According to Errol Brown, it started with a kiss. Without doubt a lovely sentiment, but Errol’s wrong, it started with a beer, a sweet, sweet Belgian beer. Or, indeed, several. I blame Neil, if only because it’s often his fault, or it may have been down to the Wizard of Odd, but it had nothing to do with me, no siree. Nothing whatsoever.
As often, I’m babbling and have gone far to early, making as much sense as the Government’s “but Sir, the big boys did it” reaction to the flooding in the south of England. But what am I blathering about?
Take 2. It started with a beer. It was Friday 20th December 2013, around 9.48 p.m. although it could have been anytime within a window between 8.15 p.m. and 12.25 a.m. even if that makes it sound rather like a crime was being committed. And maybe it was, but not in the way you might be thinking.
Friday 20th December 2013 was the eve of the legendary first annual Herefordshire Kris Kross viewtopic.php?f=5&t=281952 so, being a yeoman, I played mein host to Neil and the Wizard of Odd as long distance travelers. Having navigated my wife’s request for “sweat” early in the day – an unusual request to receive when at work in an open plan office (it turned out to be suet) – and fitted far too wide tyres for the following day’s filth fest, the evening promised convivial company, hearty food and fine ale. It delivered and while we sat around a log fire the discussion turned to January ennui and how to combat. Neil was in with the proposition like a retrobiker spotting NOS M900 for a song i.e. quickly but reaching for strong reading glasses first– World Cyclocross Championships at the end of January 2014. Having imbibed enough to impair my judgment –I had the heavy pouring hand so have to shoulder some responsibility, however reluctantly – I was enthused and readily agreed. A plan was formulated; a road trip in Neil’s camper but accommodation in a city to allow for cultural experience. Can anyone see the flaw yet?
Having survived Christmas, details flooded in – we would stay in a self catering apartment in Antwerp, take cross bikes and cycle across the border to Hoogerheide (I can’t believe we were the only ones to find referring to the venue as Hooger Booger amusing although I was crestfallen to discover that Jonny Hoogerland would not be riding as the chance for non-inventive wordplay would be denied) and then enjoy the delights that a major European city can offer. The plan was without flaws, our methods sound (although I’m not sure that Colonel Kurtz would have concurred although, hell, I ain’t about to quote TS Elliot).
Those who have ploughed through the tedium of the Kris Kross thread may have noticed that I smashed up my rear mech on the ride. Add in a twisted chain, tyres too wide, buckled rims and super stiff cantis and a major overhaul was required if I was to turn up in Belgium/Holland with a working cross bike (not to spoil the story but as it turned up I was the only one to actually present with a cyclocross bike - The Wizard will demur but he had some bizarre Swiss Army knife of a bike that was neither fish nor fowl. To be fair though, it was foul). This required several nights in the garden, Maglite clenched between my teeth, wielding all manner of implements including some ideally matched white paint (the frame is orange) to cover up the rubbing from too wide tyres. Still, I ended up with a working bike although only as long as I didn’t change gear or use the front brake even if the latter presented a fine Belgian silhouette.
Given the distances to cover, Neil decided to come down the night before with an ETA of midnight. Obviously he was considerably late due to polo practice. A more prescient man than I would have worried at this point. I was sanguine and, having filled up on choice local sausage, we departed. The journey to the Dover, with a stop off to collect The Wizard and Big Gav, was uneventful, apart from missing the ferry by 54 minutes. I’m not sure when we realized that we were going to be cutting it fine, possibly when we discovered that we had no reliable satnav and that the heavily laden lefthand van topped out at 120kph. I do remember veering from despair to hope to resignation and then back to hope – it’s the hope that kills you, especially after you check in and watch other vehicles rolling on board while you are denied.
Fortunately we took desperate pleasure with some cycling Top Trumps. The time crawled. And then we were in Europe proper. The Wizard opened a bottle of red to celebrate and offered around some creative cheese. Obviously we took far longer than strictly necessary to get to Antwerp and equally obviously we arrived too late to easily check into out apartment. Never mind, we were in, bikes stored in the room and a European city at our fingertips.
