A Day in the Life of a Minor Celebrity

I had a day off on December 27th and spent it in Gent with Esther and some other guests of the Chain Stay - Luke, Aaron and Mark - wandering the streets looking for trouble, coffee, lingerie, art supplies and a movie theatre. After roaming for a few hours picking up various people's desires we got tickets to see The Hobbit, and while waiting for it to start we headed into the bar next door.

It's been a slow and unscientific progression of tasting the beers on offer in this country, for me at least, due to the combination of the sheer number and strength of the beers, and my relatively weak fortitude. An 11% one I tried recently had me struggling to stand steady, looking for a seat and almost nodding off after just one sip. Despite the factors working in favour of a higher consumption - the price of beer and wine here is unfathomably cheap in comparison to New Zealand, especially for the quality - I have tended not to indulge apart from on the odd occasion.

After we'd finished our drinks and were putting on our jackets about to go, I saw the bartender glance at me. He gave me a look of recognition and mouthed hello, or possibly hallo, then walked over to ask me if I was going to be racing that coming weekend, and wished me luck. Suitably surprised and entertained by being recognised in a city I've only visited once before, we then went into the cinema to watch a drawn out and unconvincing replica of LOTR. The main highlight for me was that it had two sets of subtitles the whole way through - French and Dutch. Although it took up about a third of the screen, it was a great chance to practice my Dutch reading undisturbed for a few hours.

We then traipsed out into the night, seeking a source of sustenance. Finding mainly only high-brow establishments we made our way down a few streets until we came across a pub jam packed with people, most of whom were sitting down with meals. We waited at the bar until a table became available, watching as the barman almost singlehandedly ran the place. There were two other waiting staff doing tables, but this guy was doing all the drinks and coffee for both the restaurant and bar, answering the phone, taking orders for food and cleaning glasses. He also did a good job of defending me when an impatient dude, presumably of the opinion that I was hogging it, tried to grab the menu out of my hands. He took it in turn out of his hands, put it back in mine, and told the guy to go back to his seat. I saw a couple of small bowls of peanuts come back from a cleared table, which he put aside - presumably, I thought, for him to eat later or to throw out when he got the chance. He washed a few more glasses, then with wet hands stacked the bowls of nuts on top of one another. I really started to wonder what was going to happen to them now, but had a sneaking suspicion of what he might be up to. Esther and I then watched as he poured drinks for the impatient guy, following his movements with smug amusement as he proceeded to wack down the half eaten, slightly damp peanuts in front of him. The guy gobbled them down like they were delicious. It was poetic justice before our very eyes.

Once we had been seated and were about to start eating, the waiter asked me if I was famous in New Zealand as well. When I said no, he explained that there was a woman from NZ at a table on the far side of the restaurant and he wanted to know if she would know who he was talking about if he mentioned my name. I replied that she would probably not have a clue, and we laughed at the bizarre nature of being famous in a foreign country for something that most people have never heard of back home.

The Canadians, Aaron and Mark found it particularly amusing to be in my company and witness it. It's been quite useful sometimes, in particular for getting good parking spots at races. Generally the big professional teams arrive on site very early, sometimes even the night before. They take up a lot of space with their trucks and mobile homes, which tends to force the smaller contingents such as ours out along the access road, or at least to a second and more distant parking space. At the race in Leuven in December Aaron was driving us in, and when we were stopped by a parking volunteer it looked like we would be turned around and told to try elsewhere, as the car park was "full" (most of the time full means half-full, especially if you are neither part of a big team or an elite men competitor). Just as it seemed he was about to utter the bad news, I leaned forward and looked across from the passenger seat. The guy's eyes opened wide, he exclaimed brightly and pointed us in the direction of an area taped off for the Sunweb-Revor team, saying we could just park in their space.

I have got a little more used to people wanting to take photos of me at races, even though it often seems just to be a shot of me positioned awkwardly on my bike that they are looking for. Families with small children (typically covered in Sven Nys or Niels Albert merchandised clothing) come up and pose excitedly beside me, and wandering adults too linger near the van when I'm warming up looking for a cheeky snap. Most of the time people ask, but sometimes they just stand off and take a photo without saying anything which is a bit weird. I don't know if it's a language thing, but even so gesticulations and sign language tend to work pretty well if spoken communication is out of the question. I've met some great characters, and enjoyed as much as I can being recognised most of the places I go, so even if it all ends with the racing in a few weeks then I will look back happily upon the strangest time of my life as I slink back into the crowd.

Photo: Julie Vanbelle

Fast Times At Belgium High

It's been much longer than I intended since my last post, and time has flown by faster than the professionals I have been racing against. The last weekend of September I had my first double header racing amongst them. Saturday was the first of the Soudal Classics in Neerpelt, and a UCI category 2 race. This means the all-important points, which determine the riders' start positions in all races, are up for grabs. For the top 15, that is.

After almost three hours of driving for the first time in Europe, for the first time in the left of a car and for the first time on the right hand side of the road, following for the first time an in-car navigation system as best I could, I made it only slightly panicked and frazzled to the course in the far north-east of Belgium, parking up alongside the team trucks of BKCP-Powerplus - sponsor of current world champion Niels Albert. I just squeezed in between a couple of trees on a patch of grass, happily just out of view of the hoards of passing celebrity cyclocross-spotters. Due to the late start of my race at 5pm, I had plenty of time to look around and check out the course both on foot while other races were on, and then on my bike when there was free time.

It was a very sandy base, with an actual sandpit at one point which we went through twice per lap. I've never ridden much in sand, and it showed. I'd try and get up as much momentum as possible before entering it, then abruptly come to a halt not long after. This is definitely something to work on over the coming months, as one of the World Cup races is at a place called Koksijde, and it is essentially just a race over a whole bunch of sand dunes.

When I was scouting around the course I was recognised by a man with his family. He asked me if I was racing, and when I confirmed that indeed I was, we started to chat about why I'm here and how it's all going. His name was Andy and he gave me his email address, and later sent through a bunch of photos that his wife had taken of me.

Crucially though, we became Facebook friends. I didn't realise it at the time, but this was the initial trickle of a series of events that would turn into a veritable raging torrent and be by far the most surreal and unexpected experience of my life. At the startline I was approached by a journalist who had seen I was from New Zealand, and wanted to write a story about me. I had photos taken of me, and generally felt like a bit of a star, especially rubbing shoulders as I was with the big hitters of the cyclocross scene.

Photo: Het Belang van Limburg

The race I had wasn't one to write home about, I felt out of my depth and struggled with the course's sandy features - let alone everyone else in the race disappearing off ahead very early on. I think I got through only about 3 or 4 laps before being pulled off the course, lungs heaving and my morale sifting lazily through the sandy ground beneath me.

