They say it's 20 degrees Fahrenheit, but it feels like 15, maybe 12 in the wind. The sun is at that low spot on the horizon, shining down the eastern roadways and highlighting all the imperfections of the old city. The sky is perfectly clear, making it that much colder. The shops are just starting to open, but there's no rush. A man that looks like a high school basketball coach in sweats with a bunch of keys hanging on a lanyard round his neck is cleaning off the sidewalk in front of his corner grocery store. He dumps a bucket of grey, soapy water out in the street and watches it flow downhill along the curb for a few seconds before ducking inside to the shelves of produce, bags of snacks, and cigarrettes. The bakery truck is open and ready for business at the entrance to the pedestrian zone. Hot, sticky pastries glisten under the lamp light and a hint of steam rises from the fresh loaves of bread. The baker has her scarf wrapped around her face at least three times so you can only see her eyes. She rocks back and forth on her heels as she waits for the coming Saturday morning customers who are, no doubt, debating on leaving the warm comfort of their flats for a loaf of bread.
We're walking. No time to pause at shop windows or buy bread.
A few blocks from the Square, a familiar beat meets the ears. Gangnam Style. Of course. You can always count on the sublime randomness of the music in Benelux. Metallica followed by Sir Mixalot followed by Garth Brooks followed by some forgotten creation of the disco era. We pass another nondescript grey street and enter the wide openness of Sint-Pietersplein Square. Well, it has a sense of wide openness. Today it is full of barriers, stages, tents, buses, cars, some contraption demonstrating seatbelt safety, and a whole lotta people. We have to stop for a second. Team Sky is driving through, a short train of black cars and vans with the synonymous blue stripe. No matter how they perform this season, there will be little debate about their status as the sexiest, most expensively dressed team in the peloton.
Maneuvering through the barriers and the crowds, we're in the proper heart of the action now. The stage is set for the sign in and the members of the press have staked their claim in the inner sanctum to take the necessary yet redundant pictures of bundled cyclists signing their names and answering the same old questions. The hoity toits in their furs and bespoke suits wait in line for the VIP tent to open, looking just as cold as the baker back on Koestraat. The rest of us, the regular people, the fans, mill about the village. This is the time to check out the equipment the teams will be using today. The frames, the tires, the rims, the saddles, the cranks. What are they going to tackle those cobbles of the Haaghoek with? The riders, well, they're locked away in the buses, shades drawn over the big windows in the front, shutting out the fans, and the noise, and the weird world of the hospitality village. Just a couple hours until it starts, a couple hours for a nap, a read, some peace.
There's a booth from Lidl grocery raffling off a Merckx road bike, among other things. You win the bike, or whatever, and you get your picture taken with some podium girls to the cheers and jeers of passersby. Only at a bike race. Other booths sell team swag. BMC puts on a popular display, handing out team cards and selling off jerseys and bidons. The next booth, the one that's at every race, sells something from everyone. Omega-Pharma Quickstep, of course, is the most popular choice. This is Tom Boonen country, people. Even if the King of the Cobbles isn't in form yet, he's still the favorite, as is the rest of the OPQS crew. Crowds gather round buses and team cars as race time ticks closer and closer. They sip from paper cups and chew packaged sausage or hamburgers with ketchup.
Fevered clapping signals the start as we see cars and motorbikes speed by between gaps in winter coats and OPQS stocking caps. Then, the bunch rolls past, a surprisingly fast moving clump of color and light, accompanied by the sounds of ticking free wheels, clicking cleats, and zipping zippers. The crowd shouts in unison various calls of encouragement. Something in Dutch we don't know.
That's it. The end. The guys are off for hours of brutal riding in the cold and over unrelenting cobbles. Us? We're off to a cafe for a coffee and some lunch.
2:30pm
It's so much colder now. The sun is long gone and occasionally a flake of snow drifts past as we walk back into the square. The sidewalks were much more congested on the way here as the Saturday shopping was in full swing. The crowds have thinned in the Square, well, sort of. There's a clump gathered at the barriers watching Sporza's coverage on the big screen. There's a good sized break ahead of the bunch and there's been some crashes. Only one abandon. The announcer keeps the village in the know, at least the Dutch speaking ones. Something is going on with the women's race, but except for a name here and there, we're clueless as to what. We're camping out on the barriers. There's nothing the village can offer now.
