The 2002 Ronde Van Vlaanderen

In the movie Down by Law Roberto Benigni plays a bewildered Italian tourist in New Orleans. In one scene, he walks up to one of the other protagonists, consults a phrase book, and then says "It is a strange and beautiful world." This is received and pondered for a moment. Then the response is directions to some place, we’re not sure where, maybe to some place where the deeper meaning of his statement is apparent. But probably it’s to the post office or a public toilet. The Benigni character, apparently expecting this, departs in the direction described. There is humor drawn from the absurdity.

This story really begins several months ago when my wife casually mentions that she thinks she’d like to remodel the bathroom. I consider my reply, then I casually mention that I’d like to see the Tour of Flanders…

There is a carnival in the town square but other than that there is no indication that anything special is going on. And other than a large Centrum Ronde van Vlaanderen sign that I see just off the square there is nothing to tell you that one of the world’s most beautiful races will be happening soon. On the surface there is little remarkable about this area at all. I flew into Amsterdam and took the train here. That was less of an adventure than I was expecting. The trip was grueling but uneventful. Holland is a country defined by water rather than by land and is dead flat, as is much of Belgium. It is not until the train crosses the Schelde that I look to the south and east and see gentle hills overlooking the river. Again, nothing I see is remarkable. At least it doesn’t appear that way from the train.

My first order of business the day before the race is to rent a bicycle. I get directions to a shop and head off on foot. Once there I am told that there are no bicycles left to rent, probably none in Oudenaarde. Maybe in Gent. Disheartened I return to the hotel. I had advice to rent a car so that I could also see the start in Brugge. Renting a car here is likely to be a challenge also, but as a last resort I could take the train to the Brussels airport and rent one there. What a pain. I explain my predicament to the hostess at the hotel. She makes a phone call, it appears there may be a bicycle or two available after all. She tells me that if I ever do this again I should reserve the bicycle along with the room. It appears the local business owners have relationships with each other that they do not have with me. At least not the owner of the bike shop. The lesson learned is that the local tourist office is your friend.

Today is the tourist Ronde. You can choose from a number of different course lengths but none of that matters to me since I can’t get to the start. I head out of town and pick it up after the Wolvenberg, the second ‘helling’ or hill. The Wolvenberg is followed by a long flat stretch along the Schelde. I catch the tail end of a group and am pulled along at a fast clip. Eventually at Ruien we turn away from the river and I know my berg initiation is not far off. Helling 3 is the Kluisberg, followed by the Knokteberg. Now, these are still climbs, but I’m a fat old guy at the end of winter in the American midwest and they don’t seem that big a deal to me. To a lean, mean Euro pro these have got to be an hors d’ovre.

The main course begins at the Oude Kwaremont. Narrow, steep, cobbled. Lots of people get off and walk. There is a narrow strip of dirt on either side of the road and that’s the place to ride, no doubt about it. It works great for following the wheel ahead of you, but if you need to pass you have to ride the baby heads. This makes the pass more difficult, and if you see a rider gritting his teeth as he does it it’s mostly because of the effort but also because that’s the best way to keep your fillings firmly seated in your teeth. Next is a fast, downhill on a road narrow enough to get your attention, then the Paterberg.

I have described several of the roads as narrow. The thing to remember is that when you are paving roads with stones using manual labor, width is very expensive. But even when you are away from the cobbles, many of the connecting roads are no wider being intended primarily for farm use rather than high speed auto traffic. As I sail down the hill leading to the Paterberg I notice a fair amount of dried mud in the road. Today is dry. I wonder what it would be like in the rain.

Next are the Steenbeeckdries. More cobbles are the feature here rather than elevation gain. It is a gentle climb, and as you go over the crest and pick up speed another aspect of riding the cobbles is revealed. It is not a pleasant revelation, and the faster you go the worse it gets. Remember, I am not riding a road bike. I’ve got big, fat, shock absorbing tires, and it is still no fun. I haven’t been very descriptive about what it is like to ride a bicycle over the cobbles of Flanders. That is because I feel it is beyond my command of the language. You just have to experience them yourself.