I set about heading back home - my new home in Oudenaarde, which is situated in the province of East-Flanders. It was just before sunset, and the sunstrike was the most intense I've ever experienced. Heading almost directly west was no fun at all, and combined with feeling blown to pieces from the race, discombobulated from the car's controls being backwards and driving on the right, I couldn't really see anything. Cars were overtaking me on a stretch of road with the sun directly at eye level, as I couldn't see what the speed indications on the side of the road were saying. I didn't know whether it was a 50km, 70km or 90km per hour zone, so I chose not to drive over about 55. I quickly got tired of this retina-burning exercise, and pulled over to buy a falafel and have a rest. Employing my slowly-improving Dutch I managed to order what I wanted, but when it came time for the sauces I had a bit of trouble. I understood that "pikant" was spicy, so I got that, but none of the other names registered anything familiar. I asked for the owner's recommendation, and so I had some "cocktail" with it. It was gigantic, delicious, full of a funny tasting mayonnaise and had about 10 medium-sized whole green chilies on the side. I bit into one, and finding it suitably "pikant" set about putting the rest of them onto my possibly-but-probably-never-having-later-on napkin.

It didn't take long for the sun to set, and I got on my way again. I took wrong turns several times on the massive motorway exchanges around Brussels and Antwerp, backtracking frustratingly and confusingly each time, watching the GPS clock as it showed the estimated arrival time getting later and later. I did eventually get home at about 10, so after washing my bike in preparation for the following day's race in Kalmthout, I had a chat with the others staying here at the Chain Stay, finding encouragement where previously I had been feeling pretty down. I went to bed determined to use this day as a lesson in what it's going to be like here. Always physically challenging, and therefore also mentally very difficult, but as I've mentioned previously, this is all part of what you need to be able to handle to do this here, so I just have to work out how to cope.

I woke up the following day feeling much better, and excited once again about racing in this huge events. I wasn't alone at this race, as Luke Gray - fellow resident of the house and former British U23 cyclocross champion - was also competing, albeit in the separate U23 category a couple of hours earlier in the day.

It was a nice winding flat course through a grassy forest, with an overpass construction and only a small couple of patches of sand. There were several sections of steps, some quite close together, but overall it looked like a fast and not too demanding loop. The organisers had started to notice the presence of a New Zealander in their midst, and made a special mention of this as I was called up - last, of course - to the start line.

I had a good start, keeping up with the back of the race train for about half of the first lap. I then had a slip up on a corner, and they disappeared off ahead. I rode as hard as I could, desperately trying to get back into the race, but it didn't happen. So after about 3 laps of racing by myself, I knuckled down in preparation for what would probably be my final lap. But the next time around I was shown the sign saying 5 laps remaining, so I figured I had just slipped through and might as well ride this one like it was my last. So I did, and again, as I rounded the corner into the finish straight I saw that I now had 4 laps remaining. I had just ridden as hard as possible to stay in this for another lap, and now I still had other laps to ride!

Photo: Ludo Nagels

So I forced myself to push at my limit for another lap, and again I approached the finish straight assuming I would be taken off. It was at about this time that someone texted the commentator (who knows how they got his number!) and asked if the New Zealander was still in the race. He replied that yes indeed, the Nieuw Zeelander is still in the race. Shortly after they cut to this shot of the aforementioned antipodean:

 

The next time I came around I was sure it would be the end for me, but no, it was instead still 3 laps to go. I couldn't believe it, was it really possible that I might finish a race? The crowd of spectators had gone from general support with a healthy dose of jeering directed towards me, into all-out shouting and rapturous encouragement of blasphemial proportions. They really wanted me to finish this race, as did I. I had made a few mistakes in the first lap, but since then had been getting smoother and smoother as I went, taking corners a bit faster and generally feeling in control. So after all this time of expecting to have my race end as I reached the section of sealed road, when it finally happened with 2 laps to go I found myself almost in disbelief that I wasn't still in the race.

Photo: Andy Foncke

I had lasted much longer than I ever expected, about 48 minutes in total. The average speed for the leaders was a very high 27/28km per hour, and through the majority of the race everyone else had more or less stayed together as one very long line of riders. Despite being totally satisfied with how things went, overwhelmed even, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of what if I'd just had a better first lap.... But there'll be plenty of races in which to make up for it over the coming months. One of my main goals - in fact probably my main one - is to finish at least one of these A races on the lead lap. Although it may not seem like that big a deal to lots of people, the level of competitivity of these races is just incredible in comparison to anything else I've ever done, so it's a pretty lofty goal. But seeing I've come all this way, why not?

During the week after these races, I had my interview with the journalist, and found it printed in not only the local Kalmthout newspaper Het Belang van Limburg, but also in the larger Gazet van Antwerpen. It also then spread onto the web through Sporza.be and Wielertoerist.be and suddenly my phone started ringing every day with various kinds of reporters looking to write a story about the rare moustachioed far-flung Kiwi.

The stuff cyclocross dreams are made of - the elusive Dugast whale foreskin 320 threads per inch casing. 

Equally too I began to receive offers from generous locals offering all kinds of services from bike cleaning, to applying warm towels to the back of my neck, to the use of a van and even a teenager who is trying to find me some sponsorship for shoes and sunglasses. So it has been an overwhelming few weeks. The publicity eventually attracted the attentions of Los Pedalos Cycling Team, who are being extremely helpful and supplying me with two Focus Mares cyclocross bikes, a stack of tubular wheels and tyres, and lots of their kit. Also they have begun to wear moustaches at the races, and further fuelled the growing hairy support club that has inched its way into the fray. I am extremely grateful for all this help, and it has been very humbling. Having a second bike means I will now be able to continue to race when I crash my bike or it just gets full of mud, as it is likely to do given the conditions that I will be racing in more and more from now. I have set up a Fundme site for donations, for financial help to go towards my campaign over here in Belgium, in which I plan to take on the nearby World Cups, and to take me through to and literally over to the World Championships in America in February. It is a long and increasingly cold season, but the reception I've had here has been warm and embracing.

People are constantly cheering me on at races, giving me thumbs up and words of encouragement and congratulations after races, and they even get excited about taking a photo of me! I am just as excited about all of this, and am looking forward to a great continuation of what has been so far the most unusual yet also encouraging and genuinely exciting time of my life.

Photo: Danny Zelck

Double up at Wiekevorst

After my Belgian cyclocross debut at Zemst-Hofstade on Saturday, my appetite was whetted for another day out in the sun, riding around frantically chasing other people in the dust. I was fortunate this time around to be able to get a ride in the morning with the cousin of a friend of my brother - despite the long-winded link, they were a family of the loveliest sort.

They had come from the complete other side of the country, on the coast near the border with France. They were coming quite far out of their way to get me, so I met them at the motorway on/off ramp for Enghien and after slotting my bike into the back of the truck, alongside Wim and Tibo's various cyclocross machines, we set the Navman GPS to Wiekevorst and made haste while the sun was shining.

I got changed and rode around the course with the guys in preparation for their races, which were both earlier in the day than mine. This course was somewhat similar to the day before, but with more variation. Several very dry grassy straights were punctuated by hairpin turns which then lead in to forested singletrack, again with a very sandy base.

Tibo got off to a flier

Wim shooting the breeze

There were a couple of sand pits to negotiate, basically long trenches where you just had to hold the straightest line possible to avoid succumbing to the speed-thirsty bog. Sometimes I hit them perfectly, almost floating along at full speed. Other times I almost stopped dead, my wheel pushing a wave of sand ahead of me like a front-end loader.

As both their races were over by 2pm, my friends were heading back home. My race wasn't until 3.15 so I wouldn't have wanted them to stay and wait just for me to be finished. I got changed into my race mode vestments, enjoying the cool of the back of the truck for a moment longer before bidding them farewell.

I chatted with a young guy as we warmed up, who told me the field today was pretty big and featured some strong riders. Apparently it's quite common, especially early in the season, for roadies and other semi-crossers to come along to the Sunday races and attempt to snaffle the top spots against the true cyclocrossers who have raced already the day before. I wasn't too concerned by this, mainly my goal was to improve on yesterday's 24th place, preferably making the top-20 as the small amount of prize money would help fund the train ride home.

The sun was absolutely roasting us on the start line, with a high of over 30º.  I had the good fortune to be called up early, as after riders with UCI points were seeded it was ordered randomly by drawing lots. Although I earned 60 points at the national champs in July, because they were considered out of season they will count from January 1st 2013, which is roughly the time of the northern hemisphere national championships. I was the first to line up in the second row, so settled myself in behind the national champ. There were maybe 12 in the front row, and 55 starters in total in the race. The commissaire reeled off a set of instructions in Dutch first, then in French and lastly said "and for our New Zealand friend..." then repeated himself in English. There was a bit of laughter and a few cheeky comments such as just follow everyone else. I played along with the banter, but I laughed last because I'd understood him the first time and the second time too.

It was a good thing he reminded us all of the direction of the first corner, because by the time we got to it we were motoring along at 40-50km an hour. He'd said that the first lap will turn left at the end of the straight, but from then on the course turns right. I had a bad start, with my right foot coming unclipped immediately (again - this is something to sort out!) so I all but lost my early advantage, having to get back up to speed as I became immersed in a wave of whirring, buzzing carbon and tubulars. As I came up to the corner I found a traffic island I hadn't expected right in front of me, as another rider suddenly moved to the side ahead. I haven't practiced bunny hops on my cross bike for some time, not since I messed one up last year and the nose of my saddle attempted to perforate my backside. I didn't have any choice, so just gave it everything and managed to get over it cleanly and make it into the corner without drama.

The next series of grassy straights and hairpin corners was crucial to securing a good spot going into the sandy singletrack, which extended the line of riders out to twice its former length. I took a photo of the junior race at this point, which appears to have some of them racing head on against others.

I felt like I was about mid-way through the pack, and generally held this position through the race. I made a couple of mistakes early on which cost me a few places, and I dropped my chain on a remount about halfway through, causing me to stop to get it back on. But I was feeling good and continued to progress through the field. As we neared the end and the lap count neared 1 I was still a good way off being caught by the front of the field. After a somewhat narrow escape from being lapped the day before, I was very keen to ensure that didn't happen again. As it was so hot people were able to have drink bottles handed to them in the technical zone. I should have thought about this and found someone to help me, but as I didn't I had to grit my teeth and grind my way through with dusty mouth and throat as others sipped the sweet nectar held aloft for them in passing. I had drunk quite a bit before the race, so I felt alright, but I did start to cave in a little towards the end.

Coming through into the bell lap I approached the following right-hand bend as I had every other lap, but this time didn't clear my rear wheel over the curb sufficiently going into the singletrack. It made quite a bump, and I cursed, fearing the worst. Sure enough, a couple of seconds later I heard the roaring hiss of a tyre going flat! I carried on stubbornly for the next section of singletrack, trying in vain to keep the dream alive. Thinking about my rims and my lovely tyres, I reconsidered staying on my bike and instead hopped off and ran alongside for a few hundred metres. I then picked it up and ran with it over my shoulder for a while, then walked, then stopped and ambled my way to the finish line.

It was a very frustrating way to have to end the race, especially as I'd been feeling strong. Relative to others from the previous day's effort I was ahead of where I had been, and based on who was in front of me when I punctured I was in around 24th place again, although this time the field had been significantly larger. As it was I finished 32nd, so I was pretty happy with that. The position I was in before the puncture and having had a race the previous day has given me confidence that I'm going to be able to make some good progress over here. These may be the easiest races that I will do, but I'm sure my progress will be even more rapid when I am pitted against the best in the world over the next few months! Starting this weekend, in Erpe-Mere on Sunday.

As I was now alone after the race, I set about hunting down a generous person to give me a lift to the nearest train station. After approaching a couple of people with no luck, I started to face the fact that I might have to sort out my puncture and ride the 20km or so before beginning the long haul three train combo back home. It turned out I actually had a slow leak puncture in my front tyre too, and an hour later it was also flat. Fortunately the next family I approached had room in their van for me and my bike, and were going towards Mechelen, the perfect place for me to hop onto one of the regular trains to Brussels. They set me up a comfy, although perhaps not especially secure, throne in the back:

Stijn and his twin brother were great company for the drive back to Mechelen, and I am most appreciative to them and their father for helping me out. I invited them over to New Zealand for a cross race or two, so if they get sick of summer next year they may well pop over.

Again after this race, as after the day before's, I found myself feeling really good and excited about being here despite having ridden myself into the ground two days in a row. I've had a less enjoyable week since then, suffering from the bites of what must have been a bunch of fleas or something that found their way into my bed. I counted 50 bites all over my body the other day, and it's made it almost impossible to sleep at night. Combined with a pretty cold week (the temperature has been hovering at around 15º) with rain on several of my rides, it's been a glimpse I think of the winter that awaits just around the corner. On Sunday I will be lining up against professionals, so my main goal will be to not come last. If I can manage that then the next step will be to try and stay in the race to the last lap. It sounds like the course has a bit of hill in it, and as it's been raining it might slow things down and let me stay in the race for a bit longer. We'll see. I'm excited about it and looking forward to doing what I can at what is sure to be a slick event. I'm heading to Gent this afternoon to stay with Darryn tonight, and he's generously offered to be my mechanic for the day tomorrow at the race.

