Lovin' Leuven

Ok, I realize I talk about Belgium a lot.  I understand that I might have a small addiction to the place.  However, since the move to Germany, I don't think we'll be getting there much anymore.  When we realized that, we decided to ween ourselves off the land of strong beer and golden frites instead of going cold turkey.  So, one more visit was in order last weekend.  There was one place we wanted to visit one more time and another we hadn't made it to yet.

The revisit, of course, had to be L'Ancien Hopital in Saint-Hubert.  As they say, the third time's the charm.  We were pretty certain that it was our favorite restaurant ever, but a third visit would seal the deal.  We were right, not that there were any doubts.  This time we also booked a room, so it's not only the best restaurant ever, but it's also a lovely place to spend the weekend.  My final words on the subject:  If you are in Belgium (I'm talking to you, cycling fans) you need to make a special trip down to Saint-Hubert for a meal.  You will not be disappointed.  I'm certain of it.  Plus, it'll give you the opportunity to ride the lesser known roads of Wallonia.

Ok, now on to Leuven.  When people (I mean non-cycling fans now) visit Belgium, if they do at all, the big draws are Brussels and Bruges.  As a result, there are a lot of other equally awesome (if not better) cities that stay under the radar.  You get all the same sorts of things that draw people to the Big B's, but none of the tour buses.  Leuven is one of those cities.

Leuven is a university city.  It's about 25km east of Brussels in Flanders, so a piece a cake to visit on a day trip or an overnight stop if time in Belgium is brief.  While it's not like the preserved medieval cities of Bruges and Gent, it has a lot to offer the visitor.

First of all, it is home to InBev, the largest brewer in the world.  Stella Artois is brewed in the city and opens its doors to groups of visitors on the weekends.  If you're traveling with a large group, this might be worth a look.  English tours are provided.  If you're not interested in a tour or can't tag along with a group, you can visit their on site shop to pick up a souvenir.  Now, for those who prefer craft beer over the big factory brews, Leuven is also home to the smaller Huisbrouwerij Domus which makes 3 crafts at their location in the center as well as a pub.  Still not impressed with the brewing options?

The last weekend of April is Leuven's Beer Weekend (April 26-27 in 2014). It is the largest Belgian beer festival in the world!  During the weekend at least 100 brewers will be in the city offering their wares, there will be special tours at Domus and Stella, and special beer themed tours of the city.  We were told the majority of the participants are small craft breweries so it's an opportunity to try beers you won't find outside of this part Belgium.  As a bonus, this is the same weekend as Liège-Bastogne-Liège, so if you're in the area for the Ardennes Classics anyway...

Ok, enough about the beer.

Leuven being a University city, the oldest Catholic University in the world actually, is vibrant and eclectic.  You won't find the same old same old in Leuven.  The pedestrian shopping district is one of the largest I've visited and is dominated by unique boutiques and shops you won't find in every other city.  If you're interested in picking up something besides the usual tourist trap junk this would be a place to look.  There are plenty of churches and chapels to explore if you're an architecture enthusiast.  And there's a well reviewed art museum, M, if you're looking for an afternoon to appreciate Flemish masters or contemporary art.

And dinner?  You won't have trouble finding a place to cater to your cravings.  You can find traditional Flemish restaurants or something with a more creative bent.  Of course, if you're in the mood for Italian or Mexican or just about anything else, they have that too.  There are some truly fine dining options available.  You will definitely eat well.  But, make sure you book ahead.

Of course, the city has the same charm of the other Belgian cities with a massive (currently being restored) cathedral, flamboyant Town Hall, and traditional Flemish architecture.  It's a pleasure to stroll through the city squares, especially after hours when the shopping crowds clear out and the buildings are lit.

So, if you have time and want to see a corner of Belgium that's often overlooked, give Leuven a shot.  You may been pleasantly surprised!

Do Not Let These Roads Deceive You

We all have those rides that are just perfect.  From the moment we clip in to the final dismount, every moment is a joy.  Perfect rides are uncommon things.  We treasure every single one.

Just one of the views from the roads of the Belgian Ardennes.

