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."

Flavor Aide

You know, sometimes it really is about the little things.  The expat journey doesn't end with unpacking the last box in the new place, or getting the residency cards, or finally ordering dinner without getting a confused look from the server in return.  It's not over even when the new place feels like home.  It probably won't be over even when everything and everyone is right back where we started.  Part of the journey is discovering, over time, that stuff from home that you took for granted is suddenly and deeply missed.

Over the past eight or so months, we've become slightly obsessed with condiments.  Why?  Well, during the first few months the local cuisine was new and exciting, but after about 6 months or so the novelty wore off and the palate became a bit fatigued.  While nearly everything is covered in some sort of sauce- poivre, béarnaise, provencal, moutard, to our American palates these sauces don't really taste like, well, anything.  No salt, no sweet, no flavor.  Nothing.  Even the foods at Chinese, Indian, or Thai restaurants end up tasting a bit bland.

Enter the condiments.  Sriracha.  Sweet Chili.  Curry.  Chipotle Tobasco.  Whip out a bottle of one of these, dash some on the Szechuan Chicken, eggs, really anything and Booya!  We've got some flavor, people!  Of course, we're always on the hunt for something new, something different.  Perhaps a chutney or, hmmm, a relish?  We even started making our own stuff.  Sriracha Buffalo.  Barbecue.  Honey Mustard.

Well, imagine our delight when we happened to stumble upon a whole line of some delicious jellies, jams, and sauces at the British and American import shop in Strassen, Luxembourg.  They've singlehandedly revitalized breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Cottage Delights.  Cottage Delights is a producer and distributor of snacks, condiments, sauces, chutneys, relishes, marinades, desserts, teas and a boat load of other things out of Staffordshire.  While most of those things haven't ended up in Luxembourg, we've been trying just about everything that has.  So far, it's all been really tasty.

My personal favorite, which I try to work into as many meals as possible, is the Habanero Chilli Sauce.  It's very similar to BBQ Sauce but with a little more smoke, sweet, and spice.  It goes great on chicken, beef, burgers, eggs, and even sandwiches.   The Jalapeño Ginger Jam is another delicious sandwich topper.  The Chillililli mustard has made smoked meats a whole new experience, and their chutneys (both sweet and savory) go excellently with the fine regional cheeses.  All the products are have the same quality that we were used to from similar companies from Ohio.  While I don't sneak them into restaurants, they do make a daily appearance on our table at home.

The downside is these products are currently only available in the UK.  So, great news for all those in Britain!  I'm just thankful some thoughtful person has imported some to Luxembourg.  For a couple of people that love some heat, some smoke, hot peppers, and anything else with a flavorful kick, these little bottles of deliciousness have been lifesavers.  Its a relief to know I won't have to haul a suitcase full of sauces back from our next trip home.  Cottage Delights does just fine.

Why You Should Buy An Indoor Trainer

http://www.evanscycles.com/

You're not going to hear a lot of people celebrating epic indoor trainer rides this time of year.  Heck, you're not going to hear that they are even looking forward to tromping down to the basement, flicking on the TV and the fan, and riding an hour or two to nowhere.  I'm not gonna lie to ya, riding on the trainer is not fun. At all.  But, for a lot of people it is often the only option to get in miles this time of year.  Not all of us are blessed with a California climate.  If you're one of the unlucky ones, like myself, who dwells in a wintery land December-March (or beyond), trainer time is a reality.  There's nothing wrong with that.  Today, I'm going to share with you why I think investing in a trainer is probably one of the best moves you can make if you're getting into cycling.

First off, I'm not going to tell you which type of trainer to buy.  Honestly, they are all (Wind, Mag, Fluid) going to do the job.  Which one you decide to go with probably depends on your budget.  Personally, I would love to get one of those fancy virtual reality Tacx systems, but shelling out over $1,000 for a trainer isn't going to happen.  Ever.  But, as fun as riding in a video game would be, I know I can get just as good of a workout on something much cheaper.  We own two trainers, one wind and one mag.  I prefer the mag because it offers more resistance options and is quieter, but the wind works just as well and travels easily.

What I am going to tell you is why a trainer can improve your cycling experience in more ways than you may think.

1.)  The obvious reason to get a trainer is so you can still ride your bike if the weather is less than desirable.  The definition of "less than desirable weather" is completely up to you.  Some people will ride outside every day no matter what the weather is, even in gale force winds.  The rest of us aren't paid to ride our bikes and draw the line in other places.  While I'll still do the short ride to meet my husband at his office in the afternoons, lately my line for long rides has been been around the 40F degree mark.  I'm getting tired of wearing all the claustrophobic face gear (ski goggles, Cold Avenger balaclava, etc.).  I'm also getting tired of the long post-ride bike washing sessions.  Believe it or not, I do have other things to do during the day.  The trainer spares me from all of that, and I will be eternally grateful.

