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Tour of Flanders by Keith Hayward

One of the lesser-discussed aspects of our sport is its inherent engagement with risk. The precariousness of a steep slippery descent, the brinkmanship of a solo road race attack, even following a wheel on a seemingly innocuous club run, all, in their own way, require precise risk calculation and a gambler's willingness to take chances. Yet, as cycling-related high-risk strategies go, it's hard to believe anything can match the potentially life-threatening scheme recently hatched by genial Addiscombe club member and committed Belgiophile, Glenn Watts. I refer, of course, to the bold but highly suspect strategy of inviting four burly Agreeables - Club Captain, Andy Montgomery, new members Danny Collins and Patrick McCoy, and your author - to accompany you and your new bride on your honeymoon to Belgium! Thankfully for all concerned it soon transpired that, not only was Sue - Glen's charming new wife - a keen cycling enthusiast, but also a wonderfully kind host who appeared to be bothered not one jot by the fact that she was about to share her Ostend holiday flat with five cyclists for three nights as they embarked on the Tour of Flanders Randonée.

The story starts some months ago when Glen posted an e mail offering his Belgium apartment to any club member interested in competing in the 100 plus mile event on the Saturday, and then watching the pros negotiate the same brutally-cobbled course the following day. The event, unsurprisingly, was quickly over-subscribed, with a 'first come, first served' policy employed by the host. Consequently, the original line-up did not include Monty, who was beaten to the drop by Phil 'Cuban Heel' Nash. However, fate was to lend a hand for El Capitano. On the eve of departure, Phil was laid low by an acute case of whiplash. No, not following a fall from aforementioned vertiginous footwear, but from a nasty rear-end shunt that both wrote off his car (news that I found particularly distressing, as Phil was my lift to Hillingdon!) and left him sporting an unsightly neck brace. After a flurry of last-minute phone calls, Monty filled the breach and the team was set.

Following an uneventful crossing on the Sea Cat from Dover, we arrived in Ostend in good spirits - if slightly trepadatious about the forthcoming event. A tour of Ostend's numerous bike shops that afternoon did little to assuage collective nerves. In each shop, the locals scanned us with sceptical eyes. While they spoke little, their body language suggested they had grave doubts about our ability to negotiate the legendary Flanders pave. One shopkeeper sniffed volubly at the flimsiness of my lightweight Fondriest frame and its inappropriate paint job. While another, looked aghast at the state of Danny's tyres - concerns that subsequently were to prove well-founded.

Experience counts for much when travelling abroad, and thankfully Glen brought his local knowledge to bear by pointing us in the direction of one of his favourite Ostend restaurants, the intention being to partake of a quiet drink and a serious 'carbo load' before retiring early for quality pre-race sleep. This was an excellent plan, but, alas, it was fatally flawed: Glen had underestimated the volatile dynamic of the group: Patrick, a former Bath Rugby Club second row forward and veteran of countless European sporting tours was in no mood to limit his carbohydrate intake to pasta when surrounded by several hundred varieties of Belgium beer; similarly, professional Eastender Danny Collins found the whole concept of 'an early night' alien to his Roman Road sensibilities - Monty, of course, is very easily led! The outcome was a superb - if somewhat profligate - night of drinking and carousing.

Badly hung-over, but buoyed by the prospect of taking part in an event that attracts over six thousand cyclists from all over Europe, we set out on the train for Oudenaarde, the epicentre of the day-long Tour of Flanders and one of the spiritual homes of Belgium cycling. It is possible to follow the exact route the pros take the following day (some 264kms), but on Glen's advice we opted to join in approximately midway through. This strategy would afford us a ride of close on a hundred miles - more than enough given the previous night's excesses - but, more importantly, it would enable us to take in all the landmark climbs (16 in 110kms) as well as the most notorious stretches of pavé. We plugged into the race at one of its many 'switchbacks' through Oudenaarde, quickly grabbing the wheels of one of the many groups of seasoned Belgium club cyclists. The flat, well-surfaced roads ensured that, at this point, the general mood was good and it certainly felt exciting to be riding in groups of sometimes over a hundred strong. However, the first climb of the day brought with it the realisation that this was to be no glorified club run.

From out of nowhere came the Kluisberg, a viciously steep, winding ascent that stung legs and replaced smiles with grimaces - and this was only the third of 16 climbs (and not even a cobbled one at that!). It was at this point that we lost one of our number. The disparate nature of the event ensures that unless you cycle in close formation (always difficult when climbing in mass bunches), keeping track of fellow members is virtually impossible - not least because you're never sure whether they are out in front or lost behind. The unfortunate member was Danny, whose tyres had (predictably perhaps) given up on him even before he'd encountered his first cobble (the moral here, of course: always heed the prophecies of sagacious Belgium cycle shop staff prior to entering such events!). We regrouped at the top of the climb and waited for our missing Agreeable, but after a long wait there was no sign. We had little option but to forge ahead - trying to pick him out in the throng of cyclists would have been like looking for a small strand of hay in a huge mountain of needles.