It was no surprise to us that one of these rides would happen in Belgium.  I'm not going to tell you the specific route, except that it was around Bastogne.  The roads were devoid of all types of traffic and, well, I'd like to keep it that way.  There's something sweet about clicking into the big ring, getting down in the drops and just going, going for kilometer after kilometer without a care in the world.  We had that for 50kms.  When we weren't in the big ring, we were climbing.  Those climbs were steep and choppy, but clear to attack from whatever angle and pace that worked.  The only other traffic we encountered besides fellow cyclists was a tractor at the bottom of a descent and a tethered horse chilling on the MPU at the end of the ride.  They weren't your common obstacles, but at least they were few.  While it had been threatening rain and thunderstorms, we had hours of sunny bliss.  The storm finally arrived after we returned to our house in Ettelbruck, cleaned up, and had cold Belgian beers in hand.  We couldn't have asked for a better day.

The Bastogne region is a special place.  Cycling fans know it because it is host to La Doyenne, the old Liège-Bastogne-Liège race.  Those who are familiar with a little WWII history know it for being the center of the action during the Battle of the Bulge.  Nearly seventy years later, The War is still a raw memory in these parts.  Even where we live, further to the southeast, the memorials to resistance fighters and liberators dot the landscape.  The church in our town still bears the scars of mortars and bullets.  Plaques are on every corner.  The old synagogue behind our house no longer serves its original purpose.  It is now rented out for meetings and special occasions.  It doesn't take a history expert to figure out why.  There's a picture in the museum a few streets over that shows our street in 1944.  All it shows is one building and a pile of rubble.  Ettelbruck likes to be known as Patton Town, in honor of the famous General who coordinated its liberation on Christmas Day 1944.  There's a big statue erected in his honor just outside the city limits.  All along the line, towns like Ettelbruck were hit hard during Hitler's last attempt to push back against the Allies moving towards Berlin.  There doesn't seem to be any desire to forget that, nor the sacrifices made by allied soldiers and local resistance fighters.

The situation in Bastogne during Christmas 1944.

Bastogne in particular is remembered for being a town under siege.  From December 20-27, 1944 members of the 82nd and 101st Airborne along with the 10th Armored Division became encircled around the town by the Nazis.  They didn't have enough supplies or ammunition because supply drops were stalled due to snow and thick fog.  Despite heavy barrages and hand to hand combat within Bastogne, it never fell to Hitler's forces.  Eventually, with the arrival of Patton's Third Army Bastogne was officially liberated.  It is probably one of the most famous battles in military history and is definitely one of the most significant of World War II.  From that moment on, Hitler didn't have a chance.

The massive Mardasson Memorial above Bastogne commemorates the besieged defenders
who held the town despite heavy Nazi offense during Christmas 1944.

The main historic site, the Mardasson Memorial Visitor Center, is currently closed for remodeling.  The Memorial itself is still open for viewing.  However, down in Bastogne itself there is a small but professionally designed exhibit called "I Was 20 in '45" presenting the perspectives of not just the combatants, but also of the civilians.  The footage from the battle and aftermath is horrific.  The recorded interviews of survivors are just as moving.  I remember in particular an interview of an old woman siting in front of her house in a blue flowered dress, thick framed glasses are perched on her nose.  She looks like just another Belgian grandmother.  In a calm voice she is telling her memories of Christmas 1944.  Her husband had gone off in the woods outside the town with his fellow resistance fighters.  He was shot and killed somewhere along the way.  Their house had been completely destroyed during one of the artillery attacks.  So, she took her newborn and hid in the woods, without food or proper clothing.  She hid there for days, almost completely frozen.  Her child didn't survive.

As we were riding along the roads and trails, past the massive monument that towered above us on the hill, I couldn't help but think that the peaceful woods which we rolled through are still pockmarked with foxholes and bomb craters.  Those pasture lands still hold battle debris and the personal effects of soldiers and civilians.  It seems like a perfect place now, but there is still blood in this landscape.  All along the way are street signs pointing to places like Noville, Bourcy, and Foy.  There'd be a marker here, a fluttering American flag there, unexploded ordinance turned monument a few kilometers later.

I realized that 70 years really isn't that long and that this route we planned wasn't so perfect after all.

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.

Revving Up for The Ronde: A Brief Stop in Oudenaarde

It's about 25 days until one of the biggest races on the Spring calendar, the Ronde van Vlaanderen, the Tour of Flanders.  Of course, we have a few races going on between now and then; Paris-Nice, Tirreno Adriatico, and the Volta Ciclista a Catalunya are just a few of the major contests in March.  But, in Oudenaarde, Belgium all thoughts are fixed on the Ronde.  The promo flags are up on lamp posts around the town center and the roads are positively cluttered with weekend warriors testing their mettle on cobbles and climbs.  