Eventually we are in Brakel at the foot of the Tenbosse. Museeuw launched one of his three victories on this climb, if I launch anything it won’t be anywhere near as glorious. But the neat thing about it is it signals the start of a fairly long reprieve from the really nasty stuff until we get to Geraardsbergen.

Just over the crest there are attractive young girls handing out cans of Red Bull, reflecting an accurate analysis of both the gender makeup of the participants and their requirements at this stage of the ride. One of them reaches towards me, can in hand, before noticing the absence of the number plate that the official ride entrants display and withdraws the offer. There is ample opportunity to just grab an available can and bolt but I’m more interested in sugar, so instead I just point the bike downhill back to Geraardsbergen.

I roll to a bakery just off the square and make a purchase that ensures I won’t waste away any further. As I sit on a bench and set about the task of glycogen restoration, I observe the parade of riders. What strikes me is the great variety of people and bikes that passes. Sure, there are young guys on race bikes. But there are large numbers of mountain bikes in the crowd as well, and given the perverse joys of the cobbles this is entirely appropriate. What is surprising is the number of ordinary people on ordinary bikes. Dads with their kids. People wearing tennis shoes. Old men on utility bikes. It is clear that speed is not the point the day before the race. These people are here for a taste of what their heroes will experience the next day.

This is quite enough for me. I would love to ride the Bosberg but it’s been a long enough day as it is given the lack of preparation I had brought in my legs and I have to ride back to Oudenaarde as well. So I point towards Brakel and am glad for the tailwind.

I should mention that the weather has been exceptional. It is unusually warm and the sun is out. In a strange sense I am disappointed in this. I will not gain a sense for just how awful these roads can be. Last summer I rode the Marmotte route while in the Alps. The day preceding my ride had been a gloriously beautiful mountain day. The night before turned ugly and in the morning my host mentioned that it had snowed at exceptionally low elevations for that time of year. But I had one day to do the ride and that was the day so off I went. It turned out to be one of the most miserable days I have ever spent on a bicycle. It rained at the higher elevations which left me soaked and freezing on the descents. Actually, that’s not true. On the Galibier there were flurries, not rain. I could see sun in the valleys from there and I realized I had to lose altitude as quickly as possible. When I finally reached some sun I kept going until I saw a bench next to the road. I decided to stop and lay there in the sun shivering for a while. While I was doing this I thought a lot about how Jan Ullrich had coughed up the Tour to Pantani in 1998 on a day like this. Udo Bölts is supposed to have been overheard telling him to "Suffer you swine" or something to that effect. I was glad Udo was not along with me on that ride.

If nothing else I gained an appreciation that day of what it must be like to be at the bottom of a mountain and have your job depend on how quickly you can get to the other side. Even on a day when any sane person would have stayed home in bed. But today is lovely if a little windy. It is not cold and there is no rain. The roads are dry, no mud, no cow shit. Bummer, eh?

I follow this up with a Belgian waffle met chocolade from a vendor at the carnival. I ponder the chemistry required for fats to be solid at room temperature. Then I decide I am spending too much time worrying about risk factors.

The carnival is still going full blast, by that I mean that most of the attractions are belching loud disco music. This might be a problem if I were not exhausted by the travel and the ride but I am so it’s not. Before booking a room for the Ronde at any of the hotels on the square be sure to ask for a room away from the street if you are not planning to be exhausted at night.

The cobblestones are pig-shit and they are unfair. When you start riding them you must feel as though you are going to win. If you don't, you soon feel every single one of them. Each stone gives you a backlash. You bounce over them until you are battered to death. Then you've had it. – Bernard Hinault

Sunday dawns crisp and clear. The Belgian flag is flying from the city hall, but it is the only one I see. In contrast to the flag of Flanders which is everywhere. The square in Oudenaarde is filled with the sound of two wheeled vehicles. Most of them are bicycles but a lot of them are motorcycles. The route near Oudenaarde is a maze of zig zags and if you know the roads and are mobile enough you can see the race at many different points. This is especially true under good weather like today, so as a result the roads are loaded with lots of the big bikes. And at times many of them will be flirting with escape velocity.

