Distant Roar

It's hard to believe that I only started heavily riding bicycles less than three years ago. What had always been a  fascination quickly morphed into obsession and borderline addiction. I can definitely say that I was predisposed to the type of disturbing behavior exhibited in the short time that has passed, but living where I live and falling in with a pretty amazing group of people definitely accelerated the process. Pile on the wealth of cycling-related news and analysis outlets, both "official" (see here and here) and "unofficial" (better and more prevalent. see here, here, here, and here to name just a few), and I quickly find myself happily consumed in the culture, nuance, history, intrigue and mythology of all things vélo.


Which brings me to the upcoming weekend. Across the ocean, in Belgium, a lion's roar is building. To the uninitiated, professional road cycling begins and ends with that spin around France that some Texan made mainstream here in the States ten years ago. However, scratch the surface a little bit, and you find a cornucopia of races and storylines that, dare I say, are at least as compelling (and sometimes more) than La Grande Boucle. One such race is the Tour of Flanders.

The Lion of Flanders: Coolest. Flag. Ever. 

250 kilometers. Uneven, wet, and muddy cobbles. Punchy climbs that, though they may be short, tip up in excess of 22%. Adverse and ever-changing weather conditions. A rabid fanbase in a cycling mad country. One day. The faint of heart need not apply.

Distill a three week Grand Tour to its most basic, visceral, and aggressive essence, and you have de Ronde. If the Tour de France if a fine bordeaux, meant to be savored slowly, Flanders is a shot of tequila that you slam down and leaves you with watery eyes, a burn in the throat and (if you're me and it's decent tequila) an odd longing for more. Though team tactics have an influence here, the parcours, weather, and technical challenges quickly whittle the race down to the hard men. There is nowhere to hide. There is no mountain stage or time trial tomorrow where you can make up time. If you get a puncture, you must chase back on. If a teammate comes back to help you, he's done for the day. You must be lucky, but you will be nowhere without power, attentiveness, serious handling skills, and downright audacity.

As I've learned more about cycling, I've found myself more and more drawn to the Classics and the cobbles in particular. Don't get me wrong, I still spend my July consumed by the Alps and the Pyrenees, but there is something so much more pure, more personal, about a one day affair. It's just you, your bike, the race and whaddyagot. Another way to describe it is that a Grand Tour is like a huge rock concert, with light show, jumbotron, guitar changes between every song, an intermission and a 30 minute encore. Flanders, on the other hand, is a smoky juke joint with a three piece band playing blues in the back corner until 4am, pausing only to take a sip of whisky or change a string between songs. It's Pink Floyd vs. John Lee Hooker

The beauty of a race like Flanders is how ugly it can get. Words like carnage, brutal, maniacal, and pain will be uttered multiple times by likes of Phil and Paul, and that is how it should be. I've see all these racers up close, and, let me tell you, they are freaks of nature, superhuman even. A race like Flanders reduces them back to their humanity, and, in the end, we get a battle of wills.

If that isn't beautiful, I don't know what is.

For those of you in the States, tune in to Versus at 4PM EDT for coverage. You won't regret it. If you're in Greenvegas, come on over to Casa Zeta to watch. I'll be having a go at making real belgian frites and I'd image there'll be a Belgain ale or two lying around.

Until then, have a gander at this to wet your whistle: