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…