Omloop Het Nieuwsblad
3 March 2019
Two mates from rival clubs are in an enormous and empty shed in Ghent. It’s wet and cold outside. And dark. Maybe this explains why so few have turned up to ride. We fuel on coffee, pin numbers onto jerseys and ride off into the wind and rain to begin the Omloop het Nieuwsblad, the first European race of the new cycling season. It is a race, created in 1945, to test a man’s spirit over the roughest and muddiest of roads in the worst conditions so that the stories of their endeavours would boost the sales of a newspaper, the Het Nieuwsblad. The professional riders will ride this route tomorrow, with every pedal stroke aired on live TV and the roads will be lined by fanatical Flandrians. Today the road is for the amateurs who’ll be glanced at by dog walkers and herded by marshals in gilet-jaunes.
Outside the city of Ghent, the wind is ferocious and the rain lashes down. Clean kit is quickly turned a sour brown by mud flicked up from the wheels in front. Elbows, and guttural Flemish mixed with some Anglo-Saxon and French expletives, combine to fight for a sheltered position in the fast moving peloton as we ride the small roads alongside the river Schelde. There is constant fragmentation and pushing as obstacles and corners prize the riders apart. Mud gets in the eyes, despite protective eye-ware, and water seeps through even the most water-proofed clothing.
After forty kilometres of headwinds the physical toil is telling on some of the riders. Cycling is a team sport. Success depends on the efforts of others. In the amateur dramatics of Cyclo-sportives there are no teams, there is no help other than that forged by banter, bullshit or brazen aggression. Each man is there purely for himself, which makes the amateur pelotons edgy and selfish places to be. However, I am here with my south London rival, but my Belgian friend, Balham CC. We look after each other, he for me on the cobbles and I for him on the climbs. We work well as a team.
The group thins as we speed our way towards the Huisepontwe, the first of the bone-rattling cobbled sections. Positioning is key as you want to avoid being caught behind a slow rider hogging the smoother gutters. The twelve months since I last rode the cobbles has erased the memory of just how hard they are. Tyres are as much airborne as they are grounded and no matter what their tread, they slip and slide in a treacherous manner. The bike bolts and starts like a frisky mare on the first day’s breaking. The body jolts and jingles and thoughts turn liquid. Men drift off the back unable to hold the wheels. After two kilometres, the road returns to asphalt and there is some relief that no one crashed.
For us, there are no team supporters handing out musettes at key points along the route. If we need a feed or a pee, we have to stop at the designated zones provided by the organisers, where we grab a few slices of honey cake, stuff dry waffles into dry mouths, mash bananas into gullets and top up water bottles with sugary liquids that drip from large containers. For those who just ‘want to finish’ there is laughter and time. For those who want a ‘good time’ (which will be many hours slower than the slowest professional), they delude themselves into rushing and barging to save a second or two. I am one of the latter.
Next up are some of the iconic names in cycling; the Wolvenberg, a steep yank up a narrow road hemmed in by tall banks, followed by the Molenberg. Standing on the pedals is useless on the steep cobbled climbs as the back tyre spins without your weight pressing down upon it, so you grind up. Slowly. A few desultory spectators watch in disbelief at the pathetically slow pace of us amateurs. Some riders do the walk of shame, their cleats rattlingon the wet stones.
Over the top the road, which is really a farm track made up of lots of broken concrete slabs, gives out a steady ‘kebab, kebab’ sound as tyres jolt across each join of concrete. Dollops of mud sprayed up from the wheels in front hide my club name once so white and clear, as we weave our way through the hedge-less and sulking fields which stink of rotting cabbage. Beyond, there are lines of poplars on grey horizons, their branches clacking in the wind.
Never hear it said that Belgium is flat. The parcours skips over hills first one way, then back again. Berendries puts in a quick 25% kick, Elverenberg only 7%. Along the way we ride the Rekelberg, Leberg, and Valkenberg. The Balham/Chiswick CC alliance is put under strain when the Balham CC’s rear spoke goes ‘ping’. The thin metal strip sobs agains the bike frame with each revolution. His wheel wobbles and buckles. We stop at the next feed zone where there is a mechanic, but there is too long a queue of others holding their broken machines.
Balham decides to limp on towards the finish, so he sets off. I’m in need of fuel so I join a long line for a final feed of honey cake and bananas to get me over the next two obstacles that bar our way.
‘The Muur (van Geraardsbergen) is a rendezvous with your character’, said Eddy Plankaert who won the 1988 Tour of Flanders. It’s only 92 metres of height gain over very slippery cobbles with a chapel on top. On race days, its slopes can hold the most fanatical of the Flemish Wielervolk, or fans who shout beery encouragement at their heroes. Today it is quieter other than the ricocheting boom of Euro-pop banging from the rough looking fairground at the bottom of the slopes. The climb is tolerable to begin with. It’s only once the trees take over from the houses that it kicks up to 19.9 per cent. The bike slithers and stumbles on the cobblestones. On the final bend a cold, long suffering cameraman captures my moment of character. I try to look as if I am making the winning break, but the camera never lies and captures instead my exhausted struggle. My time up the climb is being recorded. It wont make satisfactory reading. At the top, groups of riders pose for selfies outside the chapel. I can’t stop as I need to make sure I catch Balham CC - my friend and rival - before the finish. I speed down the Dreipikkel and onto the Oude Steenweg before reaching the last cobbled climb of the day, the Bosberg.
Over the top the wind has backed off and the road is straight and still there is no limping Spcecialized of Balham CC in sight. I increase the speed, determined that I will not be beaten to the line by a bloke riding a broken bike. I fly. Another man flies faster, and says whilst passing me, ‘You must be English as you have Hope hubs’. The cheek of being faster than me combined with enough knowledge and time to comment on my bike parts is galling. Worse, I cannot keep up with him.
On the outskirts of Ninove I spot the broken bright blue Specialized ridden by Balham CC and up the speed again. For a man with a broken spoke he is covering the ground quickly and there is not much road left before the finish line. Like a cheetah stalking its prey, I now break into a high speed chase, not knowing where this surge of energy has come from. I don’t care, all I can think about is beating Balham to the line. The gap closes, slowly. Balham only ever has one spoke; fast. Even with a broken spoke. On the final rise he senses me bearing down upon him and being the arch competitor that he is, he starts his sprint. I lace onto his wheel, and with 50 metres and one corner to go I make my move. Was it too late, I wonder as we cross the line together. Honours fairly shared he thought, until he saw the photo later. Me just in front with a triumphant grin!
