Frites met pain

Today is the last of the Flemish Spring Classics takes place, the Scheldeprijs. To be honest, I find it the most boring Belgian race in April. Probably because it’s for all intents and purposes a sprinters race. The one catch with this criticism is that it’s actually the one Semi-Classic that I’ve actually raced.

Before you start thinking otherwise: obviously not as a pro, but as an amateur. Back in the beginning of 1993, while I was living in Scotland, I received a letter from Belgium, which left me a little confused. I didn’t know anyone there. It turns out that it was an indirect reply, to a letter that I sent to the Belgium Cycling Federation asking for info on racing there, which was then published in their newsletter.

Long story short, I ended up spending 3 weeks in a village outside of Antwerp. What a strange 3 weeks those were. The family that hosted me consisted of a husband and wife. Their children had moved out years before, all of the boys were, or had been racers. While Mrs V spoke some English, Mr. V didn’t speak a word, apart from “Oh Boy”.

I think they were expecting a talented racer, trying to take the next step, instead of a curious art student, who raced bikes on the side. In the beginning the drivesto the Kermesse I raced in lasted longer than my time with the peloton. A word of advice to those who want to race in Belgium: don’t spend the winter in Scotland, riding through Hills and Mountains, then racing non-technical road races if you want to survive the “Balls to the Wall” hammer-fest that is April Kermesse racing in Belgium. I felt like I was a Cat 4 all over again, what with the way I was getting dropped and crashing out (partly) thanks over-inflated tires in wet corners.

After watching me get dropped in every race that I entered, I think they gave up on me. I couldn’t really blame them. I gave up on myself a little. Then, one day I saw a sign, not a burning bush, or a ray of light, just a plain old offset print sign, with something about a race nearby. It turned out the race was in a few days, and seeing as it was close to where I was staying, I opted to ride over there by myself. No pressure from the hosts. No soul crushing looks of disappointment.

So, off I went that Wednesday, to ride what would be - if memory serves – a race of 120 km, around the circuit that the pros ride at the end of their race. While I have the tale of that day transcribed in minute detail an old training journal, said journal is packed away in a box, in an attic, on the other side of town. I remember picking up my number in a smokey café. In the back was a room where you could change, pin your number on, oil your legs, etc.

There’s not much that I can really recall about the race itself, apart from a 10-20 second period. I had learned my lesson it seemed, and managed not to get dropped at the gun. Actually, I felt pretty good that day, even as the 150+ field was stretched into one long line. Then it happened. Somewhere, about an hour in, I looked down at my computer. I saw that my average speed was something like 28 MPH. It occurred to me that I had never raced for an hour at that speed, and it dawned on me that we had at least another hour and a half to go. Just as these thoughts started spinning in my head, I realized that I had let a gap open up in front of me. Not good.

The riders behind me started shouting. I didn’t speak a word of Flemish, but I knew they were telling me to close the gap. It was obvious. Yet, for some reason I shouted back “I. Don’t. Speak. Dutch!” Not smart. Not smart at all. The next thing I knew, the guy behind me grabbed my jersey, and slungshot himself forward.

He closed the gap, and my race was over. There was no way I was ever going to catch back on. Game over.

The good news is that I was able to get back and change in time to grab myself some Belgian Frites with Tartar sauce, and watch Mario Cipollini win the pro race.