Intro - Smoked on the Start Line

Welcome to my blog. Sorry for the cheesy title, but couldn't think of anything else. So this is to keep me entertained while I stay in the pancake flat country that is Belgium. I could slob over Facebook all day but I thought this would be more constructive. I'm staying in Belgium until 15th August, hopefully in search for some good results and an education into their type of racing, a baptism of fire to say the least! Matthew Doyle and I embarked on the journey to Beitem, Belgium on Thursday. Everything went smoothly and with free WiFi everywhere in Dublin airport, I was delighted. We were greeted at Brussels Airport by Rik Masil, one half of our welcoming host family. Sabien Himpe is the other, both embracing our arrivals with open arms to which we were both very greatful and relieved! Now that the boring necessities of how I got to this tiny village near Roeselare are out of the way, we can get to the exciting stuff: The Racing. My first race was yesterday, at the GP Bart Verwilst-John Deere. I was shaking in the car journey down, more stressed than excited. Too many unknowns for my liking. How would I compare to my Belgian Competitors? How is my form after all that suffering in the Irish Junior Tour? What is the race circuit? Will I get entered in the first place? Queuing up to sign-on, I tried to analyse if there were any Freds that I would be guaranteed beating. Nope, none. All looked immaculate in their team-specced kit and matching bike; with their Oakley's shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. Worrying. Matthew and I then attempted to find the 6.8k circuit that we would be later hurtling around. However it was harder than we thought, as the cyclists spectators around us didn't seem to be great with helping us foreigners, in our foreign-speaking requests. So at the start line I was pretty stressed out with all these questions swirling around in my head. It was 25 degrees on the start line and I, Paddy Irishman, was red in the face and sweating already compared to all my Belgian compatriots. The lead car pulled away but we didn't follow to my surprise. The commanding Commissaire told us to wait as he patiently looked at his watch. At races back home, the comm would say 3,2,1....but everyone would have went by 2 and they could do nothing about it. I started at the front and was swallowed by the bunch quickly. Very fast start. In my head I was thinking, 'Have to get back up there, as soon as,' but carrying out this function was harder than I thought. With narrow roads and 11 corners on the circuit, it was a demanding course to move up. This task took me 15k to carry out, when it would usually take less than 500m of racing, and a brisk stamp on the pedals. In Belgium, everyone seems to be a bit more cheeky on the corners, I had guys on top of me coming into them and were in front on the exit. But by the end of the race I was as brash as they were, my fatigued self too exhausted to care. Heat. Something a boy from Belfast isn't used to. I can't actually remember when my body experienced a temperature over 20, and I underestimated it. Halfway through the race I felt my legs burn, with lactic and other metabolites, and looked down to see the forlorn empty bottle I had surrendering in my bottle cage. I took no mercy. It was grabbed and chucked forcefully towards Rik at the roadside, who was greeted with, 'Drink!'. Some would say a greet similar to that of Father Jack Hackett from Father Ted. The next lap, with the help of a smooth exchange from Rik at 40kph, I had got some more rehydrant to guzzle on. I could feel my legs thanking me, granting me easier access to shift this chunk of carbon and wheels below me. The drinking station was mayhem. There was always a lap after lap argument when bottles were unsuccessfully collected, which was indeed comical. So I had got my bottle, legs are recooperating, now to move up to the front again. It was easier than my first attempt, and there were 3 laps to go. Perfect. Stay here til the finish and I will get a respectable result. I really couldn't see myself getting any better, with my helmet grilling my head, slowing melting kilometre after kilometre. With 2 laps to go I was still in the same position. It was FAST. One team were chasing the break on the front HARD. But I could stay there. My pale, pasty legs were matching the power output of their macho, tanned ones. It gave me confidence. With one and a half laps to go,the team stopped chasing. I later found out their man was in the break which they mustn't had known, and there manager had probably bollicked them to stop dragging the bunch up to the leaders, hence the halt in the chase. I was well up the bunch now, and people looked at me to do some work. At first, I didn't oblige. Why should I do any work? I'm a one man team, baking in the Belgian sun. They started shouting at me. For some reason that worked. I started to nail myself at the front. With 4k to go, I remembered my plight to do 0% of the chase. I had let these Flandrians get to me, let them treat me like their bitch. I was annoyed and frustrated. I ignored the shouting this time. A few stares of death would have to do, I wasn't starting any arguments in my first race. Make friends before enemies. With 1k to go I was in an optimal position for the bunch sprint. The speed ramped up into a corner and I overcooked it. I was now riding in a muddy trench. Not good. I went from the front to the back of the bunch in one corner. That must be some sort of record! Coming into the finish, I was second from last in the main bunch. 45th of 57 starters. My emotions were mixed. On one hand, I was disappointed: 'These guys aren't that much better than me, but they all beat me!', and on the other hand,I was satisfied: 'These guys aren't much better than me, I can beat them!'. My next race is on Wednesday, in Peer (I think). It's supposed to go up to 27 degrees so I believe an ice bath warm up will be in order. I will also make my debut for my guest club in Belgium, Team Gaverzicht-Matexi. Should be fun! Until then, byeee... D