Being imaginative fellows, we headed for Beer Central. Which was as advertised, being central and having beer. 400 different types of beer. What follows is hazy, thankfully, but I can report that female Dutch korfballers play an aggressive game. A very aggressive game. And cameraphones are the devil’s own work.
Saturday morning and we have 4 hours to sort ourselves out before heading to Hoogerheide and the women’s World Championships. The faffing was a sight to behold although exceeded by the directions we had (distance = 28km but we were heading to another country and only had printed out Google maps to help us. Well, they would have helped but Neil only printed out partial maps as some sections were just straight and then forgot that he’d omitted large chunks.). We arrived with 10 minutes to spare, time to get a restorative beer, a large sausage and a sterling vantage point.
The pace of the riders was extremely brisk and Helen Wyman was well up so a source of much clanking of cowbells. And then, calm, until they returned again with the sublime Marianne Vos already well in the lead. I was struck both by the speed and how tiny the competitors were – how did they produce such relentless power? We investigated the course and found a great vantage point – a short downhill, hairpin and then a very rutted, sandy, muddy climb. The skill was amazing and it was great to cheer on Helen Wyman and the fast charging Nikki Harris who, from the mud on her face, had clearly had a heavy, early fall. Marianne Vos rode away with it but could Britain get a first medal since Louise Robinson in 2000? Yeah, baby. Superb.
The crowd dispersed quickly but we went to have a look at the course and the first 90 degree drop in after the helter skelter road start – my life, I couldn’t walk down it’s rutted, bumpy and very steep slope (I saw it later on TV and it looks straightforward – it absolutely wasn’t).
We headed back to ‘Twerp, only pausing for Neil’s 25 year old meat coloured Ritchey’s to blow a sidewall and require booting by The Wizard. Obviously we needed to stop at a service station for water. And, equally obviously, Leffe was a better choice than water for weary travelers.
Arriving back at the apartment, we were joined by the fifth member of the party, The Champ (aptly rather than ironically named as he’s Over 60s World Cx Champion) who’d raced that day and, fortunately for him, won as we don’t hang out with losers. I left the chaps to it although they did return at 4 a.m. muttering about hanging out with Eva Lechner, the Silver medalist. I scoffed but they had photographic evidence. It appeared that a gauntlet had been slapped across my cheek and dropped on the ground. Right.
Sunday dawned and only The Wizard and I were up for riding over to Hoogerheide again – it was the Espoirs in the morning then the big duel in the afternoon, the Elite Men. We made good time to Hoogerheide – very, very good time – and by 10.30 a.m. we were beer in hand and elbowing for a space at the barriers with the spectators already 5 deep. What was the main race going to be like? And how on earth were we going to meet up with the other chaps?
The U23 race was great, Holland v Belgium, local rivalry in full effect although the partisan almost football like atmosphere was less to my tastes. Still, the riding was amazing with the riders still spitting sand from their back tyres on the 5th lap when the women were dismounting and running. A Belgian rider won so, with the women’s race it was Holland 1 Belgium 1 – would the Elite Men be the tiebreaker?
The Wizard and I wandered into Hoogerheide I search of refreshment and good times. We found both and Marianne Vos was clearly made up to meet a legend (for avoidance of doubt, I mean me). See that Eva Lechner? Top Trumps style, I see you and raise you Marianne Vos.
Returning to the venue, it had gone absolutely crazy – estimates of 50,000 people may have been modest as it was a sea of braying humanity, beer in hand and frying onions wafting across the arena. The agenda was clear – the Belgians wanted to see the great Sven Nys, 38 years old, win. But could he withstand the absurdly talented two time champion Zdeněk Štybar?