Sometimes, there are conditions where it just isn't safe to ride outside.  Ice storms, blizzards, dense fog, hurricanes, and thunderstorms are just a handful of examples when being out on the road, cranking out the miles, may not be the best idea.  Here, we've been getting a lot of freezing rain this winter.  The roads and paths become ice rinks.  When the snow starts flying, the entire country descends into panic and drivers lose all sense of reason.  I don't feel like dealing with them.  Sometimes, a lot of times actually, the winds have been really high, like 40mph in the valley.  I don't feel like dealing with the flying debris.  Having a trainer available means I don't have an excuse to skip a ride.  I can still do a tough 20, 30 miles in the safety of my basement and stay on track towards meeting my fitness goals.

Some people will scoff at choosing the trainer over getting on the actual road. I say whatever way you can get on the bike without being 100% miserable or risking your safety is the better choice.  If you're riding with a goal towards building fitness on the bike the trainer will make that possible.

2.)  You can use a trainer to break in new equipment.  I think we've all been out on a long ride when our brand new saddle/shoes/shorts/gloves/what have you start feeling extremely brand new and quite uncomfortable.  There are few things more depressing than knowing you have another 30miles before you can get out or off of whatever is rubbing you the wrong way.  If you use your trainer you can break in that new whatever doing shorter sessions.  So, when it's time to head out on that long Saturday ride you won't be suffering from a stiff pair of shoes.

Additionally, you can use the trainer to familiarize yourself with a new component or bicycle.  How many people fall over at an intersection because they aren't used to their new clipless pedals?  It hurts.  It's embarrassing.  If you pop your bike onto the trainer and practice clipping and unclipping over and over again, chances are your are going to be much more confident and comfortable when you head out on the road.  If you get a new bicycle that is significantly different from what you're used to you can get comfortable in the new riding postion and with operating its components.

3.)  A trainer makes the dialing in process much easier, safer, and comfortable.  Not all of us have access to or the funds available for a professional bike fit.  In fact, when it comes to getting things to fit just right, it's usually up to us to make the necessary adjustments.  A lot of times, this process can take a while.  With a trainer, you can ride 30mins, jump off, whip out your allen wrench, make the necessary tweak, jump back on, and continue the process until you get things just right all with the bike in a stable and stationary position.  There's no need to go for a ride and Eddy Merckx it, adjusting saddle height and tilt while on the road.

And, dialing in fit typically isn't a one time thing.  As you build fitness and lose weight you will ride differently.  For example, as you build confidence you may end up in riding in the drops more than you used to.  Those things can require an adjustment in fit again.  It's much easier to work that out on the trainer than discovering it 50 miles out on the road.

4.)  You can do a lot for your fitness while locked into a trainer.  Don't let someone try to tell you differently, riding your bike is better than not riding your bike.  With a good workout plan or a training video you can really challenge yourself and improve your fitness.  You may be surprised how much your riding has improved when you get on the road again.  When the weather got really nasty here for two weeks all my long distance riding was done on the trainer.  When we finally caught a break from the snow and ice, I had knocked 5 minutes off the ride to my husband's office.  Even with a 20mph headwind.

It also allows you to focus on your riding, really focus.  I've been riding for a while now, but it was only recently that I had realized I had been trying to force my body to ride in a way that was causing discomfort.  My right foot naturally wants to sit on the pedal with the toes pointing out just a hair, but I had my cleat positioned so that it would force my foot straight.  All this time, I thought it was saddle position  that caused my knee pain when it turns out that it was my cleat position   It was only when I was able to really focus on my position without all the other distractions of the road and trail that I finally noticed what the problem was.  In addition to picking up little things like that, the trainer can also  let you pay attention to the numbers, if that is what you want to do. You can manage your ride completely by heart rate zones and stay in them without making stops for traffic or other stuff that can interrupt a good stretch of road.

There are many sources for good trainer workouts out there, and some trainers like CyclOps come with DVDs.  The infamous Sufferfest site is another good option.  Another option is to head to one of the local indoor cycling gyms and join a group.  Don't worry, they're not like a soccer mom spin class.  You bring your own bike and lots of them will let you bring your own trainer.  Sometimes riding with a group makes all the difference.