Here we go folks!

True Cyclocross, Belgian Style

This weekend marked the beginning of the official getting down to business stage of my expedition here in Belgium. Despite having been here for a month now, September has only recently arrived and so with it the cyclocross season. After missing out on the race I planned to do last weekend, I double dipped this time and had one on each of Saturday and Sunday.

I have one or two items to catch up on before all that though, so let's go back to where I last left off. I was making arrangements to enter the professional road race Stadsprijs Geraardsbergen, on August 29. I had called the organisers and although all the wildcard entries had been given out, someone had broken their leg or something and therefore a spot had come available which I could have. All I needed to do was fill in the PDF entry form and then turn up a bit earlier the next day. I got so excited by this, and even though I knew it would be nothing short of a miracle if I could stay in the race for any real length of time, I was looking forward to lining up against the liniment-infused professional slickness.

Alas I got an email back later that day with the sad news informing me that I would need to either be on a professional New Zealand team to enter, or failing that, have a Belgian license. As I meet neither of these conditions it was with no small amount of disappointment and confusion that I eventually ceded to the reality of it not happening. I felt ripped off because my letter of introduction from BikeNZ says that I can enter any race under the (UCI) sun. I don't imagine this includes the Tour de France, which I can understand, so it shouldn't really say any race. This was admittedly a race for professionals, but it isn't UCI-ruled so I thought that would make it easier for me to enter, but maybe that meant they can make their own rules. Either way, I went along with my camera and enjoyed the atmosphere as much as I could from the sidelines. Not as much as this guy was enjoying his ice cream sandwich though. I marvelled at his technique, while surreptitiously capturing the moment. He's clearly done it before.

Ice-cream tongue

I went up to the top of the Kappelmuur to watch as the race passed over it on the last lap, getting up close to the riders in such a way that I could manage comfortably despite the repeated attacks.

Viral product placement

After the riders had all been through, I observed a bunch of drunk guys half running/half sliding and tripping down the steep grass bank from the chapel. They were making a beeline for a young female journalist from Het Laatste Nieuws, one of the local newspapers. They saw me standing there with my bike and called me over to join them. Not sure quite what I was in for I went over to them and found that they wanted to set up a photo of them cheering from both sides of the road as I passed through them. I was happy to oblige, and they started chanting "Freddy! Freddy! Freddy!" Not quite sure where they came up with that name, but it was a lot of fun. They asked me about my trip and what I'm doing here, and I explained along with the details of my non-participation in the race. I then spoke to the journalist for a while and she took some more photos of me and my bike. I haven't been able to get copies of any of these yet, but I'll put them up when I do. I rode back home feeling much happier about things, and looking forward to the first 'cross race of the season that coming weekend.

It was at a place called Kessel, South-East of Antwerp and a little bit remote. I had my bike all ready, and had made a lunch to take with me. I caught the train at 10 in the morning, heading for Brussels. After a short wait there I changed to the Antwerpen Centraal connection,  and then waited for another half an hour or so for the local line. After about 2.5 hours on three trains I rode the 10 or so minutes from the station to the race course, and was greeted enthusiastically by a young guy from the host club. He paraded me around and to the official tent, whereby I was asked to produce my license - ....oops! In all the times I've had my license on hand at races only to not be asked to present it, this time despite my organisational diligence I had managed to take the wrong wallet and leave the one with my cards in it at home. No amount of gesticulation or conflagration of emotion would suffice to assuade the official's officious will. So I moped around dejectedly for a couple of hours watching jealously as the mid-teenagers and juniors raced their hearts out, eating my lunch and drinking my lightly salted sugary race drink. I had a quick ride around the course when there was a beak between races, then headed back to the station to begin the trip home, arriving at last at 7pm.

I made myself get over the disappointment, and chalked it up to futureproofing my routine from now on - much better that I should do it now at the very beginning than at a later stage and risk missing a World Cup or something monumental like that.

Despite it having been about two weeks since I had broken the spoke on my rear wheel, I still hadn't managed to find anyone who could help me fix it. I asked several shops, but all came back with the same answer, that it was an unusual spoke and they could only buy them in boxes of 100 and seeing I only wanted a couple it wasn't worth it. This was obviously a rather unsatisfying response, but one I had half expected. I was fortunate to be lent a spare one in the interim, by the local shop here in Enghien called Action Bike. I didn't really like the idea of racing on a borrowed wheel, not cyclocross anyway.

A few weeks ago Darryn put me onto a great website here in Belgium called Wielerbond Vlaanderen which is basically the region's cycling website. It lists the whole calendar for the year in all disciplines, so as you can imagine in a country such as this, that is a mighty accomplishment. Scrolling through it, there are just races every day all over the country. As a replacement for the missed 'cross race, I had a look at what was on offer during the week on the road. Lo and behold there was one very close by on Monday evening, a kermis in Denderwindeke. I headed up the road towards Ninove and signed in, being sure to have both my international license and letter of introduction on hand. The sign-in was successful, and I was greeted with a mixture of surprise and good-natured derision at my presence so far from home. The hub of the evening was the local pub, which had set up an outdoor bar in the carpark, serving beer and frites to the crowd of locals enjoying the warm late summer evening. The organising crew were predominantly older gentlemen with haughty paunches and prodigious smoking habits, giving off a hazy air of insouciance. However at the slightest request they were quick to help out. One drove home to get me some pins for my jersey race number, while another sought some zip ties to attach my bike's number. I rode a couple of laps of the course, then settled in for the start.

It was super fast straight from the gun, as the race was only about 70km long. It looped around a 5km circuit, the first half of which headed up a slight incline on a rather broken up road - large plates of concrete that inevitably start to separate over time. Then it flattened out, and was smooth until the final run to the start/finish over some very gentle cobbles. I was breathing pretty hard immediately, but able to stay near the front and respond to the fluctuations in speed every few seconds.

Accelerating out of a corner on the second lap I heard a loud unpleasant noise from behind me, or was that beneath me? A light tinkling sound continued for the next 10 or so seconds, then it fell silent. There were lots of us all close together going as hard as we could so it was impossible to tell where the noise came from, but I had a bad feeling about it. Sure enough, on the next corner the noise struck again and my heart fell as I looked down to see a broken spoke in my rear wheel. I stopped to pull it out, and undo my brake as it was rubbing. To say I was upset would be somewhat of an understatement, but it was largely a feeling of disbelief that overwhelmed me. I gingerly made my way through to the finish line, trying to avoid all bumps in the road. After handing in my number I took my deposit (this is standard protocol, pay €10 to enter and get €5 back when you return the race number) and headed for home, gently making my way along the cycle path for the 10km back to Enghien.

Things hadn't been going well for me lately, and I was understandably upset. Admittedly some of it had been my fault, but largely it was bad luck. After an evening of disillusionment and questioning of my resolve along with my reasons for being here, I put myself to bed, hoping to do the same to this unfortunate run of affairs. Like it or not I did come here of my own volition, so I'd better get my head around that. All I could do was redouble my efforts to solve the various problems I felt like I faced. Either that or learn to manual on my front wheel very comprehensively.

The next day I took the borrowed wheel back into the shop, found a correct spoke (it was easy as it was a common one) and trued it up like new. The owner was happy for me to keep using it, so thankfully I wasn't without a bike as well for the foreseeable future. In the meantime I had been to another shop 15km away to enquire about a spoke for my wheel, and the mechanic informed me he could get one and would call me when it came in. A few days later I still hadn't heard so I went out there again and he had gone on holiday, and the boss indicated that it wasn't possible to get the spoke. Feeling somewhat aggrieved now back at square one, I was about to give up hope when I went past one last bike shop on the way home. This one had generally looked closed when I'd peeked in before, so I hadn't paid too much attention in passing. However once inside, and especially once I'd met the mechanic, I knew I'd come to the right place. He looked at the wheel and nodded, saying "I think I can fix that now."

About three or four spokes later Gregory, the mechanic, had successfully managed to cut and re-thread a replacement one. He installed it and after what seemed like about one minute in the truing stand it was done. I stayed on for a while chatting with him, and it turns out he has done a lot of mechanical work for the United States cyclocross team in the past. He doesn't have too much planned for this season, so if things go well I could have a cool guy and a highly competent mechanic helping me out a bit.

So it seemed the tide was turning in my favour at last, and I now had my own wheels back and a double weekend of cyclocross races to get stuck into. I hadn't intended all that preamble to be quite so long, so bear with me here. This is the exciting bit now anyway.

It's a heartbeat, beat street.

Candles of flowers?

Here I was now in Belgium, at my first cyclocross race. Finally I had made it! It was again a bit of a mission getting there, but only two train rides each way this time, with a 5-10km ride from the station to the course. The location was Zemst-Hofstade, a cool name if ever I heard one. It was already about 25º at 11am, and it showed on the course. High speed sections on dry grass with plenty of dust and a very loose and extraordinarily bumpy section through a sandy forest was the order of the day.

Smoking and eating hamburgers not prohibited on the course

Any semblance of a tree root must be highlighted!

There was a race starting just as I got there, kids aged about 12 - 15 by the looks of it. It's quite a different dynamic to that of New Zealand. Still a more relaxed community when compared to the road racing crowd, but so much more competitive over here. Even for these kids, check out the video of the start:

Just what was I going to be up against if that's how they race at half my age?

Rooster, bro!

When I had signed in and got my number, I was relaxing in the shade outside having some food when a guy came up to me and asked me if I was the Kiwi entered in the race. Not one to deny these universal truths, I acknowledged the attribute and asked him about himself. He said he was an Aussie, but he had quite a German accent, so I was a bit confused. After a bit more conversation I found out his name was Max and he'd spent a number of years in school in Australia, before getting onto a road team there and eventually the Rabobank Continental team. He isn't still on the team, but had always enjoyed including a bit of cyclocross into his schedule.

I started to get a feeling for the quality of the field I was going up against. I'd seen a guy warming up in a Belgian national champion kit, and sure enough that was the national champ of my grade - elite zonder contract (elite without contract). He looked quite a bit like Niels Albert. I rode a couple of laps with Max, then got changed and headed to the start line.

I was called up somewhere near the end, which had me sitting in the 4th row, each with about 10-15 people across. It was frantic, boisterous, and everyone wanted to be at the front. I unclipped on my second pedal stroke, so by the time I got back up to speed I had a good bit of space between everyone else and me. This is not ideal, as nice as it sounds. As soon as the course narrowed and wound through a few corners and up over a steep but very short mound, people were off their bikes running around each other, desperately taking any opportunity to get past at this early stage.

Several laps in, grinning the grin

I managed to sneak through a gap that appeared at the edge of the course just as people were remounting, gaining about 4 or 5 places in the process. I then had to set about sustaining this pace, or close to it, for the next hour. Although I'd ridden through the wooded section a few times, everything is harder when you are in oxygen debt, in particular technically demanding sections. We haven't had many races on sand in NZ, but this whole section was dry mush, and so it was that I proceeded to ride through it in a very erratic fashion. I came off at least 4 or 5 times in the first few laps, having passed riders just before, only to have them pass me again each time. I did eventually start to find a rythym, and just paid more attention to riding smoothly and not over-braking. The sand tends to slow you down as is, and any extra braking force just upsets the line of your wheels and throws your weight around unpredictably.

I definitely noticed the benefit of my trying to maintain a steady consistent pace and control through the sand, as I began catching back up and passing others. I also put this down to the large amount of riding I've been doing in the past month or so. While I might not have had the explosive power and intensity of the top half of the field, I felt like I could keep this pace up with only the requisite amount of pain and discomfort. It was my first race, and with a long season ahead of me speed will come - I'm not in any hurry to crack into my top form just yet - especially if it means I cave in towards the peak of the season, when I'm really up against the big boys.

On my last couple of laps I could tell that the race leader was approaching, due to the spidery nature of the course through the trees. I really tried to put everything I had into these last laps, mainly to avoid getting lapped, but also to see how it felt. Beneath the sand the ground was extremely corrugated, with moguls about the length of bicycle wheels. It was incredibly hard to ride through; too much bouncing to be able to pedal effectively, and you couldn't rest on the saddle for all the bouncing. It was mainly hard work on my lower back, fortunately though the rest of the course was on grass and provided adequate time to stretch it out and recuperate.

Even further in, somewhat less of a grin

I wasn't sure what place I was in, but I knew it was pretty close to the back. Some riders were pulling out, coasting along as I passed them. It was very hot, so everybody was getting a drink bottle hand-up at the feed zone each lap. I'd drunk quite a bit before the race so was feeling ok, apart from having a face and mouth full of dust.

When eventually I made it to the finish line, I stopped to acknowledge the guys I had been racing against, then carried on to warm down. Although I'd given it everything on my final laps, I was feeling good and found myself smiling, thinking about how cool it is to be here doing this. There's a lot more where that came from, so it's just as well!

Back on the train home I was looking out the window as we approached Brussels North station, and I saw what I thought were mannekins down below behind a window on the street level, until one of them moved and was talking to bunch of men outside! I thought it was a typically Amsterdam thing, but apparently not. Perhaps not quite as sophisticated though.

I was home in time to clean my bike and my person, have something to eat and then more or less go to bed in preparation for another day racing in the sun on Sunday. It was a great feeling to have uncorked the bottle and tasted a little 'cross, and I felt the successful day out had vindicated my effort to maintain a positive attitude after a recent rough patch.

The next day was at Wiekevorst, which is in the same area but even less accessible as the nearest train station was about 20km away. I was anxious to see how I went in back-to-back days of racing, but I'll write more about that in the coming days.

Ronde van Vlaanderen: How to Ride Cobbles

This will be the final post in my trilogy of Ronde van Vlaanderen novels, featuring suspicious characters and shady exchanges of all varieties: be it pecuniary, alimentary or linguistic-ary. Sometimes even all three together. Most of the time, in fact.

Last week I made my familiar migration over the hills (I have since found out it's actually about 40km each way, taking about an hour and a half) to the town of Oudenaarde to complete the final leg of the coloured triumvirate that I began a few weeks ago. All that remained for me to discover was the blue route, which covers 80km and in particular some of the longer and rougher sections of pavé, or cobblestones.

This loop heads North out of town, generally in the direction of Gent, before veering East to Zottegem, and back around to the South through a series of twists and turns until it arrives slack-jawed and trembling once again on the doorstep of Oudenaarde. It is pretty flat, at least on paper, but as these things always feel like in reality, it's up and down most of the time. Not only that, but there seemed to be a fairly brisk headwind at all times, just to make sure it wasn't any easier than its hillier brothers, the orange and green routes.

The first section of cobbles goes past one of the first of the Molen (windmills) that I have seen here, and I can tell you they're as quaint in real life as are the stereotypically bucolic countrysides you see them in, on TV documentaries and in National Geographic photospreads with the be-clogged people of Holland and Flanders. I was concurrently trying to make it through the constant bumping and clanging of this stretch of cobbles as I took the photo, so my hands were anything but still. Somehow it seemed to come out alright!

I'd heard it said, probably by Phil Liggett or some other mollusk of the cycling world, that the best way to ride pavé is to chuck it into a big gear and pedal at a moderate yet comfortable cadence, maintaining a decent clip. This is definitely good advice, as the bigger gear keeps tension on the chain which stops it from slapping the frame so much, and potentially falling off. But there's a limit to how much comfort one can expect to enjoy across terrain such as this. Some of these sections were two to three kilometres long, so even cranking along it's still a few minutes as least. Plenty of time to rattle loose those fillings, expose your root canals have you grinding what's left of your teeth down into blackened stumps. And that's not to mention the other parts of your body that will suffer: hands, eyeballs, internal organs. In the interest of keeping your bum comfy, it's necessary to stand slightly out of the saddle, taking the weight with your arms and thighs. Combine the large gear, trying to ride fast so as to even out the bumps, then standing up, and it adds up to be an absolute killer for your thighs. Interestingly however, of all things I found the itchy bites on my arms and hands were the most affected by riding cobbles. I suppose it's because they are quite firm when swollen (mine tend to get very large, I don't know if it's an allergy or what) so they shake around and feel like they're coming loose. If only they did!

You're in for some chop, riding the waves of cobbles

Steady as she goes, captain.

I was making pretty good progress through Doorn, but I could hear a car approaching from behind. It's a funny sensation, the more you ride on the road the better you get at judging the stealthy approach of vehicles. But riding on pavé turns all this upside down. You hear noises, plenty of them, but they're all coming from your bike. Bits of your bike that don't even move make noise. You hear cars approaching all the time, sometimes very convincingly, only to look back over your shoulder and find a deserted stretch of road between the cornfields behind you. Your bike is capable of making all kinds of new and interesting noises in such a setting, but almost every time you hear an unusual one that could be a vehicle, it's just your rear wheel messing with you. When you do actually witness a car drive over cobbles, you wonder how you could ever have thought that the noise from before was a car. They are so much louder, and you can feel the ground resonating beneath their wheels. That is, if you can feel anything at all. This time I was correct, and there was in fact a Police car on my tail. I was riding more or less in the centre of the road, trying to find the smoothest line over (although most of the time it was between) the ramshackle cobbles. I was worried my bike was going to disintegrate beneath me, such was the roughness of the ride, so I wasn't really in a mood for moving aside into the even more marginal state of roading on the right. Whether they were being patient or just not in a hurry I don't know, but they didn't catch up to me.

I was then able to enjoy a very pleasant hour or so until the next setion of pavé. You really appreciate how buttery-smooth a normal road surface is for the next 5 minutes or so after cobbles, it's like ice cream on a really hot day. The next step was Paddestraat, 2.4km long. At least the first section of it, that is.

Then just when I thought I'd made it through alive, I crossed a main road and was hit with this, an old Roman road. Cobbled too, of course.

So I don't know how long it was in total, but by the end of it I was worried my arms were going to give way beneath me. It's really hard to change gear when you're cobbling along as the bike, and therefore the chain, is jumping around all over the place. Your hands are also sort of floating somewhere around the handlebars, which isn't a very secure feeling either. You've basically got to pick your gear early and stick with it. I learned this fairly early on, and likewise how to put on a Belgian hard-man grimace. It's easy enough to peel off again when you're through the worst of it.

I stumbled upon what I think is probably the nicest looking goat I have ever seen while on this ride. I've never seen so many goats as in the backyards and hobby farms that are scattered all over these lands. I can only assume people tend to them for the milk and thus cheese products they can produce, because they certainly aren't kind to your front lawn. They'll eat anything - thorns, grass, steel wool - but they normally won't leave it looking pretty. Here is my new friend, who was obviously proud of his patch of pasture:

I think it helped not getting lost or going the wrong way at all on this particular occasion, as the 80km loop took me about three hours, roughly (but) as I had hoped. As I made my way back home to Enghien I stopped off at a Frituur for a drink and a snack. The owner was a slightly washed-out looking character, but very friendly and happy, enthusiastic even, to point out in detail all the different sizes and vessel materials that he had of Coke for sale. I spotted a chocolate milk for €0,80 and so, reminiscing the week I spent practically living off that stuff during the Kiwi Brevet in February, snapped it up along with a can of coke and a small Milky Way.

That was an unnecessary description of the Milky Way. An unusually principled stalwart of tradition, the Milky Way has always been small, curiously yet nobly remaining steadfast against the tide of ever-increasing chocolate bar size. I don't recall seeing them around much lately, perhaps they stamped out millions of them in the 80's and 90's then closed the factory, and those that remain as yet unconsumed are really historic artefacts of a bygone era. Even if that were the case this one was still particularly delicious, and with no discernible discoloration despite potentially being as old as me.

I took a seat and attempted to read the newspaper I found in front of me. I was able to make out a bit of it, mainly because I was familiar with the story already. It was just after the big drama involving Lance Armstrong had begun to escalate:

As I was seated doing my best impression of comprehension, the owner came over to me with several pastries on a napkin. He was clear to point that they were yesterday's, but that I could have them if I wanted. I had one pain au chocolat, but after the Coke, chocolate milk and Milky Way, didn't think I could handle any more. He put them in a bag for me and bid me farewell. He was a cool guy, and whether it was because he didn't know too much English or if he was just patient, he let me try out my somewhat increasing ability to butcher the Dutch language with him. I made a point to remember where I was, so that I could stop by another time.

Each time I pass through Geraardsbergen I take special pains to go up the Muur-Kappelmuur. Partly because it's on the way and avoids busy roads up the hill, but mainly because it's just such a cool place and you can't help but feel like a legend of cycling history when you crest the final rickety rise. This time I was climbing to a big crowd of spectators, lining the street on both sides cheering. Well, maybe they were just talking, but either way they were buzzing in anticipation for what I soon found coming up where I had just been:

It was the Stadsprijs Geraardsbergen voor dames, I assume, a kermis race that (at least for the men) has been going on for nearly 100 years in this town. I saw the Australian girls that I nearly got to talk to the other day, still slogging it out in the race on the last lap when it goes up over the Muur. I watched as they all made they way past, most looking pretty whacked by this stage, then continued back home for some pasta and a salad.

The previous week when I was climbing the Muur I saw a sign advertising the Stadsprijs race on Wednesday 29th of September. I could see that it was for professionals, but when I went to the website I saw that there were wildcard entries available for riders without a contract. I spent a few days wondering about this, and with some encouragement from Darryn I was going to try and enter. When it got closer to the time and I still hadn't entered I thought it was probably not going to happen. But after being there for the women's race it made me really want to just go in it, regardless of the fact that I'd be racing professionals and the moment they put on the gas I would be spat out the ass, so to speak (I realise an ass is actually an animal). So the next morning I took it upon myself to phone the organisers and see about getting myself amongst it. I'll let you know in another post how it all panned out.

Ronde van Vlaanderen: Part II

After the success of my last outing in the Flemish Ardennes, dragging myself through the 160 or so kilometers of rolling country lanes in just under 8 hours, I thought it worthwhile to have another crack at one of the coloured routes they have so conveniently laid out in the area. This time I was going to follow the Oranjeroute, or Orange Route. It has been designed as the "hilly" of the three coloured routes, and as you can see it takes in most of the famous climbs of the Ronde.

The white blocks denote sections of pavé

As I was leaving Oudenaarde to start following the signs, I found myself catching up with a bunch of Australian women, riding in national kit with a guy leading the way. I caught up with them, but unfortunately there was an even number of them, so noone who I could easily get the attention of without interrupting their conversation. What I should really have done is sidled up to them and given them a big "sup ladieeees!" as is the usual approach in New Zealand. But I would've needed to be in my turbo Subaru Legacy with blow-off valve for it to really do justice though. Anyway while I was wondering about the best way to get their attention without crashing into the lot of them, I saw the sign pointing me in a different direction from where they were headed. I followed the arrows, this time vowing to pay more attention and not get lost like last time, and hoping to do the ride in 6 hours.

After turning off a main road, I found myself on a nice quiet flat stretch heading seemingly away from the hills. The last sign I'd seen pointed straight ahead, but then there'd been an intersection with two paths coming off it so I had taken the one straight ahead. Maybe this was the wrong way? I continued for a while, then decided to turn back as I was definitely not heading towards the Kluisberg.

I passed a man stopped, inspecting his bike on the path. I stopped initially to ask him for directions but when I saw he was looking at his derailleur I offered to help. When you hardly know anything in a language the most basic sentences can be used for almost anything. I asked him is everything good? And he proceeded to tell me a whole lot of information about his bike, none of which I was able to decipher. I then had to tell him I didn't speak any Dutch, so he laughed and did his best in English. He was friendly and had a sense of humour, I liked the look of this guy straight away. It turned out his bike was fine, and he was just inspecting/admiring the repair job he had done on his own frame by welding a brace over where the chainstay had cracked. He didn't know about the Oranjeroute, but was keen to tell me about all the bergen that I should ride - Kluisberg, Koppenberg etc. I told him that was the plan, and he proceeded to wave down a passing postal service worker to ask him if he knew where I should go. He didn't know either, and before hopping back into his van he smiled and said he was also a big fan of the Ronde. As I backtracked with my new friend Luc, he told me about how he had recently retired from a career teaching design, and I told him about my plans. He was excited for me, and when we parted company wished me all the best and that he hoped see me on TV at some stage.

I had actually been going the right way as it turned out, but there had been a corner further up which wasn't marked. So after re-backtracking to this point I turned there and found myself once again in the orange. I remembered that the map shows quite a long flat section heading West before you get to the first of the climbs, so I needn't have worried about seeming to head in the wrong direction. I had a pocked full of muesli bars, a bottle with electrolyte solution and about €7 to burn, so I was all set to be able to last the day.

I decided to try out one of the muesli bars, and found it was a coconut flavoured one (they are all packaged in the same blank white wrapping for surprise's sake). It was absolutely delicious! I couldn't believe my luck, having just grabbed it off the shelf in a supermarket. I got halfway through it then going over a bump on the cycle lane it slipped out of the wrapping and disappeared behind me. I couldn't carry on with the knowledge I was only halfway through it, so I stopped and turned around. Only to find this wee chap eyeing me up suspiciously.

 

I looked all over the path, up and down over a section of about 10-20 metres. My delicious muesli bar remnant had to be there! A puffed rice and coconut base coated in rich sweet chocolate, delectable. I looked back at my little mate in the grass, and before my very eyes he poked his tongue out at me!

Was he toying with me? Smug little thing, I started to wonder about his motive for being there. Surely he couldn't have grabbed my precious snack travelling at about 30km/h and wolfed it down in the space of a second? And now expected even more? I wouldn't have thought it possible, until he had the scurrility to expose his tongue to me in such audacious fashion.

It was a fairly hot day, perhaps this was getting to me a bit. Sure enough after a few minutes of wandering about wondering, I found my treat lying happily nestled under a few strands of grass right on the edge of the cycle path. With a flourish I popped it in my mouth before the little brat could sink his teeth into it, and continued on my way.

Before long I made it to the base of the first hill, and it surprised me with its length. I kept expecting it to turn into pavé at any moment, but it remains sealed the whole way up. This is the Kluisberg, and I'm sure the scene of many crazed cheering fans during the actual race. Today it was, well, pleasantly devoid of activity.

The next section took me, funnily enough, out of Flanders and briefly into Wallonia, the French-speaking region of the country. The next few climbs are technically just going up the same ridge as the Kluisberg (here called Mont de l'Enclus) but from different sides and further East. I wouldn't complain though, as they are all nice leafy affairs, each with different characters. Most importantly they are rare hills in what is a fairly vast sea of corn fields and pasture which, coming from New Zealand and especially Wellington, you can't help but notice, and certainly never forget.

The Oude Kwaremont was a really nice one - a very steady 4.2% average gradient, maxing out at 11%. At over 2km in length it certainly starts to feel long enough, and is pretty rough in parts. I hadn't gone up too fast, so the bumps weren't so numbing, but they are always discomforting no matter what speed you attempt it.

People live on these streets, that's probably the thing I find most curious about these places. You can be riding up here in a pastoral haze, just thinking about Eddy Merckx and Roger de Vlaeminck stretching the pace, suffering, and imagining the crowded fans frothing at the mouth hoarse from passionate shouting, soaked from rain or beer (or probably both). Then the next minute you look around and see people opening the boot of their Renault, Peugeot or Citroën taking out their groceries, calling to their children to hurry up, pressing their remote to lock the car and walking up the path to their front door. This was especially the case on the Kruisberg, which is in the middle of the town Ronse. The pavé starts a bit further up, just after the white van.

It's hard not to try and find equivalents to everything back home, or at least make comparisons with what you see and experience. But in cases like this, it's hard to find a reference point. The history is just so different in this part of the world, and it seems humans are the same the world over, whereby we grow accustomed to our environment and stop taking note of what we have. Some of the roads around here were originally built by the Romans, so are a couple of thousand years old. Perhaps, if it were possible, biking through a forest of thousand-year-old Kauri in Northland would elicit a similar sensation. But the nonchalance with which people go about their daily lives here around these historical artefacts piques my interest almost as much as my desire to be a part of and share in its rich history. In the end though I suppose they have lives to live and this is where they're doing that. They would, I'm sure, have similar thoughts if our positions were reversed and they were visiting New Zealand.

The next berg was one of the most challenging, and certainly one of the steepest. It came at me suddenly, around a sharp bend at the end of a glorious flowing downhill. I've been borrowing a wheel from the local bike shop after I broke a spoke in my own one last week. I hadn't adjusted the gears properly, so inadvertently put myself in hard man mode, as the rear derailleur won't let me onto the 26t at the back, reaching instead lazily as far as the 23. I managed to ride it all seated, but this is also out of necessity - traction is very minimal at best on the pavé, and standing up just exacerbates this.

 

At the top I took the opportunity to avail myself of the facilities provided. Namely, a bench seat with a great view of a nuclear reactor and a jam-packed rubbish bin.

I think it's just one of those wannabe nuclear plants. They're a dime a dozen.

After a brief battle with a wasp for the remainder of another delicious muesli bar, I continued on my way through this much more enjoyable day's worth of riding. I had been looking forward to this next climb for the whole ride, as a lot has been said about it. It is the hill with the cobblestones from which the term kinder koppen has been coined. This translates as "children's heads", I assume because they are rounded and about the size of a child's head. This has in turn been abbreviated to koppen, and thus we have the de Koppenberg

Over the course of the last century this road had degraded so much so that riders complained and it was even removed from the Ronde briefly due to safety concerns. It has since had a lot of work done to it, and now if it weren't for the distinctive "koppen" shape of the pavé it wouldn't be especially remarkable. It was certainly challenging in its gradient, getting up to 22%, but due to the generally excellent condition it's actually not as arduous as it could be. On a fine, sunny day that is......

Token shameless self-promotion shot

I always find these mirrors a little confusing. I understand what they're there for, but the reality is that in order to get to the point where the angle is right to be able to see what's coming in the other direction, you've gone so far as to be practically in the intersection already. At the very least, if you haven't slowed down to a crawl by now, you're certainly not going to be able to stop in time should you meet something coming the other way and only see it when its reflected gaze meets your eye.

This leads me to another thing I've noticed so far in my time here. Roads, and in particular the system of physical markings on streets and the use of roadsign designations is very different from New Zealand. At first it's a bit of a shock - when you stop at an intersection, it's easy to go too far forward and not be able to see the traffic lights. They often only have one light per entrance to the intersection, so you have to keep your eyes peeled for it. In fact you have to keept your eyes peeled for everything, and I think that's probably the point. There tend to be few paint markings on the ground, but many more signs about the road with warnings of upcoming features and your responsibility thereby. Combined with generally rather narrow roads, and the excellent law based on your relative danger to other road users (a sliding scale whereby the more dangerous/larger vehicles bear the weight of responsibility in any events that involves others. For example a truck is responsible in conflict with a car regardless of fault, likewise a car is responsible for the safety of cyclists, and in turn pedestrians are at the top and even as a cyclist if one jumps out in front of you it's your job to ensure you don't have an accident) I think this creates and necessitates an increased awareness of one's surroundings, which can in turn only lead to a more cooperative and safer transport environment.

On a different note, but equally uncommon for a Kiwi such as myself, is the somewhat humorous practicality of this machine.

Gone are the days of having to go to the bakery when it's open, inconveniently paying money to a person in exchange for their produce. With the Brood-matic out and about in the town, you can simply put the correct change in, push a few buttons and 'pop', out comes a fresh loaf of bread. Despite my somewhat insolent tone, I do think it's a cool idea. However, the convenience becomes somewhat less substantial when inevitably the machine is empty by about 9.30am.

There are also apple vending machines, seeing it is the season for such fruits. But nothing quite takes the cake for novelty goods in a vending machine as this one

come on kids, what do you want to drink?

Yes, I'm certainly somewhere with slightly different societal values, culture and expectations. But it's a great place, and I'm having a blast. My estimation of the ride taking 6 hours was only slightly under the actual 7 hours it took, due probably in part to my improved sign following navigation. Not only was I feeling pretty good throughout the ride (potentially meaning I am getting better at this bike riding thing, or just that I had enough food and drink) I'm also now two thirds of the way through the Tour of Flanders, albeit not quite at race pace. Next up: The Cobbles.

You can say that again