I have this thing for Belgium.
There's something about the place. It could be the rolling beauty of the countryside. It may be the worn, beat up look of the towns, especially in the Ardennes. It kinda reminds me of Wales and certain parts of east coast back in the States. It looks like it's been around for a long time.
It could be all the rocks. It probably has something to do with the food. No, it definitely has something to do with the food. Maybe it's the culture. There's just a bit of, well, jolliness about the place. Not too much, mind you, but it's there nevertheless. Of course, one half is definitely Flemish and the other half is most certainly not. You know, there's something nice about walking into a place knowing exactly what language you'll use. It all depends on what side of the line you're standing on.
I think the source of my love for Belgium is really wrapped up in the bike. Belgium is (sorry, France) at the heart and soul of cycling. Yeah, sure, you're not going to see as many grandmothers getting around on the bike in Wallonia as you see in the Netherlands, but nasty hills and tight roads have a way of curbing that sort of thing. It's a different cycling culture altogether. Belgium doesn't go easy on ya. It doesn't handhold. Because of that Belgians tend to dominate in professional cycling. Show me a competition where there isn't a Belgian in contention.
When you talk to bike people about their dream rides, more than likely some stretch of road in Belgium will be on the list. More than likely that stretch of road will be cobbled. Every Spring all eyes turn to this little grey and stoney country to watch the hard men and women of professional cycling brutalize themselves on the unforgiving streets, usually in unforgiving weather. It's a scene that usually includes snow, hail, rain, or dust so thick you can barely see the fans standing on the side of the road. Those fans! There's nothing like them! This isn't Le Tour. These folks are locals and they don't hesitate to suffer too just to be there. There's no wine and cheese at this show, just mud, rain, dust, and yellow flags. In a way, these fans are hard men and women too. And, they cheer with such passion they could give the Dutch on Alpe d'Huez a run for their money.
The races, those respectable old men of the calendar, don't change much. Except for a few minor adjustments here and there, they've been basically the same since they started. Faber rode here. And Coppi, van Looy, and Merckx. And Hinault, Simpson, and Bobet. They've all been here. The future's legends will ride here too. Ask the Paterberg and the Oude Kwaremont for their stories. Those stones have seen a thing or two. These courses have determined the fates of many.
Yeah, there's something about the place.
Belgium doesn't just hand itself over to you. I've taken my bike twice. I've failed to ride twice. The first time, after weeks and weeks of bearable temperatures and weather, a brutal cold front blew in with hail and ice in its wake, on the very night before my ride. I respect that. I'll wait my turn, not to be broken and beaten to the ground right out of the gate. A ride to end all rides. The second time, well, the second time was much crueler. I'd dropped 15 pounds since that last attempt. My legs are strong. My body isn't at any sort of form or peak, but it is a better machine. Much better. My bike was tuned and tweaked to perfection. My gear was clean and organized. I had three beautiful routes mapped, printed, and laminated. Everything was just so. I had prepared. Even the weather was going to cooperate; 40 degrees and cloudy with a chance of fog in the hills. Perfect.
But, Belgium doesn't give in that easy. Another snow storm blew in the day before we pulled into our rental flat. Six nasty inches of now covered and completely blocked both routes 1 and 2. Impassable. I checked route number 3; it would be clear. The night before I laid out all my gear to avoid chaotic scrambling in the morning. The temperatures had dipped. Now it would only be 33 with rain/sleet/snow stuff. That's ok, at least it's not an ice storm this time. Everything was ready. Everything, except one vital piece of equipment- my tights. They were back home, folded neatly in my drawer. Idiot! How could you have forgotten those of all things? You have everything else, everything! Even an extra pair of insulated shoe covers! But, you forgot your tights! There isn't even a can of embro in this bag to hold you over!
The next morning we jumped in the car to head to the bike shop in Spa. The website said they opened at 9. Upon leaving our flat we realized we had an even bigger problem than missing tights. Today was the famous Legend Boucles de Spa rally. Rally cars were everywhere, on every road. I didn't know about this. I'm a bike person, not a car race person. The city was completely clogged and the event was starting any minute. Quickly, we parked in front of the bike shop, hoping to get in and out before all the roads in the city were closed off. Gah! It doesn't open until 10! The roads are closing before then! We'll never get out! Quickly, I determined that the original plans were out the window. I would have to man up and ride in shorts, maybe not nearly as long as I had hoped, but that was the only option. We raced out of town and headed to the hills to see how we could turn route 3 into a shorter ride. Alas, no matter where we turned, a rally car was lurking somewhere, speeding around corners, spinning tires, and flying left of center. They kept their rally route secret, there was no knowing where it would take place. It was becoming obvious that my beautiful route could be part of their's too. There was no way to know, but the further we drove on the back roads around Spa, the clearer it became. Today wasn't going to be the day either. Getting run over by a rally car is not on the bucket list.
"There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own."~ Moby Dick
Belgium. There's something about it. Those failed rides haunt me. That ride in Belgium, and I don't even know where exactly it will be, has become my white whale. Somewhere out there is a stretch of road, curving slightly to the left in one spot then going up, up a bit, and then down. There will be old stone farmhouses nearby, and fence posts, maybe some cows. The sky will be steel grey, and perhaps there will be some rain. But, everything will be just so, just right. That bike and I will be getting along swimmingly. There won't be car races. There won't be road blocks or black ice. It will end somewhere nondescript with a bowl of stew, a big golden plate of frites, and a perfectly chilled goblet of beer. That is the ride, the ride I have to take and it's out there somewhere. I know it well, for I ride it over and over in my mind.
As the man said, "It is not down on any map; true places never are."
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