So, yes, a trainer isn't going to provide the most exciting ride in your schedule, but they really will improve your cycling overall.  In my opinion, besides the bicycle itself, a trainer is probably one of the most important things you can buy.  If you're still debating with yourself about buying one, then I'd say splurge a little.  You won't regret it.

Tuesday

Clip in, just the right foot.  Keep the left foot free for now.  Pulling out of the alley behind the house there could be a car taking the blind corner too fast or an old lady with her head down.  You don't have to worry about the kids right now, they're in school.  At least they should be, you never know.  There's a boy in the back window of the cafe with his Dr. Dre's plugged into his iPhone and texting his girlfriend.  He looks you in the eye when you go by.  It is pouring rain.  They warned the wind could get to 30mph.  And you're going out for a bike ride.  Freak.

Quick, make a decision.  Left or right?  Left is through town with all the obstacles therein.  Right takes the road around the town, a little out of way and there's a tricky crossing at the river, but it's always easier to deal with the cars than the people with their shopping bags.  Right it is.  Clip that left foot in now.  You're home free until the intersection.  Ah, here we are.  What's the situation?  One car up, straddling the convergence of two roads.  He's turning left.  There's a car back now, no signal.  He could be up to anything.  The cross street is clear, time to make the jump behind the left turner.  You're heading straight, the road that doesn't lead anywhere interesting for them.  The car back followed the one up, free and clear.  No one in your way now.

Another intersection, another bridge over this ridiculous river.  You have the right of way this time, everyone else waits.  You're still up to speed from the last jump, there's no reason why they'll want to cut you off, but it's best to make sure.  Don't trust anyone.  Eye contact with the driver of the delivery truck on the right; yep, everyone is on the same page.  He waits.  Eye contact with the driver on left at the bridge.  OK here too.  But, she thinks you're crazy.  So do the kids in the back seat, mouths open and eyes wide as you zip past.

Another right turn, down into the parking lot, then sharp right again onto the path.  Ah, the Piste Cyclable, not that anyone will be joining you today.  There's a dog walker under the bridge with his head down while his furry companion is engrossed with something on the pavement on the other side.  The leash is a trip line.  Tap the brakes.  Where's that stupid bell?  Why don't they sell decent bells on this continent?  Bless the market driven economy, where the public demands a bell that works in the rain and doesn't come loose every half mile to dangle upside down near the headset.  You should chuck this thing in that darned river, or better yet at that oblivious dog walker under the bridge.  Piste Cyclable, ya moron, not Piste Pedestre!  It's on the sign right there!  Perhaps you may encounter a bicycle on it?  It shouldn't be a surprise.  Yet, it is.  You bellow a stern "Pardon!" That bell is just adding weight.  He looks up, a deer in headlights.  Wobbles from left to right, arguing with himself about where he should stand.  There's no need for panic.  You hold your line with perfection, willing him to collect himself to the left.  No.  He yanks the dog by the throat to scoop it up in his arms as he leaps in your path with a look of horror at the sight of a darned velocipede invading his little world, just like a squirrel.   That's the name you've given people like that.  He looks you in the eye, defiant of your presence.  You're just coasting at this point, dropped to a mere 6mph.  You hold his gaze and shake your head.  Piste CYCLABLE.  Moron.

Almost out of town.  Five minutes have been spent maneuvering out of town and around this river.  You'd like to tell that city planner a thing or two.  Weave through a few packs of strolling citizens.  Some on the right, some on the left.  Past the train station and under that big blue bridge for the railroad.  Almost there.  Free and clear.  Dip down under the bridge and check the mirror at the sharp right that takes you out from under it.  Clear.  You almost call it out.  No, you're alone today.  Remember?


Climb up from the river bed and turn left onto the road.  Just houses now.  No people.  Pretty soon the houses are gone too and it's just you, the path, the rain, and that river, rolling along oblivious to the inconvenience it causes travelers in these parts.  The path is wide and smooth here, except for some mud and sticks along the left side, the way home.  That river broke its banks again, just to dump its trash on the path.  Now, under the highway bridge and between its tall cement pylons.  Zip, zip.  Straight now for a bit, but a little uphill grade, barely noticeable   Past that random barnyard.  No goats today, but you can smell them.  The next town, cross the river again.  Bump, bump, bump over the covered bridge.  Careful at the blind corner, you spied a pedestrian before you crossed.  It's tight here between the trees and the concrete barrier.  Where is that pedestrian?  Ah, there he is.  Standing on the river bank, assembling a fishing pole.  The river seems too quick for good fishing, but you don't know anything about fishing.  Maybe this is the perfect day to have a fish dinner.  Ooop, he's stepping backwards into the path.  Darn this bell!  Maybe you can buy a whistle somewhere?  No matter, you swerve by without a word.  He probably only noticed the breeze.  Just a little longer and you'll be out of the towns for good while.  You can't wait.

In a bit you've arrived at the park.  The path is still closed on the left rivebank, blocked by some construction debris.  You won't be able to cross the river where you prefer on the wide red bridge.  You'll have to take the rickety, narrow wooden one over the rapids.  It's really too tight and if someone else is on the bridge it will be an exercise in handling you don't really want to have.  But, there's nothing for it.  Cross here, or head into the the traffic of the town.  It's always congested in the center.  Why? You don't know.  There's nothing in the center worth congesting over.  You take the wooden bridge.  Ah, luck is on your side, it and the visible path on the opposite bank are all your's.  Now you're finally through it.  There will be nothing or very little to contend with until you turn around for home, wherever that is.

The river is high, yes, but back where it belongs, more or less.  Pedal along under bridges and past empty, waterlogged camp grounds.  The benches along the path look like giant birds' nest, caked in river mud and sticks from the last flood.  You wonder for a moment if some goose would consider taking up residence  on one of these prefab constructions.  Metal frame, good view, built to last.  No, that's ridiculous.  What if it floods again?  Better drink a little.  There's a big deep puddle ahead.  You have to go through it, there's no other option.  You've done it before.  Hopefully, there's no surprises like nails or glass in there.  Pedal steady, position the crank arms parallel to the ground just before you dive in.  You're feet aren't too soaked, the back and front of you, well, you're not in this for the fashion.

Now you're in a field, big beautiful views open up.  There's some town on your right.  The church steeple pokes up above the grey slate roofs.  You wonder what that town is called and the name of the hills behind it.  What is everyone doing there today?  Holed up at home reading the paper?  Sipping coffee at the corner cafe and discussing the failing Eurozone?  You're out riding your bike.  That's all that matters.  You forget about the town and the people when it swings out of view.  Back along the river again.  Just the river.  Now under the welcoming branches of the forest.  This is one of your favorite spots on the route.  Trees, silence, and a big muddy river.  Just like home.  There's a road up above you.  You saw a cyclist up there once on a hybrid three sizes too small.  You wonder where the road goes.  Maybe you'll find out someday.

Into the next town now, pop off the trail and onto the road.  Zip right, then quick left past another closed campground and a flower shop.  You like their delivery van, a homage to the old hippie buses.  "Flower Power" is painted on the side, in flowing script.  Past a school now, full of children learning things, and up the steep little climb back into the countryside.  There's a hill up on your right.  In the summer white cows stand on that hill.  Not today.  The river is far on your left now, across the floodplain that you can look down on from here.  Here's the other perfect part of the trail.  Completely covered in trees.  A barely noticeable downhill grade, you can push it here and give yourself a break at the same time.  It's perfect.  Plop! Plop! Smack!  Only the big rain drops make it through the branches in this section, even though they are leafless.  One hits your helmet, loud like a gunshot.  Another pelts you hard on the left arm, right below the elbow.  Ouch.  You wonder if that will leave a bruise.  Shift position, stand in the pedals and let the warm blood flow to all the empty places.  Take another sip of water.  Hmmm, maybe better to go for the electrolyte drink this time.  Mmmm, that takes good, cold, but sugary and revitalizing.  What is this? A commercial?  Unclip the left foot to shake it out and pedal with just your right.  Switch.  That's better.  Everything is awake again.  Now you're going up, far above the floodplain now and you can't see it through the trees.  You didn't even notice until now.

Another town.  The trail ends on a street lined with row homes.  The rain has let up since you entered the woods.  There's an old woman sitting on her front stoop in a floral apron.  Her grey hair is wrapped tightly into a bun, her lips purse around a long cigarette.  A mop leans against the doorjam.  She eyes you suspiciously.  You nod a greeting, you know you're not supposed to, but darn it you can't help yourself.  You're out riding your bicycle.  She's been mopping her floor.

There's a tunnel under the road here, last time it rained like this the tunnel was under water and there wasn't any warning.  You just happened to notice a bizarre reflection at the last minute.  That could have been a disaster.  You won't risk it this time, and stay on the road maneuvering the intersection like a car would.  Wait.  There's a car on the left.  Perfect timing, no need to unclip.  He's gone.  Back to the path, along the hedge on the left, watch the grates around the trees here, they're terrible wheel catchers.  Past another campground and its cafe.  They are advertising frites and ice cream.  Not open.  Keep pedaling.  You're past the spot where your turn around on short rides, near the electrical box.  There's a wide spot that's perfect to pull over and take a break if you want.