The gun cracked, the roar was deafening, and they were off. Although they were tightly bunched it was soon clearly the Nys- Štybar show. And the pace was absolutely unrelenting although I was encouraged to see the number of unclipped leg waggling going on although not from the two superstars. They lapped. And they lapped again. Štybar stole a march. Nys pegged him back. Then, a couple of laps before the end, Nys got a clear gap. It was on and the crowd went wild – if Nys could keep it clean then he’d surely win, again.
With a 100m lead, approaching a 180 degree turn, Nys used his right hand to slingshot round off the barrier, a smooth move he’d executed on previous laps. But, like an Edwards, he overcooked it and fell. I could feel the groan of the crowds as much as hear them. Štybar was back in and, gradually, made the move that won him the title. The booing as he want past was really disappointing as he’d ridden a superb race although it was understandable given the heat of the moment. The booing when he received his jersey was however absolutely disgraceful and really soured the moment – football tribalism really isn’t welcome in cycling.
Cycling over, we managed to seredipiditiously bump into Neil, Big Gav and The Champ and headed back through the team buses, pausing to admire Štybar’s bike. I was also pleased that the Belgian mechanic of the New Zealand team came over to comment on my bike, clearly a man of taste and class.
Returning to the apartment, we were weary men. Thankfully Neil had just the thing to restore a spring to our stride – a plastic, battery operated turntable and an awesome collection of pretzel shaped vinyl. Much as I try, I cannot rid myself of the memory of Neil ‘bringing the beat back’ with Demis Roussos on Mrs Mills Party Album. Heady times.
The remainder of the night should clearly be glossed over but it’s only fair to say that we ended up in a pub called The Joker, listening to a Belgian folk singer and then, later, harmonising, to some quality Depeche Mode. I also have some recollection of Belgian Sumo between Neil and I although there was a refreshing lack of resolution.
All that was left was to head to the ferry. Which we missed by 5 minutes while other vehicles were still being loaded. At least we were first in the queue. Or at least we were until the UK Customs decided to inspect the camper 10 minutes before boarding and all the cars drove around us. We ended up last vehicle on. It’s all about life on the ragged edge, marginal gains.
A great weekend but did we really propose LEJOG on the way home? If so, I suspect greatness awaits although I suspect not for us.....
As often, I’m babbling and have gone far to early, making as much sense as the Government’s “but Sir, the big boys did it” reaction to the flooding in the south of England. But what am I blathering about?
Take 2. It started with a beer. It was Friday 20th December 2013, around 9.48 p.m. although it could have been anytime within a window between 8.15 p.m. and 12.25 a.m. even if that makes it sound rather like a crime was being committed. And maybe it was, but not in the way you might be thinking.
Friday 20th December 2013 was the eve of the legendary first annual Herefordshire Kris Kross viewtopic.php?f=5&t=281952 so, being a yeoman, I played mein host to Neil and the Wizard of Odd as long distance travelers. Having navigated my wife’s request for “sweat” early in the day – an unusual request to receive when at work in an open plan office (it turned out to be suet) – and fitted far too wide tyres for the following day’s filth fest, the evening promised convivial company, hearty food and fine ale. It delivered and while we sat around a log fire the discussion turned to January ennui and how to combat. Neil was in with the proposition like a retrobiker spotting NOS M900 for a song i.e. quickly but reaching for strong reading glasses first– World Cyclocross Championships at the end of January 2014. Having imbibed enough to impair my judgment –I had the heavy pouring hand so have to shoulder some responsibility, however reluctantly – I was enthused and readily agreed. A plan was formulated; a road trip in Neil’s camper but accommodation in a city to allow for cultural experience. Can anyone see the flaw yet?
Having survived Christmas, details flooded in – we would stay in a self catering apartment in Antwerp, take cross bikes and cycle across the border to Hoogerheide (I can’t believe we were the only ones to find referring to the venue as Hooger Booger amusing although I was crestfallen to discover that Jonny Hoogerland would not be riding as the chance for non-inventive wordplay would be denied) and then enjoy the delights that a major European city can offer. The plan was without flaws, our methods sound (although I’m not sure that Colonel Kurtz would have concurred although, hell, I ain’t about to quote TS Elliot).
