View from the Hill: A Day on the Paterberg

The moon is almost full and still sitting far above the horizon line.  The sun is on its way up, however, and that orange glow is starting to appear around the edges of the frost covered hills, pastures, and orchards.  The countryside is silent, except for a distant rooster announcing the start of the morning.  The cows are all still warm in their barns, but the lights are on and the farmers have been hard at work for some time.  The horses are out, wrapped up in their blankets and lazily munching hay while they keep one eye on those strangers walking up the road with their chairs, blankets, and warm beverages.

It's 6:30am and we're walking up the hallowed stones of the Paterberg climb.  It made it's first appearance in the great Ronde in 1986 and with the 2012 the route change, it is now the final climb of the monumental race.  More than likely, this is where the race will be determined.  Whoever makes it up first on the final lap will likely be one of the three guys on the podium.  That's thinking too far ahead at this point.  The sun has barely made an appearance.  That final climb won't be happening for another ten hours or so.

We're the first people here.  Arriving this early might be a little excessive, but this is probably the only chance we have for a little time in silence to take this place in.  Just us and the hill.

The barriers have been up and wrapped in their advertisements for a while.  The amateurs had their race yesterday, and standing here makes us wonder how things went for them at this point.  Who made it up?  Who didn't?  Who knows.

Movement is brewing on the hill.  A boy grinds the gears of his mountainbike ever so slowly up while his dad watches from below.  The guy who dropped off the Porto-Johns apparently had a bit of a mishap and there's a thick layer of blue ice covering the cobbles.  It's a precarious spot for walkers and mountainbikes.  The boy turns around and bombs back down to begin attempt number two.  The police are trickling in, a couple pause beneath the summit sign for a quick picture.  Next the support crew and TV crew begin to arrive.  Deep discussions in Flemish occur about camera and cable placement.  The caterers pull in and immediately get their truck stuck in the slippery grass.  They're followed by the paramedics and the satellite TV guy.  Everyone who pulls into the field gets stuck.  The paramedics in their bright yellow coats immediately jump into action, scurrying across the field to rescue the next victim of frozen dew.  Tires spin and paramedics push.  Some vehicles survive, others remain in the clutches of the field.

Spectators begin to arrive, ascending the pitch of the hill with varying paces.  They're joined by cyclists on road bikes and mountainbikes.  Some have the latest model others brought their teal steal ride purchased circa 1988.  Some are wearing mismatched kits from the same era.  You know, lycra gets a little threadbare in certain areas over time?  Not all of them are successful, usually tipping somewhere around the blue ice field.  But, as the sun climbs higher, the ice thaws and the ascents become more successful.  Steam pours out of the frite truck.  The rest of the police have arrived.  Their captain has the best goatee we've seen in a while.  They're divvying up their assignments.  Apparently an agreement has been made that reinforcements will be needed near the top of the climb and around the frite/TV/beer field.  Things could get a little crazy depending how the local favorites perform.

Meanwhile, there seems to be a problem with the satellite connection.  Either it is the TV guy's first day on the job or there's something wrong with the equipment.  He moves the dish a little to the left, then back to the right, then back to the left, and so on.  So far, no luck.

The hill begins to fill up.  Plastic glasses filled with Jupiler start getting handed out around 10:00am; it's never too early for pils on Ronde day.  Lion of Flanders flags, both official and separatist versions, start showing up.

It's still cold.  The temperatures aren't supposed to climb much higher than freezing.  Everyone is bundled.  We have hand and toe warmers stuck to the inside of gloves and shoes.  They're just keeping things bearable for the extremities.  Barely.  A warm paper cone of frites holds us over around 11:00am, one of those burgers you can only find in Belgium handles the afternoon.  A thermos of tea fills in the rest.  Sorry, it's just too cold for beer.

The hill begins to fill up, and that's when the real characters make their appearance.  Wacky costumes, decked out old folks, fan club regalia, and OPQS gear dot the hill side.  Normally all of this would cause a double take, but today is Ronde day and this is perfectly normal.

For now we are anticipating the arrival of the women.  Of course, no one has any idea how that race is going.  Even if they were giving updates on the television and one spoke Dutch, the television still isn't working.  A picture blips in for 5 seconds at a time and then cuts out again.  TV guy has been MIA since earlier this morning.  Every few minutes someone approaches the giant TV with an air of intent, as if they know exactly what the problem is and know exactly how to fix it.  Then, they see all the wires, dishes, and unidentified boxes and turn away in defeat.  A few people ask a passing cop if he can do anything.  He laughs.

Just after 1:30pm the familiar song of the pace car wafts up from below the hill.  The women are on their way.  In a split second we're going to be the only people who know what is going on with their race.  The greatest cyclist alive is competing to win her first Ronde, and only some people waiting for another race will know if she has a chance.

