It was 13 days, two classic bicycle races and a lot of chocolate. The cobbled classics Ronde Van Vlaanderen (Tour of Flanders) and Paris-Roubaix, mine was a trip to pay homage to legends.
They have been part of Belgium and French culture since 1913 and 1896 respectively. These monuments epitomize pain, glory, tradition, suffering, broken spirits and shattered bones.
The nostalgia of tire strapped heroes battling until the bitter end in a mix of grit, determination and an occasional speedball. It is where grown men cry and triumph. Who can’t relate?
April third 2011, Bruges, Belgium. Nothing can replace being here, being a part of history in the making. Watching the race on TV does little justice to the smell of beer and clove cigarettes at six thirty in the morning. I bow down, these are serious cycling fans.
Finally, I found my equivalent to a cool Super Bowl. No tiny seats to contain all the excitement. No stupid towels to hit you in the face. No sorority looking girls slurring their last night regrets. No big trucks. Fries with mayonnaise and mussels offered instead of hot dogs and nachos. Pretty sure the beer here tops Rocky Mountain piss water.
The riders make their way down the ramp. Tommeke, Fabian, Thor, Hincapie, Cavendish, Gilbert, Haussler, Goss and Farrar, to name a few. I must be dreaming but it is real.
“Wow, how many times is that older female fan going to try and make out with Cavendish?” “Did you catch that blonde wigged cross-dressing superhero clad in pink crossing the barrier?” Like I said, serious cycling fans. Back stateside your appreciation of the Belgians grows wildly when you try to explain your awesome vacation to your fellow co-workers.
The gun goes off and we race to catch the train to Oudenaard. ” Is this the right train?” “Is this where to get off?” “Is this is the right direction to walk?” Our aimless wandering is even more embarrassing with the camera in tow.
Fortunately, the vintage orange team car outside the museum is a dead giveaway. We have reached our pilgrimage, The Centre Ronde Van Vlaanderen. Inside, down the hallway a big screen TV blares Flemish. We are ahead of the sweaty fans climbing the back roads to glimpse Koppenberg so we profit two wooden chairs. The menu gives away the fact that we have hit pay dirt – Stoofvless Cancellara met frieten or Spaghetti Boonenaise.
Steel bicycles hang from their places of fame retired from carrying the weight of legends. Freddy Maertens sits behind us giving a wink to pay no mind to the local nonsensical drunk. Seriously, is this real?!
The kilometers click down, the cowbells have their way with us and the fans pour in like beer. The noise level rises, the race heats up, only the final kilometre left. Spartacus puts down the hammer with Chavanel and Nuyens ready to pounce, the rabid pack chases snapping their jaws and it’s down to the line, BAM!
Nick Nuyens crosses first in a blitz of grimaces and flinging elbows, the crowd erupts. Cowbell central, they frickin love when a Belgian wins! Put some strawberries and whipped cream on those waffles it’s time for celebration!
The excitement is over. Back to canal riding and chocolate tasting, the countdown begins. One week until Paris-Roubaix. Sorry Mum and Jesus but this is way better than a two hour Easter Mass and rack o baaaaaa (lamb) – no offence to the Aussies. Hell of the North here we come.
I love the classics.
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