Not today though.  You have time.  The legs feel good.  The wind is tough in places, and it will be worse on the way home as it always is, but you don't want to turn around just yet.  Not yet.  You have a banana in your jersey pocket and a sandwich.  Plenty of fluids.  There's a gas station up ahead if you want to grab anything else.  They sell towels made by a company that sponsors Tom Boonen, at least that what you gather from the sign.  Odd that a towel company sponsors a cyclist, but those Classics are dirty affairs, you know.  Past the gas station you go, the trail is one bike width after this point.  Hopefully, you're the only person on it today.  That would be a welcome break.  Up ahead you're getting into holiday country.  Hotels are advertised here and there.  There's another campground on your right.  That big hotel looks fancy, but every time you go by here no one is there.

Just a little further, maybe about 2kms, you could turn into Germany.  You've been meaning to ride in Germany.  Or maybe just stay in this country today.  Go to that town with the Roman Villa in the park and get a mettwurst.  It's only another 18kms, that mettwurst.   Well, heck, it's only another 25km to the town where they make your favorite sparking water.  You could get some where they bottle it.  That'd be something.

Unclip the left foot, shake it out.  Repeat with the right.  Look over your shoulder to see where you've been.  Put your hands on the tops, flex your back.  Stand in the pedals.  Tug on the left glove, then on the right.  Push your glasses up a little further on the bridge of your nose. Adjust the brim of your cap back to center.  Watch the water drops fall in front of your eyes.  Look at the clock.

Yeah, there's time and Germany is just across the river.

Religion

We were discussing the upcoming cycling season the other night- plans of what we're going to watch and where, who's favored for what, etc. when I saw a glaze come over my husband's eyes.  I had to laugh.  He'd tipped his hand and the truth was out.  He wasn't quite with me.  We are one of those couples.

"Cycling is like church, many attend, but few understand."  Jim Burlant said that, and while I have no idea who he is, I have to say it's definitely one of my favorite quotes.  It hits the nail squarely on the head.  Cycling is exactly like church, or more accurately, religion.  It doesn't matter which specific religion you want to equate it to.  That's not the point.  The point is, some people get it and some people don't.  Some people (like my husband, apparently) follow along and go to the events to be supportive of someone they love.  Others, often for some unknown reason, passionately hate it and all those that practice it.  They love to make fun of it and point to every slip up by some devotee as evidence that the whole thing is a load of hogwash.  Conversely, there are those that swear allegiance to it, go on TV and  cite miracles, raise money, rally the troops, and make impassioned speeches like,

"Finally, the last thing I’ll say to the people who don’t believe in cycling, the cynics and the skeptics: I'm sorry for you. I’m sorry that you can’t dream big. I'm sorry you don't believe in miracles. But this is one hell of a race. This is a great sporting event and you should stand around and believe it. You should believe in these athletes, and you should believe in these people. I'll be a fan of the Tour de France for as long as I live. And there are no secrets — this is a hard sporting event and hard work wins it. So Vive le Tour forever!"

And then, they turn out to be complete jokes- hypocrites.  Newsflash:  they're everywhere, in religion, in cycling, in life.  And, in religion, cycling, and life the trick is seeing past all the crap that the hypocrites cause and keep on believing.  It's not about the faces on the street, the voices on the television, the guys that write the books, the reformers, or the ones that make the impassioned speeches.  Eventually, they all let you down, saints and cyclists alike.  And, if you're here for them, my friend, I'm afraid you don't get it.

What matters is the relationship with the bicycle itself.  That's the core.  Without that, it's just window dressings of ritual, pomp, and circumstance.  If the bike you ride is what keeps bringing you back, you're onto something there.  It's what brought us all here to begin with, that moment of epiphany.  Maybe it was when we first took off on our own without the training wheels.  Maybe it was 30 years later on a solitary ride in the park.  It's the ride itself that reels in the believers and keeps them hooked.  There are ups and downs to it, just like anything else.  There are days when it just plain hurts.  There are days when you'd rather do anything else than look at a bicycle.  There are days when it beats you up, physically and mentally.  But, those days are the ones that strengthen the faith.  We always come back, the ever looping maxim of "If the bicycle can be ridden, then it must be ridden" playing in our minds.

If you know what I'm talking about, well, I'll look forward to seeing you at service.

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.