Those who have ploughed through the tedium of the Kris Kross thread may have noticed that I smashed up my rear mech on the ride. Add in a twisted chain, tyres too wide, buckled rims and super stiff cantis and a major overhaul was required if I was to turn up in Belgium/Holland with a working cross bike (not to spoil the story but as it turned up I was the only one to actually present with a cyclocross bike - The Wizard will demur but he had some bizarre Swiss Army knife of a bike that was neither fish nor fowl. To be fair though, it was foul). This required several nights in the garden, Maglite clenched between my teeth, wielding all manner of implements including some ideally matched white paint (the frame is orange) to cover up the rubbing from too wide tyres. Still, I ended up with a working bike although only as long as I didn’t change gear or use the front brake even if the latter presented a fine Belgian silhouette.
Given the distances to cover, Neil decided to come down the night before with an ETA of midnight. Obviously he was considerably late due to polo practice. A more prescient man than I would have worried at this point. I was sanguine and, having filled up on choice local sausage, we departed. The journey to the Dover, with a stop off to collect The Wizard and Big Gav, was uneventful, apart from missing the ferry by 54 minutes. I’m not sure when we realized that we were going to be cutting it fine, possibly when we discovered that we had no reliable satnav and that the heavily laden lefthand van topped out at 120kph. I do remember veering from despair to hope to resignation and then back to hope – it’s the hope that kills you, especially after you check in and watch other vehicles rolling on board while you are denied.
Fortunately we took desperate pleasure with some cycling Top Trumps. The time crawled. And then we were in Europe proper. The Wizard opened a bottle of red to celebrate and offered around some creative cheese. Obviously we took far longer than strictly necessary to get to Antwerp and equally obviously we arrived too late to easily check into out apartment. Never mind, we were in, bikes stored in the room and a European city at our fingertips.
Being imaginative fellows, we headed for Beer Central. Which was as advertised, being central and having beer. 400 different types of beer. What follows is hazy, thankfully, but I can report that female Dutch korfballers play an aggressive game. A very aggressive game. And cameraphones are the devil’s own work.
Saturday morning and we have 4 hours to sort ourselves out before heading to Hoogerheide and the women’s World Championships. The faffing was a sight to behold although exceeded by the directions we had (distance = 28km but we were heading to another country and only had printed out Google maps to help us. Well, they would have helped but Neil only printed out partial maps as some sections were just straight and then forgot that he’d omitted large chunks.). We arrived with 10 minutes to spare, time to get a restorative beer, a large sausage and a sterling vantage point.
The pace of the riders was extremely brisk and Helen Wyman was well up so a source of much clanking of cowbells. And then, calm, until they returned again with the sublime Marianne Vos already well in the lead. I was struck both by the speed and how tiny the competitors were – how did they produce such relentless power? We investigated the course and found a great vantage point – a short downhill, hairpin and then a very rutted, sandy, muddy climb. The skill was amazing and it was great to cheer on Helen Wyman and the fast charging Nikki Harris who, from the mud on her face, had clearly had a heavy, early fall. Marianne Vos rode away with it but could Britain get a first medal since Louise Robinson in 2000? Yeah, baby. Superb.
The crowd dispersed quickly but we went to have a look at the course and the first 90 degree drop in after the helter skelter road start – my life, I couldn’t walk down it’s rutted, bumpy and very steep slope (I saw it later on TV and it looks straightforward – it absolutely wasn’t).
We headed back to ‘Twerp, only pausing for Neil’s 25 year old meat coloured Ritchey’s to blow a sidewall and require booting by The Wizard. Obviously we needed to stop at a service station for water. And, equally obviously, Leffe was a better choice than water for weary travelers.
