“So here I am in Brugge. West Flanders. Today world capital of pain.
Population, hardnuts.
Race faced, mean, majestic, Sparticus glides by. Behind Radar iridium, eyes
focused.
Boonen by contrast seems relaxed as he chats casually to G. Pretending not
to notice the massed ranks of hollerin’, whoopin’ loonies all around.
Heaving, straining to grab his attention. To share in his light.

The atmosphere is mental and building. Layer upon layer, as each combatiter
rides the barriered gauntlet from bus to registration. The canny amongst
them,time their arrival on stage to coincide with the climax to the
oomla-esque bands massacring of an array
eighties rock ballad chorus’s. Sure that the compare will not interapt his
fifteen minutes of tonsil busting to nab them for interview. The crowd go
nuts as their guys take to the stage. Pantomime booes cascading down on
Wallonians and French alike.
And then, so suddenly theyre off. Gone. Riders and voyeurs alike. Off to
Outenade by any means possible. The Market square returned to the tourists.
But what a journey they have. I know. I rode it yesterday.

Since I signed up for the 259km full route, much has happened.
Illness, idleness, work arrived. Spring did not. Training i am ashamed to
say was heavily curtailed. Indeed i have only been put on the road twice
since xmas, both times dropped by the Sunday morning gallop.
I am seriously worried I am not going to be able to make this.
I chose the full route coz, well i had to really. If i’d done anything else
it would have been unfinished business and i’d have to return. And I didnt
want that. There are too many new sportifs to experience without having to
return to the past. Better get it out the way. Then move on to pasture new
I comforted myself with the thought that it was not really 259kms. Just two
stages, the second, 160 (which is do-able without training) coupled with a
100km warm up. And it couldnt be as bad as last years Grand Raid. Could it?

This was my first sportif with family,so as not to disturb their sleep come
race day, I dressed, made and ate breakfast while sat on the Lav in the
ensuite. The Sky bus this was not.
There is no mass official start here. With 16000 riding all routes, the
organisers are understandably keen not to send all off at once.
Registration at the town footie stadium was effortless and then we were
off. Or were we?
Most, me included thought we were being directed back to the Market square
where id earlier seen gaggles of riders collating themselves. It was only
when spying the city limits did i clock we had actually started and where
en route.

The pace for the first hundred and twenty kilometres was quick but
comfortable at between 33-40kph. Wind and group make up the variables, as i
jumped from train to train. The shear numbers and flat terrain meaning the
usual grading of riders into groups of comparable ability took four times
the length as on a mountainous parcour. Street furniture and over eager
pushy pillocks the main dangers as the route took us south over a variety
of road types. Few of them inspiring. I knew it would be like this, I was
not concerned. Just put my head down, tucked in and rode. Saving myself for
latter.

And then 120 something kilometres in Stage 1 ended.
My group disintergarated on the Tiegemberg, and me with it.
I limped on, alone through the grey, occasionally picking up stragglers to
join my train.
The wind was harsh, swirling. Rain threatening, the cold stripping the
feelings from my toes.

A feed station allowed me to meet up with some friends made en route. A
puncture sustained seconds later saw them disappear up the road. Bastards
I set off, refuelled, legs only whimpering midly. A short run along the
river, sweep right, long straight, sharp left. Koppenberg.

Now Flanders would begin. Funny thing this. Its not that bad. Neither for
that matter are any of the bergs. Hard, sure but do-able and not that
dissimilar to swains lane with a chamois full of marbles. (what you mean
you havent tried it) The Koppenberg and Patenberg are probably the worst,
the condition of the pave making staying up a balance between skill and
luck. A fall on the koppenberg, and there were many, resulted in a mass
pile up i just managed to weave round. On the Moleberg, the same. In fact
the woefully underprepared, unfit, obese and generally useless charity and
new year resolution herberts entering the little course with zero
preparation, constitute the events major hazard. Later some gobshite at the
finish almost took me out when raising his hands above his head to
celebrate completion, without considering the ability to ride no handed was
probably an advisable trait to be in possession of. Anyway I digress.

What is bad however is the cobbles. Not those on the bergs, but those on
the flat. Those i’d never really noticed on the TV. Magnus, Kelly, et all
will tell you how to ride them. We all know….hands loose, big gear, ride
the ridge. Bollocks. Its all bollocks. They hurt, they hurt alot and they
are really annoying and they hurt and there are lots of them and what ever
you do, however you ride they hurt.

So to conclude.This is an amazing day out riding in the tyremarks of
legends. And strangely not that hard. The event is huge, probably too big
if truth be told but needs to be experienced by all. And is so close its
crazy not to chuck the bikes in the boot, ferry, train whatever and go
enjoy. Hell theres even another race the next day if you get board of the
bikes, beer, chips and chocolate.”

Report from Pete Johnston.