What are the odds that I make it through the Ronde van Vlaanderen in time, in style, and in one piece?

After Il Boiaⁱ and Le Gitan had dropped me in the medieval centre of Brugge (part of yet another flawless piece of Vinger logistics), I joined the fairly long queue for the starting podium. The atmosphere was friendly and sort of relaxed; you could feel that all of us were glad that the Ride they had been anticipating for so long, was finally to begin. Most of the riders going the Full Montyⁱ brought their own peloton. Not Dirk, a friendly Flandrien (a US Postal/Berry Floor supporter: replica Trek and USPS kit...), with whom I chatted while waiting for the podium to open. Dirk was about to start his fourth RVV and was eager to share his knowledge and fighting spirit.

When we finally arrived on top of the podium, it appeared that I should have been in another (much longer) queue at another place to register and obtain a race number (elementary for getting access to the feeding stations). But half an hour or so had passed motionless, and I didn’t feel like wasting more time. So I became a ‘zwartrijder’ (fare-dodger). Dirk told me not to worry; his wife was driving a ‘volgwagen’ and together they would take care of my ravitaillage, if necessary (thanks for this power bar and energising gel, whatever they were!). Furthermore, he gave me a spare back light, because the police in Belgium are not as nuts about cycling as the civilians are: they would be more than happy to fine me for riding in the dark without lights.

Off we went. Immediately after the ‘neutralised zone’ (which in our case meant a lot of red traffic lights and open bridges), it started to piss down. The forecasts were correct; April 1 2006 was to be an Atrition War... But instead of wining about the adverse conditions (which were not expected to improve, and which were certainly messing up the ‘straten’ and ‘hellingen’ which were then still far, far away), the peloton did what it had to do: hammer on to reach the coast as quickly as possible. Dirk and I applied the same strategy: be in a good group, hide as much as possible and preserve energy for the Suffer Zone.

Such a simple plan, of course, was doomed to be upset. The ferocious winds did not contribute to group building. Most rode in too slow a pace (in absolute terms) and were not displaying the ‘polder’ spirit that I am used to. I was not keen on blowing myself up so early in the race, but I know from experience that it is just as important to ‘get it over with’ as quickly as possible. So I started advancing from one group to another on the desolate, ugly, badly surfaced roads to Oostende (which on every other day would have surely prompted me to commit suicide). Every now and then I checked the heart rate monitor to see whether ‘perceived effort’ did match actual pump activity. Well, it did not. But I remembered myself that this was not a training ride, and that for Palmares purposes, you may just as well take D1, D2, and D3 as one combined zone. Only the anaerobic stuff was to be saved for later. The inbetween-grupetto jumps went quite well. I was never on my own for too long. But I must admit that I had some dark thoughts: the 140 km guys are not missing any worthwhile scenery and a puncture here would be most unwelcome... Fortunately, there would be no mechanical issues worth reporting.

After Oostende, the route took a north-eastern direction. This meant sidewind, and sidewind means ‘waaiers’ (echelons). Personally, I will take any headwind over ‘waaierrijden’. The latter is a skill of its own: you have to be prepared to ride very, very close to other (unknown, unpredictable) riders, you should not fear the holes inbetween the ‘macadam’ (large concrete slabs which the Belgians call ‘roads’) and you should have a taste for riding on the left hand side of the road (i.e. face upcoming, speeding automobiles with huge headlights). Again, the self-preservation scenario did not materialise: being a ‘waaiermongool’, I ate lots of wind.

In Ichtegem, ‘Dorp van de Ronde’ 2006, I could recover a bit at the ravitaillage (my other stops were in Oudenaarde and on top of the Berendries). Not being entitled to the supplies of the cyclo organisation, I downed the first in a long series of mueslibars and banana’s. I was able to steal a bit of water too. I was glad to see my friend Dirk arrive, and instinctively jumped onto his wheel when he got rolling again. We cooperated well and found ourselves a good group.

The waaier madness (and the rain, the depressing landscape and dangerous roadworks) continued until Kortrijk. By that time I felt tired, but at the same time confident that I was in a good shape to cope with what was to come. Yes, I was knackering myself, but recovery inbetween efforts indicated that the tank was far from empty.

In Nokere, the Ronde turned into the Spring Classic that I had hoped it to be. The sun broke through (and stayed!), the roads got narrower and more twisty (which is one of the nice features of the parcours), the first elevations made themselves felt, and last--but not least--it was Cobble Time! For the first time, I claimed a position in front (and at times even ahead of) the peloton. Dirk proved to be an excellent road captain: he informed me of all the ‘obstacles’ (or rather: ‘incentives’) that were waiting for us. When he announced the Wannegem-Ledestraat (some 2 km of fairly bad pavé), I felt a shiver running down my spine. Now the time had come to prove that I can actually ride on those stupid cobbles and--more important--I do happen to like them (which is what I had been telling myself since January). The Ledestraat was a loud and clear wake-up call (not that I had been sleeping before then; if anything, I was over-concentrated). We took this boneshaker in a decent speed, not giving a damn about the mud that made it dangerously slippy and with no respect for those taking it at a ‘touristy’ pace. One bottle lost, but ‘street’ credibility gained in the eyes of my companion!

After numerous km’s of zig-zagging and ‘vals plat’, we reached the Paddenstraat (2400 metres of what I now consider to be mild ‘steentjes’). I was surprised that it is actually a modest climb (I must have blocked the ‘bad memory’ from the E3 Prijs), but doable in the ‘grinding mode’. With the exception of one brief, unwanted, excursion into the grass verge, I stuck to my motto: ‘Alles voor Vlaanderen; Vlaanderen voor Kristus; en Alles door het Midden!’

The stretch between the ‘Hel van Zottegem’ and Kluisbergen was sheer horror: a full headwind, ‘macadam’ road and (very narrow) cycling path, with parked cars (and wielertoeristen) to obstruct the way. Grupetto’s were shattered to pieces, re-establishing contact required sub-threshold riding all the way.

The first serious vertical challenge of the day was the Molenberg (after ca. 140 km). Il Boia and I did it in Omloop Het Volk and I remember suffering big time to make it to the summit, and then the cobbles were dry... But at the same time I was sort of eager to get the lactic acid flowing and made sure I was in front of the grupetto just before the hill, in order to avoid the anticipated congestion (with Dirk’s knowledge of the terrain, timing the move was easy). This time, I made the Molenberg in the saddle, in a 39x25 gear. Steering was a bit awkward, and so was clocking my first interval-heart-rate of 181, but I was relieved that the legs could take it, and--contrary to what I expected--the hellingen were not too slippery.

But I was quickly reminded not to get too cocky. On Kerkgate (3000 metres of ‘vals plat’ cobbles caressed by a serious headwind), I saw the speed drop to an almost unacceptable low. In retrospect, Kerkgate (and the 100 or so metres of Paris-Roubaix worthy cobbles of Mater following immediately after it) was my dip of the day. I caught myself thinking halfway the ‘straat’: ‘When will this come to an end, I have had enough!’

Fortunately, I quickly came to my senses (or rather: got out of touch with them again) and recovered mentally and physically. The Wolvenberg went okay (our ranks meanwhile started to thin) and then came my beloved Oude Kwaremont. The place (which I think is one of the most beautiful spots on the RVV parcours) was crammed with spectators, and unclicking Opposition. I felt sorry for them, but at the same time enjoyed showing them my butt (still firmly glued onto the saddle; traction is an issue on the Kwaremont, even though it is not so steep).

Next in line was the Paterberg, one of the steepest climbs of them all, notorious because I committed an Unforced Error when I faced it in the E3 Prijs. Here too, I made sure that I was among the first to start climbing. 39x25, 39x27, sit and suffer (although a butt lift would probably have been possible), some swerving around parked Oppositionists, and it was dealt with.

I would have happily ‘dealt with’ the Koppenberg in the same fashion. But on this day, the Koppenberg was beyond me (and, as I was told by one spectator, beyond 99,99% of the ‘wielertoeristen’). Some of the gaps between the (recently re-layed) cobbles are so big, that they can accommodate a full aero rim. Add to this a layer of slimey mud, loads of people blocking your passage, and an Unforced Error is born (although ‘Forced Error’ may just as well be the appropriate term here): walking up the hill in high D2.