Since I am astride The Tank I have a less ambitious plan. I am going to the second hill, the Wolvenberg. Once the race passes I will high tail it for Brakel and the road to Geraardsbergen. With luck I will see a critical selection on the Muur. There is a large screen set up there showing the feed from Belgian TV so I won’t have to dive into a bar along with the other thousands of spectators on the Muur to see the race approach and finish.

As I mentioned, I picked up the tourist route after this point. So this is my first look at the early climbs. What I find are, yep, more cobbles. These seem to be in particularly bad shape. One of the race zigs is near here, and you can tell when the leaders pass because all of a sudden the Katteberg (used as a descent rather than a climb this year) is awash in motorcycles and bikes. They have just seen the race pass on its way to Zottegem and are heading for the next point of intersection on the Wolvenberg, although some cut off for the route to the Molenberg. In the distance I see a helicopter.

While I am waiting on the Wolvenberg I strike up a conversation with someone who tells me that there are four riders with a huge lead, one of them Fred Rodriguez. I consider his possible role in the Domo plan, have they sacrificed any hope to capture Cipollini’s jersey? How are they using him to shape the race to their advantage? Soon the race vehicles start coming through. This will be a big disappointment to anyone expecting a production like the Tour de France publicity caravan. These are just cars with sponsor’s logos, no large manifestations of corporate icons on the roofs, no swag. Eventually, almost as a surprise, four guys come through. There is little fanfare, it seems that other fans are as caught by surprise as I was. It’s the leaders’ own fault I suppose. It looks like their lead has grown large enough that the distance to the main group is too big, such that a camera would be too far from the relay helicopter. Given the choice between filling TV time with four no-hopers and the favorites in the peloton the TV people have abandoned the leaders. They are gone before anyone really knows what has happened but none of them look like Fred. Later I find out that it is Alex Rodriguez in the lead, not Fred.

There is a gap, I haven’t started a watch but it’s considerable. But eventually a low flying helicopter comes into view and I know the Molenberg has been scaled. I ready my camera as the lead chasers are in sight and I get some pictures, of whom I don’t know. I’m too busy screwing with the camera. I do catch sight of Fred, and I realize I have been misinformed about the composition of the lead quartet. Cipo is easy to pick out. Neat jersey. He needs a shave.

The road becomes clogged as spectators race for the next viewing point. This is where the motorcycles have a big advantage since space on the road is at a premium. Bicycles do well also but only briefly. After a kilometer or two the road intersects the N8 which is a solid stream of traffic headed in the same direction. I don’t intersect the race route again until Brakel.

I am not quite as fried as I was yesterday going through here and the Tenbosse has less of a bite. The road to Geraardsbergen is full of cars headed there, the oncoming lane is empty. The race is close enough behind me that people are setting up their spectating spots.

I keep an eye out for the helicopters but they are nowhere in sight. There is plenty of time to make it to Geraardsbergen. This is not a particularly interesting section of road. Even so there are still plenty of people setting up alongside, waiting for their chance to see the Ronde. I arrive in Geraardsbergen and proceed to the city hall where I park the bike. The square is deep in tour buses, adding to the already thick crowd.

I stay by the video screen and watch as the lead group gains size. I head uphill once the relay helicopter comes into view. The walkway up is cobbled, of course, and is steep enough to make for a difficult trip in SPD riding shoes. When I get to the top of the walkway the crowd is incredible. I can’t even get to the roadside to look for a spot away from the intersection. So I go back downhill to a cross street and make for a lower intersection with the climb. The road below where I am is relatively straight and I can get a pretty good look at the approaching riders. There is a short section of tarmac before the worst cobbles appear again, I am just above the transition. Several photographers appear as if to validate my choice. My camera stays in the bag. If you want to see pictures on the Muur, check with Graham Watson . He’ll have them and they’ll be better than anything I’d get. My lesson from the Wolvenberg is that if I concentrate too much on the camera I will miss the riders.

