2012-04-20/22 - Flanders shenaniganza

RIDE REPORT – DAY 3

Day three was gorgeous for half with sun in the a.m. and later more tumultuous with storms in the afternoon. The Muur was a delight for all as our first point of call, either in its challenge or the view offered once conquered (or both). We relished the vista for some time and celebrated with headstands and berating local ramblers who had become over-zealous in ringing their repurposed bike bells to clear their own path. We agreed these particular hikers were particular wankers. Zut alor.

I believe the sunshine had quieted the land after so much rain, as Flanders seemed more lush and rolling than either previous day. Birds louder, lungs louder with the cobbled hills but cars more lulling and fewer of them. Most houses were dark inside but I imagined them occupied with Belgian Dutch finding their own homely peace as we rolled by. Scores of houses and farms and sheep watched us as we rode past and we laughed and drank and enjoyed the farmland roads which were, as they were for the entire trip, smooth and seemingly purpose built for our bikes.

Towards the end of our loop back towards Brakel we passed through the back streets of some depressed villages. We saw many empty buildings and homes (these I was confident were empty) with Te Koop - ‘for sale’ - signs tacked to their front windows or gardens. In some places the tarmac was even in poor shape and missing hunks of road and loose gravel made me think of home (if not miss it). It had also started to rain by this point.

I remember we arrived back at the B&B in fine spirits and incredibly satisfied sense of accomplishment. As we packed the sun came back out. Some slept, some showered. The van ferried the Eurocrew to the station in two lots in the back of the van. I can safely speak for all when I say that it was terrifying riding in the back the van in total darkness with two evil red faces staring you down (the evil faces doubling as the tail lights for those on the outside of the van). It was like some sort of nefarious human trafficking border cross. On board the train back to England we drank prosecco and finally split once alighted at Kings X.

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It can be hard to make sense of an ending. In that I mean the details of day three are easily enough reproduced, but their meaning remains elusive. Sometimes a chronological catalogue can be pulled together and from that its inherent logic arises from its composition. I’m not sure writing the above has done so. But as I wrote the above I was reminded of a famous American author (living in England) who went cycling in Belgium in the latter part of the last century. Maybe I’ll just use his words to finish this post instead:

“Strange memories of those nervous nights in Belgium. Five days later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a long holiday - the kind of peak that never comes again. Flanders in the mid 19-- was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run ... but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of the world. Whatever it meant.

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation of cyclist comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time - and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. Flanders in 19--.

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or two or maybe three nights - or very early mornings - when I left Muur half-crazy and, instead of going home, we aimed the big Eurovan south at a 60km an hour wearing baggy lyrca and Assos chamois cream on our faces . . . booming through Brakel, the lights of Soignies, Liege, Rochefort not quite sure which turn-off to take when we got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while we fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way we went we would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as us: No doubt at all about that.

In Belgium there was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the cobbles to the Ardennes, then up the E43 to Knokke-Heist or down to Oudenaarde. . . . We could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.

And that, I think, was the handle - the sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Bonked. Not in any mean or racing sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting - on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.

So now, less than two weeks later, you can go up on a steep hill in Hampstead and look East, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - that place where the wave finally broke and we, the Flanders crew, rolled back.”