Morale was not shattered, though. Knowing (of course Dirk, as soon as we rejoined, was updating me on the road map) that we had almost 200 km behind us, and feeling that the legs were not yet gone, I headed for some more ‘Institutions’ (as Il Boia calls them): Steennbeekdries, Taaienberg, Eikenberg (‘hellingen’), Mariaborrestraat and some more ‘steentjes’. These went okay (and through the sacred middle, of course), but slowly, but surely, I felt that the legs were not so happy with the gradients and the arms started to protest against the abuse of cobblesailing.

Hellingen 9 through 13 (Boigneberg, Foreest, Steenberg, Leberg) are asphalted and not extremely steep, but it sufficed to wear down Dirk, who told me to stop ‘waiting’ for him. He started the Ronde with only 900 km’s in his legs since January (‘but with a good winter on the mountain bike!’), yet I was far less convinced of his ‘fading out’ than he was. Plus I felt obliged to him for the invaluable service (and humour!) rendered so far.

But the ‘technically’ difficult terrain, and perhaps also the difference in raw endurance, slowly ‘tore us apart’. When I hit the Haaghoek (excellent piece of roadworks: a sharp cobbled downhill followed by an equally demanding cobbled uphill) I was more or less ‘isolated’. Except for the presence of one of those bloody following cars (or lost pensioners?) which deemed it fit to block the ‘secteur’ where I least needed it (hitting 34 km/h in a debilitating, blistering, ‘tremor’). Soon (ca. 221 km) came my beloved Berendries, which this time was soft on the knees and ‘balm for the soul’. Having only one bottle left (the other one disappeared on the Ledestraat), I decided to take a break on top and use one of the ‘private initiatives’ for rehydration: one coke, two mineral waters.

Not before long, my man Dirk sailed past me and signalled that he would just go on and we would catch up later on. Keen on joining him in (parts of) the Finale, I launched yet another chase. This made the time fly over Helling 14 and 15 (Valkenberg and Tenbosse) and somewhere brought me back to, inter alia, Dirk, two classic Italians and about five representatives of the ‘Polderbloem Diksmuide’ cycling club. Together, we were a fairly strong (but not too organised) bunch, brought only to a halt by the traffic police (which did a good job safeguarding risky passages throughout the day) in Geraardsbergen.

That town, of course, is famous only for the Muur/Kapelmuur (otherwise it is quite dreadful, from what I saw). As had been the case with most of the ascents of the day, knowledge of the parcours helped. Knowing that the last bit of the climb is quite steep, and wanting to avoid a second Error at all costs, I took it fairly easy on the first part. 39x25, a few stand-ups to loosen the legs, the turn through the two anti-car posts, one downshift and sit and suffer, grinding trough a huge crowd of spectators. Although I do not have an audience fetish such as Il Boia, I even took care to look ‘cool’ as soon as I felt I would make the Muur in one go. I think the Wiel’s Groene Leeuw jersey stood out in an otherwise QuickStep/Innergetic dominated peloton.

The last climb of the Ronde was the Bosberg. It was not as intimidating as I anticipated. But nevertheless it squeezed enough out of my legs to make me wonder where Ninove/Meerbeke actually is situated. Needless to say that Dirk--and some other ‘regulars’ of the day--soon popped up, so that the last 12 km could be ridden in (‘team time trial’) style. Dirk and I shook hands while crossing finish line. We made it!

The reunion with Le Gitan and Il Boia, who both successfully completed their Ronde, was nice. I was proud that their Capitano had not failed them and that they had proven themselves equally Waakzaam. Perhaps they will provide their versions of the ‘moment of truth’ soon. Watching the pro’s suffer in Sunday’s Ronde from the couch was equally great!

Data: 09:30 of Palmares - DST 156 km (28 km/h), AvgHRⁱ 141 (spent about two hours in sub-D1, two and a half in D1, and the rest in D2/D3/Interval). Other Full Monties report having ridden about 275 km; my malfunctioning Sigma did not record some parts of the ride, of course, those were the faster sections...

Verdict: One of my best Palmares rides ever. Superb terrain, great atmosphere, Suffering at its very best.

Conclusion: Training does pay off!