The women's peloton is shattered.  The Vos group storms up the hill at breakneck speed, but it's a bit of a wait for the next group to make their appearance.  Then, there's another group.  A lone rider trickles in here and there.  Those of us who are there cheer them on.  Why no one seems to care about women's racing in which a phenomenon like Vos competes is beyond belief.  These women are incredible.  But, the real crowds don't begin to show up until the ladies are long gone.  Those of us that are interested won't find out the results of their race for hours.

We wait a little longer.  The barriers fill up, even those that line the deep ditch on the other side of the road.  Before we know it, the motor bikes and official cars come flying through.  Then, the breakaway group arrives, charging up the hill.  There's no telling if they will be leading the second time they come around.  From the pace they've set they seem to hope so.  The peloton, mostly together at this point, is not too far behind.  The crowd goes insane.  The guy standing next me insists on leaning over the barrier to slap every guy on the back that happens to ride by within reach.  After Thor Hushovd gets the slap, another fan decides enough is enough and decides to explain spectating etiquette to Mr. Slaps, loudly.  Mr. Slaps leaves.  No more riders will be manhandled from this section of the Paterberg.

With the passing of the ambulance, we know we have another wait ahead.  All eyes are back to the TV, which has finally been repaired by the missing tech.  It turns out all he had to do was change the channel.  The clear picture was received with a huge round of applause.

The second pass has a new set of leaders, in various states of exhaustion.  The following peloton is much more fragmented than before.  There's a major slow down at the summit that causes all the team cars to come to a standstill.  The stragglers are forced to pass in the tight spot between the cars and the barriers.  Down on this section of the hill, the fans give them space.  These guys don't need anymore obstacles.

We all watch on the television as the final stage of the race begins to unfold.  Cancellera pulls ahead on his own, but Sagan is hot on his tail.  He wants Spartacus to do all the work, the crafty black sheep of the peloton will sit on his wheel happy to take the tow.  But, before long local favorite Jurgen Roelandts begins to chase the duo and before long it becomes a trio.  Ladies and gentlemen, here is your podium.  All that's left is to find out in which order they'll stand.  The crowd swells as those that spent the majority of the race somewhere drinking beer begin to take serious interest and push their way to the barriers.  We can barely see through the forest of waving arms.

They reach the base of the Paterberg together.  They pass our spot together.  But, not much further up the hill a gap begins to form between Cancellera's back wheel and the front wheel of Sagan.  The gap grows.  A motorbike slips in between.  Try as they might, they can't reel Cancellera back in.

It's done.

The rest of the peloton, now left in several bits all over the hill, is nearly forgotten by the crowd.  Everyone is focused on the man on the big screen as he solos away to take his second victory of De Ronde.  Sagan is handed second place by a spent Roelandts, and later on he thinks he's entitled to be handed something else.  But, the crowd on the Paterberg doesn't care about about that.  They're thrilled for the man that won, to see the King of the Classics making a comeback.  Horns honk, bells ring, and hands clap.

Then, everyone's heading back down the hill.  It seems only seconds for the once packed fields to be emptied.  The interviews play on the screen without an audience.  Those of us lagging behind finally find out the results of the women's race.  They couldn't be better.

It's time for us to leave now.  They're already tearing down the barriers, wrapping up cables, and disassembling signs.  The hill is almost empty, covered in discarded paper flags and plastic cups.

The Paterberg will go back to relative anonymity, except to those wanting to experience the course for themselves on their bikes throughout the year.  The only thing that hints at the glory of this climb are the little signs pointing the way for the De Ronde cycle route.  The Eddy Merckx route passes this way too.

As for us, it's been ten hours and a hot shower and a hot drink are in order.  But, despite our frozen fingers and toes we wouldn't have traded those ten hours for anything.  The Ronde is a race like no other.  It's not the Tour.  Flanders is a special place and the Ronde is a special race.  It's part of the identity of the country, it's a symbol of a cycling mad land.  The fans with their 10:00am beer and curry ketchup burgers are something else.  Their antics make us love cycling even more; if that were even possible.  Their passion for the local teams and riders is a beautiful thing.  Despite everything that cycling has been through, the drugs, the lies, and the fallen heros, the fans in Flanders still come out to hills like the Paterberg on Sundays in the Spring for the races.  They still lean over those barriers, they still analyze the ins and outs of the route, they still don their replica jerseys and wave their flags.

Spend tens hours on hill in Flanders during the Ronde and you will learn what we learned.  Cycling is still very much alive in these parts and it's not leaving anytime soon.  That, in my opinion, is pretty darn inspiring.


View from the Hill from CG Inlux on Vimeo.