Now, we wait. The crowds leave but over the next hour begin to drift back. A guy with a long lens shows up next to us with his wife and kids. He forgot his gloves and as time passes, switches the Het Neuwsbland hand back and forth from his left to his right hand. He's shivering so much, the barrier we're leaning against is shaking. The Flemish fans are passing out the proverbial paper yellow and black flags. We stamp our feet. Before long, we won't be able to feel them. We'll hold here though, don't want to be in the back this time. We'll just bide our time watching the big screen.
Chavanel, dressed like an anonymous ninja, pulls off ahead for a bit, to the excitement of those around us. Maybe he'll a pull solo win a la Boonen? No. Eventually, he's back with the break of 10 guys. Photographers and news cameras big showing up. "Hi, Mom! I'm on CyclingTv!" Next, the Belgian Vandenbergh pulls ahead, with the much smaller Italian Paolini grabbing his wheel. We can't understand the fast talking announcer and it takes a bit to figure out who Vandenbergh is. He's not on the roster, a last minute change. The fans get excited again to see another OPQS guy making a go. Maybe he can pull it off? Maybe he's trying to set things up for attempt No. 2 by Chavanel? Only a few minutes left. We know it as the distance ticker disappears from the coverage. The crowd leans expectantly over and cranes their necks. Children mimic their parents and beat, albiet early, on the barriers. Everyone waits with baited breath. The pulse quickens. The group isn't going to catch Vandenbergh and Paolini. They could have, but they let the distance get too great. The race is going to come down to a sprint between these two.
Seconds left.
Seconds.
Boom! The motor bikes, the cars come flying past. The pounding on the barriers fills the air. The yelling! The announcer is yelling with them. Vandenbergh and Paolini are there and then they're gone! Vandenbergh didn't have a chance in the end to take the sprint from the the diminutive Italian of Katusha. We can see the victorious upraised red and white arms above the roofs of the following cars.
Moments later, the second group sprints past. A race for third. Who is that? No idea. Some guy from Topsort with a really long name. The podium is three guys no one expected. That's beautiful. Everyone is still waiting on the rest of the peloton, but we're going to head out to the stage now. There's not going to be much action from that final group.
On the way to the stage, we're stopped by someone in a OPQS jersey over a T-Shirt. "Excuse me, do you know who came in second? Chavanel?" they ask in English with a heavy accent.
"Oh. But, he's Belgian, yes?"
"Yes."
A nod of approval. As long as he's Belgian.
Except for the press, there are few people near the stage. There's a small group of young women all decked out in their finest. Guess we'll stand by them. They're just on the right side of the press, who are all extremely and inconveniently tall. The rest of the peloton blows by through the crowd in a bunch sprint for their various warm buses. We don't blame them. It is horrendously cold.
It isn't long before the local bigwigs are introduced to the stage. The podium girls take their places, hard women in their sleeveless dresses. After the precursory thanks to the bigwigs, we are introduced to the third place rider. Still no idea who he is. That last name is a jawbreaker. Sven... Something. We'll just call him Sven. Next, Vandenbergh, visibly crushed by his result. If only he had been tailed by someone larger, or slower, or more tired. He smiles halfheartedly at BigWig No.1 when he gets his champagne. He examines the vintage with much interest. What are they passing out to second place these days? A kiss from the blonde podium girl. Whatever. It's hard to be thrilled. That race could have been his. He looks this way and flashes a smile, blows a kiss. Huh... ok then. Next up, Paolini climbs the first place block to receive his kisses, trophy, champagne and bouquet. He's quite pleased with himself. As he should be. He was no where near the list of names pegged for a win today. None of them were.
They shake their champagne and spray the crowd, take a swig, and stand for one last picture. Before heading off to doping control and various destinations, Vandenbergh turns one last time this way and waves. The connection suddenly makes sense as he tosses the bouquet towards us. We've been standing next to his girl, the only thing that could get a smile out of him.
As for us, we follow Paolini and his police and UCI escorts out of the square as we head back to the town center. We are in desperate need of more coffee and a warm place. We'll take some time to write a few things down and go through the photos and toss out the duds. The first race of the Cobbled Classics has come and gone, almost as fast as that two man sprint.
It's time to get warm, discuss the results and prepare for tomorrow's showdown out of Kuurne. Well, they're making noise about some snow. That's ok, we brought hand and foot warmers for tomorrow. It's another day to wait, laugh, wait some more, cheer, scramble, and stay warm. Another day to see some history.
Maybe.
More photos from Omloop are available at Flickr.
Short Video available on Vimeo.
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