2012-04-20/22 - Flanders shenaniganza

RIDE REPORT – DAY 2

The van is quite warm since the sun emerged. Bernie and Matt sitting on opposite ends of the bench seat, Bernie with his elbow out the window, Matt concentrating on the shape of the clouds and casting the occasional furtive glance at his garmin. A bright Flemish breeze sails in through the cracked windows. They have been silent for 15 minutes, if not more.

Adjusting his little pink hat Matt finally asks if there are any post-war statues in Tielt, or if the ongoing medieval aesthetic has overwhelmed public art projects in all of Flanders. Bernie remains quiet at this remark, and after a breath cooly takes a drag from his cigarette. His chest inflates, pectorals stretching the already taut lycra which then elegantly deflates as Bernie shoots a stream of smoke from the left corner of his mouth.
Although Matt rolls the window down further it seems to have become hotter in the van. Matt rustles the map needlessly and then misfolds it.
Bernie finally speaks, asking Matt if him if he can hand him a piece of fruit from box on the floor. Matt hands it to hime and then, only from the corner of his eye, watches Bernie - still with one hand on the wheel – effortlessly peel away the rind of the bald fruit and place each individual section in his mouth. Matt rustles his jacket needlessly and then settles ever so slightly closer to the gear shifter.
--
Nine riders depart from Bruge in a flamboyant sprint. The locals Flems who had caught wind of an English *groep vanonoverwinnelijkefietsers *sluicing through their cityhad cordened off a 9 mile stretch of road heading south. The tower bell rings out and the riders grind out of the cobbled alley ways and between the thousand year stone homes. Milkwomen shake their polked dottedc scarfs and the old men their canes with aged vigour as the Riders go past. As they exit the city the Riders look back and see a Belgian fete receding in the distance – children laughing, cakes stacked higher than fountains, young lovers courting under trees and the French and the Dutch sharing beer and municiple government positions...in short – a city, a people and county healed. For what had the Riders wrought but goodness to this place? They know of their own deeds but would not repeat them. Only the song of their rear cog can sing their tale – but its lyrics are those which only the heart can hear.
--
The countryside offered its bizzare wares to the group as the cycled deep between its fields: a cow sexually advancing on a housecat, metallic sculpture shaped to grotesque animal-like blobs, Belgian farmers who are not born and do not die but simply work the land ceaselessly and bountifully and bear children of unimaginable beauty. Mostly however, the group see green valleys rolling no more sharply than the folds of a bed, draft horses, ancient churches and the experience of perfect tarmac. The sun shines after a brief rainstorm, and continued to do so all day. The riders are in the groove, swarming perfectly in sync with themselves and the road. They cannot tell if they were made for Flanders, or Flanders was made for them.

The reunion with Bernie and Matt in Tielt is brief before the group sets out again. They had arrived over 60 minutes late and without a care in the world, glowing from the rain and the vigour of movement.

Talk of the Koppenberg begins. As we approach it, the group absorbs a local rider clad in all red onsie spinning crazily at what must 27gi. This approach road is crepe-flat. Looks are exchanged and it is clear that all of us simply don’t know what to make of this cyclist. As we split up high left along the edge of the valley he stays right in the gulch pedalling like some mental fireman clown. 4000RPM spinning and then a coast for 10m, then 4000RPM spinning and then a coast for 10m; what could this mean? Have we made some fundamental series of errors for the Koppenberg? What of our technique, our gear, our clothes, our sanity? Has something gone horribly wrong? Is it actually some apparition of Sean Kelly as a harbinger of future crimes and this is a ghost, a warning of what is to befall us? As it turns out he does not follow us to the Koppenberg and we cruise to the its rough, sodden-with-rain base. Often only dreams allow us access to true majesty and beauty, however occasionally reality will catch up however briefly. This is such a moment.

Here I will not describe what happened next. All I shall say is that the group had not stopped for some time and when we finally put our soles on the soaked peak our feet gripped the rock confidently, as only a dry sole can.

A joyus ride to Brakel. Sunshine, perfectly geometric windmills, the green felt of the Flemish countryside eases us to the B&B. There is a fridge stacked with beer and an honesty system. We indulge. We are honest. We are incredibly happy. 11 pizzas later and countless beers into the evening we slink into our bed, done with day 2.

TL;DR