The region's fondness for Tom Boonen is highlighted
throughout the museum.

Last Sunday, my husband and I made the three hour drive up to this cycling Mecca to get a flavor for the scene.  There wasn't time for a ride, with half the day spent getting there and back, but we had plenty to do to make up for it.  Oudenaarde is also home to the Centrum Ronde van Vlaanderen, the museum dedicated to this epic cobbled classic. Curated by the great Freddy Maertens, it is must for any fan of Belgian cycling and this particular race.  

Your visit, which will cost 8€ per person, begins with a 13 minute film showing footage from Rondes of the past, highlighting the cobbled sections, the most successful riders (especially if they're Belgian), and some of the carnage.  Afterwards, the doors open into the exhibit space which provides everything you could possibly want to know about the history of this race and Belgian cycling.  Alas, most of the information is only in Dutch, but you will find a bit here and there translated to French and a little in English.  Upon admission you will receive a brief English synopsis of the museum if you desire.  It doesn't really matter, because most items are self-explanatory.  There are several opportunities for children and adults to play games and "test ride" some cobbles.  You can test your knowledge of the Ronde with a 84 question quiz.  I'm afraid my performance was abysmal.  The major climbs are broken down into in-depth descriptions, the history of nutrition in professional cycling is explained, and artifacts from riders, teams, and the media are everywhere.  A fair amount of money went into this museum and it shows.  You can finish your visit with a picture on the podium with Tom Boonen, if desired.  All in all, I thought the museum was excellent.  I would have liked a little more English in some places, but it is a museum in Flanders, after all.  The only thing I found to be a bit odd was the explanation of why men make better bike racers than women.  In my opinion comparing the physical performance of men vs. women has a taste of backward ignorance, but that could just be my inner feminist coming out... 

Anyway, exiting the museum takes you right into the gift shop.  It took all my willpower not to blow hundreds on the unique clothing and gifts for sale.  Cycling beer, jewelry, books, games, water bottles, champagne, t-shirts, lycra jerseys, wool jerseys, and stacks of caps are just a handful of things you can pick up.  My personal favorite were the cobblestone candles.  You do not have to visit the museum to visit the shop, so if you're a fan of cycling and you happen to be near Oudenaarde, I highly recommend taking the time to swing through.  I'm certain there's something for everyone in there.

Freddy Maertens (right) explains the significance of an old
crescent wrench he's brought with him to the bar.

After depositing your packages, you can complete your visit by stopping at the attached Brasserie for a beverage or simple meal.  The Brasserie is full of cycling memorabilia from floor to ceiling.  Photos not just of the Ronde but also Le Tour cover the walls.  Bicycles hang from the ceiling and jerseys and bottles decorate the bar.  The menu is simple, but if you happen to visit this time of year I recommend the "Queens Snack," a chicken dish that satisfies on a blustery day whether you've been out for a ride or not.  The house beer is also worth a try.  Beware though, the Brassarie, especially on the weekend will be crowded, mostly with cyclists who have been rolling around this famous region.  If you're lucky, though, you may come across the museum's curator, hanging out at the bar, chatting with patrons, or explaining the history behind some artifact in his hand.  On Sunday it was a wrench so and so used during Paris-Roubaix.   

After we completed our visit of the Centrum Ronde van Vlaanderen, we decided to do a crash tour of the highlights of the Ronde itself.  Not far out of Oudenaarde lie the famous cobbled climbs that have determined the results of this monument for decades- the Paterberg, Koppenberg, Oude Kwaremont, and others are all within about a 15min drive of the town center. While touring by car isn't the preferred method, of course, it's still the fastest way to visit these brutal rocks when you're on a time crunch.  Keep in mind though, these spots attract cyclists like moths to flame, so drive careful.  On Sunday, the Koppenberg seemed to be on a pilgrimage path and was jam packed with pedestrians.  We never did find out what the attraction was.  While that stopped us from driving up, it didn't stop some cyclists from tackling the grade.  All of them made it up without a problem.  I desperately wanted to cheer.

