My friend had a point. Growing
up on the Eastern seaboard I had always envisioned grand European adventures –
the geographic accessibility alone seemed to make it a no-brainer, along with the
culturally euro-centric focus of the east coast: good things come from just
across the pond.
“Um, well, it seemed like an
unusual opportunity,” I stammered into the phone. “When one presents itself,
you’ve gotta take it.”
In the four years that I had
been racing internationally I had never been to Europe once. Bike racing had
afforded me the opportunity to travel to and compete in a handful of incredible
and unlikely locations, mainly in South America (though the Kazakh visa is
still my favorite page in my passport). Europe, the crown jewel of cycling
sport and culture, had been conspicuously absent from my rider resume. Patrik
Lyons, a friend and cycling agent who had been trying to get me into 6-day
events for a number of years, tipped me off to a grand prix that had just added
women’s sprint events. A few days after the Los Angeles Grand Prix in early
November – and with the encouragement of my coach and family, as well as the
help of a heap of frequent flier miles – I was on a flight over to race the
International Belgian Open in Ghent. I was about to dump myself into a city I
had barely researched, without a local contact, to do a race I had only learned
of about a week prior. Good God and dry
gin, what am I doing?
Solo travel can be daunting
in one’s own country. Solo travel in a foreign country with no ground support
and crap-load of bike equipment is an odd mix of terrifying and exciting. Get
on a plane. Tumble off the plane and onto a train – the correct train (and find
somewhere to stuff the bike box on said train). Pile off the train and onto the
little tram that finally stops at the hotel on the outskirts of the city. The
strain of attempting to read each stop in Dutch, Flemish, and French was enough
to give me gray hair – but, unlike the organized chaos to which I had grown
accustomed in South America, at least everything in northern Europe runs
blissfully regimented and on time.
Upon arrival at the Holiday Inn,
an unassuming brick-and-plaster cube across the parking lot from an Ikea and an
empty expo center, I was able to connect with fellow rider Jake Duerhing and
his Dutch mechanic Jan-Willem van der Heijden. Jake and our third U.S. teammate
Ian Holt would both be racing the men’s ominium that weekend (a lucky
coincidence for me); I was thankful to have a couple familiar faces here with
me in such unfamiliar territory.
*
Ghent may be Belgium’s
best-kept secret; once medieval Europe’s second-largest city after Paris, it
has developed over the centuries as an incredible showcase for European arts
and culture – but has remained less on the tourism radar than Brussels and
Bruges. Here hides one of Europe’s finest panoramas of canals, ancient spires,
and extravagant grand houses against a backdrop of steely skies. Under the imposing grace of Gravensteen Castle
and St. Bavo’s cathedral the city hosts an ornate opera house, 18 museums, 100
churches, and over 400 historical buildings – as well as a handful of
monasteries-cum-breweries that put Belgium on the map for some of the finest
beers in the world.
The city sits at the
confluence of the Scheldt and Leie rivers in the heart of the Flanders region –
arguably one of the most infamous racing realms in professional cycling.
Belgium takes its cycling seriously and Ghent is not stranger to this obsession
– it boasts two separate velodromes, one being the Eddy Merckx Cycling Center
and cycling school. This particular 250-meter oval office would be the venue in
which we would do bicycle battle for a weekend.
The Eddy Merckx velodrome is
a stunning expanse of track from the inside and a perfect tribute to Belgium’s
most celebrated cyclist. Glass panes on all sides of the building allow light
to pour through and illuminate the black-brown boards in a rollicking explosion
of color and contrast. Not all tracks are created equal; I became irrevocably
sure of this as we walked into The Cannibal’s shrine for the first time for
pre-race training.
Getting acquainted with a new
track is like going on a blind date. No matter what your friends and the
internet tell you about him, the only way to properly determine how well you
guys mesh is to meet in person – and the first encounter is almost always awkward
and a bit uncomfortable. If one can be comfortable with being uncomfortable,
everything will go fine. Probably. Maybe.
I had three days to figure
out this particular track before racing began. Each track has its own quirks
and nuances – a facet of racing that one comes to appreciate instead of dread
if she’s adaptable. Steeper turns made this track a slightly different animal
than my usual training venue of L.A.; otherwise the shape and tightness of the
two seemed the same and made it easier to get a handle on timing and strategy. In
an unknown field the only thing a rider can control is her own ability and her own
execution; this velodrome would suit me just fine.
*
Rituals tend to be an
important part of the racing process, especially in an entirely unknown place.
In my case, these anticipated patterns became centered largely on convening on
caffeine and food. Each morning I found Jan-Willem in the dining area of the
hotel atrium – where we swapped cultural notes over bad Keurig coffee.
Jan is a Dutch
racer-turned-mechanic; a light athletic build matched with bright blue eyes,
angular nose and cheekbones, and sandy Flock of Seagulls-style hair give him
the quintessential euro-dude countenance. At 20 years old he’s one of USA
Cycling’s go-to mechanics at its European base of Sittard, The Netherlands –
and, to compliment his wrenching skills, also happens to be an excellent guide
on all things Euro. We discussed everything from the precarious predicament of
Ukraine to Bulgarian travel to the culturally divisive nature of Europe as a
whole.
Ukraine is screwed. Don’t ever fly Bulgaria Air.
Despite how everyone here likes to pick on their neighbors, they all seem to
unanimously hate the French. Makes sense.
*
“Give me your bike for a
second,” Jan said.
“Um, ok. What’s the matter?”
I blinked at him and wheeled it over.
“Your bar tape. It looks like
shit. I won’t let you ride like that, you’re not in South America anymore,” he
replied as he plunked my bike onto the stand.
Yes, that became grossly apparent by the giant Lithuanian
and Belgian girls who just strode onto the infield for the open training
session. That’s cool. No problem. I got this. Yep.
“Thanks, cupcake. Good
lookin’ out.”
*
Whoever coined the saying
“attitude is everything” may have very easily been a cyclist. The attitude that
one brings to the line can often dictate how a race will unfold even before the
gun goes off. I considered this briefly as I sat at the start of the keirin
final, hands on hips and staring straight ahead at the sweeping boards in front
of me.
The attitude doesn’t tend to
change regardless of whom I race – from a good friend to a French
stranger. Look me in the face; know that I want to rip your heart out and eat it
raw. It’s not personal.
I had managed 5th
in the sprint tournament the previous evening. I knew very little about the
riders on either side of me except some 200-meter times and their respective
placements; everyone had speed, varied skills. I didn’t care, it didn’t matter;
I want to rip your hearts out and eat
them raw. I gave Jan a couple
thwacks on the shoulder as he held me before I sank into my drops; the gun went
up.
BANG
*
“Hey, are you almost ready to
go?” Jake asked. “We need waffles!”
“No way, dude, I gotta go do
that podium thing first. We’ll get to the waffles soon enough. And beer, that’s
non-negotiable.” I zipped up my skin suit, checked my hair, and moseyed across
the infield.
I had drawn fourth position
and slotted in directly behind Belgian rider Shana Dalving. I was anticipating
a move from the German behind me and patiently protected my precarious fourth
spot until the derny swung off. I throttled out of turn two on the final lap
and swept up Dalving in three, barreling through the corner and into the home
straight after Olivia Montauban and Mélissandre Pain on the front. I finished on the wheels
of the two French to round out the podium.
After the photos and proper
“félicitations”
I was still reeling, thrilled for my results and thankful for the help I had to
get there. It was indeed time for a beer.
*
Belgium’s claims to culinary
fame are all items that are decidedly deemed bad for athletes – beer,
chocolate, waffles, and fries. In fact, my theory regarding the Belgians’
cycling prowess is that they’re inherently strong because they have to ride so
much – how else can they consume all of these things and still remain lean? They
need to burn them off somehow. It’s the only logical conclusion in my American
brain.
Naturally, the mission once
racing had concluded was to sample all of these items – not necessarily in any
particular order. After dumping off equipment and swapping spandex for normal
clothes, Jake, Ian, Jan, and myself took the tram into downtown Ghent to see
what we could find.
Ghent has a cool elegance during
the day, but it comes truly and lavishly alive at night. The streets and building walls
teem with electric light that bathes the city’s intricate architecture in a
brilliant golden glow; sparkling facades in the old port markets of Graslei and
Korenlei pair with bubbling banter from canal-side cafes and bars long into the
evening. Unfortunately, this excludes
bakeries and waffle stands (which close promptly at 6PM on Sunday evenings,
apparently. Damn it) and so we
settled for beer first. We bought a round at the cozy Picardie – I sipped the
best brown ale I’ve ever had (Trappistes Rochefort 10, for the record) in a
basement bar that was older than my home country. We cut across the square for
some proper Belgian fries and a second beer before calling it a night.
*
Cobbles are awful. After a
day of running around on the cobbled streets and sidewalks of Ghent I will
never understand how folks manage to race their bikes over them. I suppose
that’s one of the many reasons I remain a track racer. My extra day on the
ground after the grand prix allowed me to fully embrace every tender step; the
boys had left early that morning and I was on my own. I spent the morning
getting hopelessly lost in the medieval neighborhoods of Patershol and
Vrijdagmarkt before stumbling into a teeny café on a tight side street for a
recovery waffle. Indeed, I finally got my waffle – airy and delicately crunchy
with a dappling of powdered sugar, accompanied by a perfect cappuccino at Fritz.
Ghent is best viewed from the
ground up – or, rather, from the canal. Gravensteen’s walls were as striking
looming over me on the water as they had been as I viewed the city from their
tops an hour beforehand. For six euros a boat tour gave an intimate look at
Ghent by way of the very canals that gave it life; incidentally, it’s also
better than walking. I used the remainder of my on-foot energy to snag to
chocolates and cuberdons in
Korenmarkt and an afternoon glass of Gruut at a canal-side bar across the
square. That evening I lingered over post-dinner coffee in a corner of Restaurant
Valentijn, allowing the rich Belgian cuisine to settle in my stomach, before
reluctantly ambling through the bright streets to the tram station.
As I stuffed the chocolates
into my bike box back at the hotel, I realized that I had just completed my
first crash course in European bike racing. If
that’s the intro course, what are the core credits? I can’t wait to find
out.
***