We pressed forward only to be confronted by an infamous stretch of cobbles known as Oude Kwaremont. With the exception of Glen, none of us had any experience of real Flanders pavé. Consequently, we were unprepared for our fate. Oude Kwaremont is insufferable. It's not particularly steep - many of the subsequent climbs are far lumpier - rather it drags on and on, ever upwards with no end in sight. Its pockmarked surface ensures that both bike and rider are shaken to their respective limits as you attempt to pick your way through cobblestones that jut out from the road at oblique angles. Savvy Belgians hit the cobbles at full throttle (à la Museeuw), keeping their bodies loose and driving over the bumps from a low seated position. I opted, however, for an altogether different approach. My aim was to utilise the narrow curved gutter that runs alongside the cobbles. This approach is fraught with danger for two reasons: first, you run the risk of falling into one of the various ditches that run parallel to the road (see George Hincapie in this year's Paris-Roubaix); second, because the gutter offers a relative sanctuary from the harsh adjacent surface, it is a popular option and pile-ups are common as riders jostle and elbow each other for a slot in the gutter.

Our progress continued in this manner for many miles: long stretches of flat Lowland road punctuated only by short but severe cobbled climbs. To make matters worse, the capricious Flanders wind confronts you at almost every turn as you endeavour to criss-cross the latticework of back-roads that constitute the route. After a while however, you begin to adapt to the format of the event and even start to enjoy the rustic Flanders scenery and the sense of achievement you experience as you dip under the colourful banners that signal the top of the climbs. Nothing however, can prepare you for the Koppenberg - the undeniable 'Behemoth of the Bergs'. Reintroduced to the route after a 15year absence (what luck!), the Koppenberg is frighteningly steep with a surface that resembles the pockmarked complexion of an adolescent schoolboy. Never mind the talk about gearing ratios that had gone on prior to the event, when faced with the Koppenberg, one quickly realises that what one really needs is a grappling hook and a team of sherpas. Such is the narrowness of the climb, the Koppenberg also represents something of a dangerous logjam, and as you enter it you quickly realise that its every (wo)man for (her)himself. I surged up the foothills of the climb reasonably well, and as I picked my way through the struggling riders I began to feel ebullient about my chances of cresting the summit unscathed. These hopes proved false when, just ahead of me, someone simply ground to a halt, beaten by the sheer intensity of the incline. Unable to clip out of his pedals, the hapless cyclist toppled over bringing down myself and several other very annoyed riders. Once unseated, it's impossible to restart and I, like numerous others, had to suffer the ignominity of walking over the summit. All this, of course, was greeted with howls of laughter (mixed with, it has to be said, a good deal of encouragement and sympathy) from the mass of spectators who line the route, presumably in anticipation of just such prat falls. Other notable climbs followed including the Bosberg (so often the site of the winning break in the pro event) and the legendary Muur de Grammont, but, in truth, it's the Koppenberg that sticks in the consciousness when the pedals stop turning.

We regrouped at the top of the Muur (sans Danny of course) and collapsed in a heap, safe in the knowledge that the run in to the finish was mercifully flat. Heading for home we again latched on to various Belgium club groups and allowed them to tow us to the finish. Alas, about 20km from the end, Monty - who had been suffering from a serious carbo deficit - lost a wheel and ended up having to slog back on his own into a stiff headwind. Patrick and I were luckier, and found a massed group of locals who took pity on us and welcomed us into the windless haven of their echelon. At one point, Patrick, who seemed to get stronger as the day progressed, even did a turn at the front. I was considerably more circumspect and employed my usual wheel-sucking strategy until the (sadly metaphorical) tape was breasted.

As we headed for the train station we began to worry about Danny. Had he had an accident? Major mechanical problems? We repaired to the bar opposite in order to collect our thoughts. However, before we'd even had chance to start the carbo refuelling in earnest, the door opened and - in a serendipitous moment that Monty still can't quite comprehend - in he walked, slightly bedraggled but unbowed. It had been seven hours since we'd last set eyes on him! His story should serve as a cautionary tale for any would-be entrant to next year's event. It transpired that, not only had Danny entered the event on sub standard tyres, but being the consummate amateur that he is, he'd also attempted to complete the course with only one spare tube and no pump - a strategy akin to trying to cross the North Sea in a tea chest with a tennis racket for a paddle! Consequently, after a spate of punctures, he'd spent the best part of an hour trying to ponce spare inner tubes/pumps from passers by (a task he remarkably achieved not once, but twice - testimony indeed to the esprit de corps that surrounds the race). Despite his various setbacks, Danny, like all of us, had thoroughly enjoyed the day and vowed to do it all again next year - only this time with new tyres and a fully programmed mobile phone.

We awoke early on Sunday morning safe in the knowledge that it was someone else's turn to suffer in the saddle! After watching the riders hurtle through Ostend (unlike stage races, the Classics are contested almost from the gun - rather like the recent Addiscombe Road Race! - and the pack were already at full bore trying to bring back an overly optimistic two man break) we again pointed our bikes in the direction of Oudenaarde. The Tour of Flanders is an incredibly spectator-friendly event, and it is quite possible, as we did, to see the riders pass on four occasions. Wherever you catch the race, the Ronde affords you an incredibly close view of the pros as they grind their way up the cobbled climbs.

 At one point, Mario Cipollini passed within inches of us as he blistered up the Kappelleberg, while Museeuw seemed to float over the cobbles as if suspended by hidden strings. The speed of the riders coupled with their amazing bike-handling skills was incredible. Rather then head for the over-crowded and rather nondescript finish at Ninove we opted instead to watch the dénouement of the race in a bar in Oudenaarde. As Andrea Taffi broke away in the final few kilometres for a famous win, we sipped on Belgium beers and reflected on our own experiences of the previous day. With the sun setting over the Flanders cabbage fields, Monty proposed a toast, 'to the Koppenberg' - I raised my glass and drank through gritted teeth!