As we returned down to the car, thinking of all the legends that struggled up this nondescript farm road, I looked down and noticed every mud filled crack between the stones bore the impression of bicycle tires.  That's something.

The hallowed stones of the Koppenberg

I don't know about you, but I can't wait for Easter Sunday.

Omloop: As Seen from the Sidelines

It's 9:00am.

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 no peace in the village.  Children run all over clutching notebooks for autographs, the promotional "hands" from Het Neuwsblad, and sausages.  There's a green cargo bike somewhere filled to the brim with packaged, fatty sausages being handed out by tall blondes.  Odd, but popular, judging by the amount of mouths chomping down.  Though, they could just be going there for the blondes and getting the sausages as an after thought.

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.

Maybe some lucky fan can catch a glimpse of their favorite or even talk to them if they hold out here a little longer.  Some guys are already signing in up at the stage, riding their way through the crowd, like so many of the lycra clad fans.  You can only tell them by their physiques and the race numbers pinned to their backs and behind their saddles. As start time rapidly approaches, more recognizable faces begin to appear.  Flecha, the Spaniard, gets a big cheer.  So, of course, does Jurgen Roelandts, today's captain of Lotto Belisol.  General apathy greets everyone else it seems, a few claps for Phinney, Hushvold, and Boasson Hagen.  The crowd is losing interest.  Boonen hasn't shown yet.  Ten minutes to start time and the barriers have already filled up.  There's no hope for the short folks.  No shoulders we can climb on.  We'll just catch a glimpse between elbows and hope for the best.  Oh to be a tall guy on race day!

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.

The women fly by out of no where, a massive sprint from the break.  It was so fast and so unexpected, we're not sure what happened.  Only the sudden pounding on the barriers from the handful of fans around us signal that something is going down.  Shame we're in the dark for everything except the final sprint, but we're happy to hear an American came in second.  There's nothing wrong with a little hometeam pride.  The women will come rolling in groups here and there for awhile afterwards.  It must have been a touch brutal out there.

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.

"No, not Chavanel.  I didn't catch his name, though.  He's not on my roster."

"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.

The Road and the Whale

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.

I've taken my bike to Belgium twice, without delusions of grandeur or dreams of conquering legendary spots of road.  I just wanted to ride in Belgium.  Just once.  Just to roll those wheels over some of the magic.  Just a taste.

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."

The Best Meal You'll Have in a Hospital

Today, I'm going to tell you about the best meal I've had in a year, heck, probably longer.  You're thinking, "Great, yet another blog post and photo album on someone's dinner that I don't care about."  More than likely, yes, but I'm going to tell you anyway.  It was that incredible.

It takes more than good food and drink to make a meal.  The truly excellent and memorable dining experience is more than what's on the plate.  The service, ambiance, pace, and the company are what make a great night out.

While there don't miss the beautiful hat rack and cane
stand.  A gorgeous work of art.

Last weekend, we stumbled upon a gem of restaurant in the Belgian Ardennes.  The town of Saint Hubert doesn't have too much to offer in the way of dining.  You can get your usual Italian, a kebab, and some overpriced raclette, but just outside the main center there is an institutional looking building that serves up seasonal dishes that won't disappoint.  Ann and Hans run L'Ancien Hopital at 23 Rue de la Fontaine, a restaurant and hotel in a renovated, you guessed it, old hospital.  The name is all that would suggest its history because there is no hint of "hospital" about the place.  Upon entering, guests with headwear are invited to hang them on an impressive rack of antlers.  What's not to love about that?  In the winter, you can sit by the fire and enjoy a house aperitif or a fine Belgian beer (two Trappists- Orval and nearby Rochefort are available) as you peruse the menu.  Then there's the amuse-bouche composed of some seasonal selections.  In the winter, you may be served some wild boar and warm spiced yellow beet juice.  Afterwards, you're off to your table and it's time to enjoy the main event, one that will in all likelihood take a few hours.  It's worth it.  Seasonal entrees or soups are next, accompanied by housemade fresh bread that will be replenished throughout the evening.  The mains are next on the list and you may have trouble deciding between dishes of fresh fish, beef, veal, Guinea fowl or perhaps they will have pheasant and venison.  You never know as the menu changes regularly.  That is the beauty of the place.  You never have to eat the same thing twice and each new creation is a pleasure for the senses.  I went with the trio of beef fillets and, sigh, I can't tell you how lovely it was to eat a perfectly cooked Black Angus steak.  It's been ages since I've had a properly seasoned one.  It tasted just as good as those at home, maybe better.  But, the meal doesn't end there, folks.  Oh no.  If you're willing to pay a little extra (you should) you can indulge in the cheese board.  And, this is no ordinary cheese board.