I see them coming as the crowd parts. They are not riding so much as surfing a wave of noise, flag waving, sweat, fear, hero worship, pain, hope, desperation, snot, adrenaline. It appears effortless and yet it is obvious that it’s killing some of them. Each of them is hoping that the forces propelling them up this outrageously hard climb will be a tonic that will give them eternal life in the history of the Ronde. For most of them it will be toxic.

Hincapie is near the front, is he really as strong as he looks? Museeuw is there also, the determination etched on his face is striking. A selection is being made, these are the hammers that are driving it. There are others in that lead group. Next is Thijs. The crowd roars for him, such is the respect for the incredible effort he has made today. Behind is a large group of riders in distress. I pick out Rodriguez, the look on his face gives voice to the magnitude of his efforts. No one looks like they’re having fun. There is one rider getting shelled and it’s Cipollini. But his gap is still small. The streets are narrow and the TV helicopter is not far above the rooftops.

I am wearing a club jersey which only bears a logo, no English text to identify me as an American. This was not intentional but the result is that there are several occasions where I am asked for assistance in Dutch or French. And oddly enough in each case I am able to help. Someone needed a look at the race schedule, I show him my copy of the ‘uurrooster’, downloaded from the RVV web page. Another wanted directions to the Berendries. I have maps, again downloaded from the web, and since I was headed for Geraardsbergen I gladly surrendered the one for the Berendries. On the way back to Oudenaarde I come across someone with a flat. He needs a pump, I have one. I am doing my part for foreign relations.

When I get back to my hotel, the restaurant is full with couples waiting. I’d like to stretch my legs so I go outside for a stroll to let it empty out a little. There are street vendors at the carnival, this will let me take the edge from my hunger while I wait. Before going to France last summer I had told my daughter about escargot, which she was virulently disgusted by. I decided that I should try them to be a good example for experiencing new things.

Other customers are coming so we say goodbye. I get another waffle, met slagroom (whipped cream) this time. But the voice…

I go back to the stand and ask if I can take a picture of it for my daughter. This is not a problem for him so I back up and take the shot. He tells me to show that picture to my friends when I get back. "You’re Allan Peiper!!!" I blurt out. Sure enough he is. Allan’s career mostly preceded internet coverage of the sport, so really all I have to pick up on is the short interviews he gave on the 1992 WCP Tour video. That’s why it’s the voice that gets me but not the face. The interviews were given on the bike so his face was obscured by his helmet and shades. But the voice I can latch on to. He’s busy selling snails so he asks me if I’d like to have a beer later. I think about it for a microsecond or two before accepting.

Later in the evening I ask him if he misses racing and find out that he’d still be doing it if he could. And I find out what he means about it being a hard race. Mostly he’s referring to the course, which seems to gain hills every year. From the Kluisberg at km 181 to the Tenbosse at km 238 there are 12 named climbs which means that for most of that distance you are either going uphill or down. It wasn’t always that way, the climbs used to be much less dense. I learn about opportunities lost, he had set up his stand on the Molenberg earlier in the day and if I had been there I would have seen Franco Ballerini. We talk about a lot of stuff in a short time before he has to head home for the night. He leaves with me a feeling for an enduring love of the sport, and a great memory of the trip.

I haven’t been very descriptive about what it is like to ride a bicycle over the cobbles of Flanders. That is because I feel it is beyond my command of the language. You just have to experience them yourself. What you find in their absurdity depends on what you bring to them.

Dedicated to Steve Bak, a pioneer in Internet race reporting. If anyone knows where Steve is these days, please let him know there is at least one guy out there who still remembers his riveting call of the 1994 Paris-Roubaix .

Maintained by Bob Schwartz
Last modification: 14-Apr-02

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