Arriving back at the apartment, we were joined by the fifth member of the party, The Champ (aptly rather than ironically named as he’s Over 60s World Cx Champion) who’d raced that day and, fortunately for him, won as we don’t hang out with losers. I left the chaps to it although they did return at 4 a.m. muttering about hanging out with Eva Lechner, the Silver medalist. I scoffed but they had photographic evidence. It appeared that a gauntlet had been slapped across my cheek and dropped on the ground. Right.
Sunday dawned and only The Wizard and I were up for riding over to Hoogerheide again – it was the Espoirs in the morning then the big duel in the afternoon, the Elite Men. We made good time to Hoogerheide – very, very good time – and by 10.30 a.m. we were beer in hand and elbowing for a space at the barriers with the spectators already 5 deep. What was the main race going to be like? And how on earth were we going to meet up with the other chaps?
The U23 race was great, Holland v Belgium, local rivalry in full effect although the partisan almost football like atmosphere was less to my tastes. Still, the riding was amazing with the riders still spitting sand from their back tyres on the 5th lap when the women were dismounting and running. A Belgian rider won so, with the women’s race it was Holland 1 Belgium 1 – would the Elite Men be the tiebreaker?
The Wizard and I wandered into Hoogerheide I search of refreshment and good times. We found both and Marianne Vos was clearly made up to meet a legend (for avoidance of doubt, I mean me). See that Eva Lechner? Top Trumps style, I see you and raise you Marianne Vos.
Returning to the venue, it had gone absolutely crazy – estimates of 50,000 people may have been modest as it was a sea of braying humanity, beer in hand and frying onions wafting across the arena. The agenda was clear – the Belgians wanted to see the great Sven Nys, 38 years old, win. But could he withstand the absurdly talented two time champion Zdeněk Štybar?
The gun cracked, the roar was deafening, and they were off. Although they were tightly bunched it was soon clearly the Nys- Štybar show. And the pace was absolutely unrelenting although I was encouraged to see the number of unclipped leg waggling going on although not from the two superstars. They lapped. And they lapped again. Štybar stole a march. Nys pegged him back. Then, a couple of laps before the end, Nys got a clear gap. It was on and the crowd went wild – if Nys could keep it clean then he’d surely win, again.
With a 100m lead, approaching a 180 degree turn, Nys used his right hand to slingshot round off the barrier, a smooth move he’d executed on previous laps. But, like an Edwards, he overcooked it and fell. I could feel the groan of the crowds as much as hear them. Štybar was back in and, gradually, made the move that won him the title. The booing as he want past was really disappointing as he’d ridden a superb race although it was understandable given the heat of the moment. The booing when he received his jersey was however absolutely disgraceful and really soured the moment – football tribalism really isn’t welcome in cycling.
Cycling over, we managed to seredipiditiously bump into Neil, Big Gav and The Champ and headed back through the team buses, pausing to admire Štybar’s bike. I was also pleased that the Belgian mechanic of the New Zealand team came over to comment on my bike, clearly a man of taste and class.
Returning to the apartment, we were weary men. Thankfully Neil had just the thing to restore a spring to our stride – a plastic, battery operated turntable and an awesome collection of pretzel shaped vinyl. Much as I try, I cannot rid myself of the memory of Neil ‘bringing the beat back’ with Demis Roussos on Mrs Mills Party Album. Heady times.
The remainder of the night should clearly be glossed over but it’s only fair to say that we ended up in a pub called The Joker, listening to a Belgian folk singer and then, later, harmonising, to some quality Depeche Mode. I also have some recollection of Belgian Sumo between Neil and I although there was a refreshing lack of resolution.
All that was left was to head to the ferry. Which we missed by 5 minutes while other vehicles were still being loaded. At least we were first in the queue. Or at least we were until the UK Customs decided to inspect the camper 10 minutes before boarding and all the cars drove around us. We ended up last vehicle on. It’s all about life on the ragged edge, marginal gains.
A great weekend but did we really propose LEJOG on the way home? If so, I suspect greatness awaits although I suspect not for us.....