We were presented with seven beautiful pasteurized and unpasteurized cheeses from France, Scotland, The Swiss Alps,  and the Netherlands.  Each one was an incredible shock of flavor, but the one I will never forget was the truffle cheese from France.  In a word, splendid.  The Swiss cheese had a such a dusty thick rind you could practically taste the Alpine barn it had aged in.  They get their cheeses direct from Michel Van Tricht & Son, named by the Wall Street Journal as the best cheese shop in all of Europe.  If they're supplying cheese to the Belgian royal family, you know it has to be good.  And it is.  It is.  

Room must be saved for the dessert and a little coffee.  Beware of the Chocolate Mousse Bomb.  That sucker will take even the seasoned chocoholic to task.  I still haven't recovered.

f you happen to be around the Belgian Ardennes on a cycle or trekking tour please go out of your way to make some reservations at L'Ancien Hopital.  Bring your friends, sit back, relax, and prepare to experience an event.  Hans will take good care of you in Dutch, French, or English and Ann will make sure there's always a fresh slice of bread on your plate.  With amazing food, great service, and reasonable prices you will not be disappointed.  I know we will be back again and again.

The Little Shop Over the Border

Arlon isn't exactly at the top of the list for tourists passing through Belgium.  Sure, it's the oldest city in the country, but unlike the time trapped towns of Bruges and Gent, it kept on trucking into the modern era.  So, what we have is a city with a few old churches, a lackluster archaeological museum, a few war monuments here and there, an IKEA, but not much else to draw in busloads of tourists.  It's just a city in Belgium and that's about it.  Or so it seems.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret about Arlon.  Outside the city center and over by the train station there's this shop.  It doesn't look like much, actually it kinda looks like a doctor's office.  But behind its doors, is a room (a small room) full from floor to ceiling with some of the best beers in the world.  I know, I know, just another beer shop in Belgium, right? Wrong.  Yeah, it's a small place but every single one of their stock is hand selected by the owners, Jean and Chris, to provide their customers with only the best craft beers from the Province of Luxembourg (not to be confused with the Grand Duchy of the same name), the rest of Belgium, and anything else they can get their hands on from other parts of the world.

You will see some of the better known brews from Belgium, like Trappistes Rochefort, but this is also the place to get your hands on much rarer brews that can only be found locally or those that were only brewed and bottled once from some of the bigger names.   These aren't beers you crack open during the game, but ones that you cellar for years and save for a special occasion.  We're currently holding onto a St. Bernadus Abt 12 Magnum Edition that is quite the formidable ale.  They also pull in some great brews from further afield.  Their recent shipment from the States included brews from Rogue (gotta love some Dead Guy) and Hoppin' Frog, that's right fellow Akronites, Hoppin' Frog.  In addition to their acquisition of D.O.R.I.S The Destroyer and Hop Dam, they also recently stocked a few bottles of rare collaboration brews, Super Charged Saison (with Brouwerij de Molen) and Frog Hops to Amager (with Amager Bryghus).  Neither of these are available in the US market.  Stock changes often so it's worth making a trip over regularly to see what has been added to the shelves.  Of course, the owners have their customers' backs and regularly update their Facebook page and website with the latest acquisitions so you don't miss out on anything good.

Besides an excellent selection of brews, the best thing Miorge Mihoublon has going for it are its owners, Jean and Chris.  These guys are passionate about craft beer and it shows as soon as you walk in the door.  They love to talk beer and are happy to welcome you in and talk about it for as long as you like.  They'll lead you around the store, describing certain brews and brewing techniques in detail.  Let them know what you like in a beer and they'll point you in the right direction.  You won't leave empty handed.  In fact, you'll likely leave with a case.  They also make some chocolates which can be purchased, but personally I think their house brews are where they really shine.  I prefer the Jean|Chris Numero 2.  Now's the time to head over, as we roll into the holiday season.  There's a whole shelving unit dedicated to the Christmas Ales, some of which have been voted best in the world.  Mmmm, the beer cellar is calling...

Cheers!