I think I now know what it means to be a "hard man of Flanders."
My wife and I are just back from a European holiday that included stays in Paris, Ghent and Berlin.
We have family in Belgium, and when I suggested a visit to some of the famed cobbled climbs in Flanders might be a component of our itinerary, they stepped up. Oh boy, did they ever!
When we were planning this trip, I thought just paying homage to the Muur or the Koppenberg would suffice, perhaps sample the pavée on a borrowed mountain bike. But never underestimate the enthusiasm of Flanderians for cycling.
Upon our arrival in Belgium, our hosts informed us that everything was in place for a 72 km sampler of the Tour of Flanders, including ascents of the Koppenberg, Kwaremont, Paterberg and a half dozen or so other climbs; bikes and clothing, including shoes, had all been secured. I was quaking with excitement at the prospect; my wife, who had just run the Portland Marathon prior to our departure for Europe, not so much.
We warmed up for our day on the cobbles with a visit to the Tour of Flanders Museum in Oudenaarde. Imagine, a whole museum dedicated to one bike race! Eddy Merckx' team car sits on the sidewalk out front. Inside, we toured a newly-installed display of Belgium's great cyclocross champions, got an introduction to the hardships, triumphs and heartbreaks of the Tour of Flanders in a great 15-minute film, then walked through the museum displays of champions' bikes and mementos.
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Afterwards, we had a chance to chat with Freddy Maertens, the Belgian cycyling great who pulls the odd shift at the museum.
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Then we went across town to walk up the Muur. No bikes for us today, despite the brilliant sunshine. On foot, the climb didn't seem all that horrific; the placement of it at the end of a long, arduous trek up through the streets of Oudenaarde is likely what makes it so difficult and dispiriting. We also had a beer at the famous pub just below the summit.
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The fall weather in Flanders can be cold and bleak at the best of times, but it seems this year has been especially so. On the morning of our scheduled assault on the cobbles, the sky dawned bright and pink. But that quickly changed.
Even with raindrops pinging off the windshield of the car as we drove to Oudenaarde where we'd suit up in the changing facilities at the museum, we were resolute, our hosts grinning. A true Flanderian never lets a little rain and near-freezing temperatures compounded by a bitter wind keep him from a ride.
Did I happen to mention how cold it was? As in five layers of jerseys and jackets cold? As in cheek-numbing cold? And the rain only got harder as we adjusted the bikes.
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But once we got going, and the exercise started to warm our muscles, the cycling was sublime, out through Oudenaarde to the narrow quiet farm roads beyond. We rolled through quaint little villages, past giant white cows, browning corn fields, tidy lawns populated by fat grey geese. We made short work of the smooth pavement climbs of the Kluisberg and the Knokteberg, but the howling wind at their summits was bone-chilling, and the wet, daredevil descents with minimal braking ability started soaking us right through our booties.
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Our first cobbled classic was the Kwaremont. The rain had rendered the pavée particularly slick, and with the wind chilling us to our cores, it was hard to keep the arms and legs relaxed to ride through the bumps. Some of those displays at the museum of cyclists being broken by the challenge of cobbled climbs suddenly felt very real.
Next up was the Paterberg, where I thought I would pull a professional's move and ride the gutter. But the wet leaves and metal drainage grates made it almost more slippery than the cobbles. When a car started coming down the very narrow road, I had to clip out and bail into a driveway; it's not easy getting started again up those cobbled climbs!
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At the top, the rain and wind were relentless. The wet had infiltrated my booties and soaked my gloves through; hypothermia was beginning to feel like a very real possibility. My wife's smile from early in the ride had become a frozen glower of desperation.
We opted for sanity, and booked it back to Oudenaarde, pausing at the base of the Koppenberg to marvel at its pitch as it climbed into the forest. It will have to wait for another visit, when the weather is a whole lot warmer.
Crazily, we weren't the only cyclists out there. Another group rolled up equally wet, equally frozen, equally less than enthused about continuing their insanity.
Back at the museum, our 72 km ride shortened to 42 km, we warmed up over chocolat chaud and Flanderian beer in the brasserie that adjoins it, surrounded by photos and trinkets of Belgian cycling history that filled every available inch of wall space. By the time our kits were dry again, and the feeling had returned to our toes, fingers and cheeks, we had gained a new appreciation for what it meant to be a true "hard man of Flanders."
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