spell of luck to end and a big result soon!         

Long days and false dawns

Form is in the back of a cyclists mind at every moment, when he goes out on the bike and busts a gut over the top of each crest in the road,  when he walks around the shops screening the back of the ingredients list looking for the best food to improve (it’s Nutella by the way).  Form is difficult to predict, some days you have it, when the pedals seem to turn themselves and when the peloton is strung out in a long line and all you can think about is attacking and riding even faster.  For weeks I have been building my form, spending more and more time riding at higher and higher intensities and looking to gain that few extra yards on the competition. Training has been a real insight into Belgiums insect population as well, every ride I come back like a test card for the RSPB, smattered in various bugs and creepy crawlies, a down side to a nice back road if there was one!

Tuesday was a bank holiday for Belgium and like many countries celebrating May Day, the pleasant 20 degrees and a bit of sun ensured a decent crowd for the afternoon Kermisse in Glabeek.  The field took off in a frenzy with the pace too hot for the back markers to undo various bolts and feign a mechanical.  I was having mechanical problems of my own with my chain skipping more than a girl guides meet whenever I got out the saddle.  We ground around the circuit as I lost several bike lengths coming out of every corner, unable to accelerate with the riders who’s bikes weren’t trying to kill them.  I made my main effort after 90km, winding it up like a grandfather clock and trundling across the 10 seconds or so to the forming breakaway.  My chain played it’s joker as I rounded the corner, only metres from the back of a dangerous breakaway, the damn thing dropped down onto the small chainring as I tried to close the final metres.  I was left in no man’s land, seconds behind the break but with my bolt well and truly shot and with the bunch breathing down my neck.  Sadly the race ran away from me, a break of 12 followed by a counter attack of 15 riders meant I was left to fight for an anonymous 30 something yet again this season.  I attacked the Peloton with 3km to go, using the last  uphill gradient before a descent to avoid a bunch sprint.  I dragged cycling’s equivalent of a poker player with me, the rider was grimacing on my wheel for a good kilometre.  As we swung off the bottom of the climb and rounded the last bend at perhaps 75kmp/h I allowed my shattered competitor his turn in the wind.  After only 5 seconds he flicked his elbow in a sign he’d had enough… I shouted for him to continue to ride as we had only 30-40 metres over the charging bunch under the 1km to go flag… This is where my poker player break away companion seemed to light up some sort of after burner, clicking down several gears and steaming away at 60kmp/h, I was planning to come around him and hold off the peloton in front of the partisan crowd whom had come to watch me race.  After about 100 yards I realised I was in real trouble, I could see the blurred outline of the chequered flag as I squeezed my last watts through the pedals, barely able to hold the lads wheel.  I took a hard fought 36^th; just holding off the bunch by the width of a tyre, clearly this was a problem for the commisaire who once again listed me as a non-finisher… pretty farcical for a race which had a photo finish camera.  I was slightly surprised when I got back to the car to see training wheels in my bike… “you ride home by bike” was the verdict from the fan club, a thumbs down if ever there was one! I set off having ridden a 120km race already, “come Johnny English” was the call as I pootled off along with 10 or so other riders as we set off on the 60km ride home.  This was my kind of recovery ride! The big chain ring was strictly off limits, as was any speed above 30kmp/h, truly an excellent way to end the day with 110 miles on the clock.

Thursday was another Kermisse, another chance to crack that top 10.  My Team manager showed up and looked expectant.  I too was hopeful of a good ride as I’d coughed up 177 euros fixing up the stead and the course suited my strengths.  I was eager to impress and chanced my hand very early, attacking the courses hill after just 15km, I felt great, clicking  up through the gears like a teenager tapping out a text message, I flew past a couple of riders in no man’s land and straight up to the break of 6, headed up by two ‘an post’ riders.  I was keen to keep the intensity up before noticing the road had become much more comfortable than 5 seconds previously.  My heart sank as I felt the road vibrating through my backside… my rear tire had punctured.  There are no service vehicles in kermisse races, I was left to limp back 8km to the car on a rapidly buckling rim.  The crowds gave me the disapproving look as if to wonder how this rider had been dropped after just 20km, I let the crowd know my frustrations as I puffed out the cheeks and gesticulated my anger at such bad luck.  It is a shame my night ended so early but at 5 euros a race entry there will always be another day.  Below is a quick pic of Tuesdays race as the pressure is put on...i'm 3rd fromthe left with apparently a midget on my wheel.  Image courtesy of Marvne poppe.     

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.