Flanders

There is no arguing that cycling is religion in Belgium. There are sculptures of bikes and statues of cycling heroes everywhere, many in front of churches. Bike lanes and paths accompany most roads and are in active use and don’t lead one astray as those in Holland and Germany tend to do.This past weekend with sunny weather I thought I had slipped into Holland with all the folk out having a good time on their bikes—parents with children and elderly couples mostly on sit-up-and-beg bikes and the Lycra set as well on souped up deluxe machines. Bikes out in front of homes with a “Te Koop” (for sale) sign were a common site, not of people giving up cycling, but rather having upgraded their bike.   

The National Bicycle Museum in Roeselare certainly affirms the “cycling as religion” coda opening its doors at ten a.m. Sunday mornings and with lofty benedictions accompanying many of its exhibits extolling the bicycle and those who ride them. Cycling champions are more than heroes in Belgium. They are figureheads representing their city or region if not the nation.

The museum is housed in a gallant three-story building that had formerly been a fire station. It’s 

large main hall, that had previously served as the municipal festival hall, has been christened the “World Champions Room” in honor of the four residents of Roeselare who have worn the rainbow stripes of the world championship—Benoni Beheyt, Patrick Sercu, Jean-Pierre Monteré and Freddy Maertens—and has a special presentation every few months.

It’s present exhibit joins The Tour de France in commemorating the 50th anniversary of Eddie Merckx’s first of five Tour wins with fifty vintage Yellow Jerseys and one more in a special case in front of them, Merckx’s Jersey from 1969, as Merckx happened to be wearing the number 51 that year.  In following Tours he was assigned the number 1 as defending champion.

Besides the four locals who had won a world championship, Roeselare is also home to the first Belgian to win The Tour de France—Odiel Defraeye in 1912, the tenth Tour. I asked the two women at the reception desk if he was buried in Roeselare. They didn’t know and spent a fruitless internet search for several minutes, but they did let me know there was a statue of him in the neighborhood where he grew up a mile away. It faced a cathedral mounted on a map of France detailing the route of The Tour he won.

My continued wanderings through Flanders alternating between main thoroughfares and narrow byways that had once been cobbled paths through the fields of grains took me to Moorslede where a race was being held on a several mile circuit around and through the town.  Fans were scattered along the route in lawn chairs.  These races are so prevalent that the US cycling federation maintains a house in 

the city of Izegem not far away housing young up-and-coming American racers.   In fromt of the sports complex in Moorslede was a statue of Cyriel Van Hauwaert, an early day cyclist who won two of the Five Monuments in 1908–Paris-Roubaix and Milan-San Remo—and finished fourth in The Tour in 1910.

The small town of Wontergem honored the 1926 Tour champion, Lucien Buysse, with a statue in front of its church.

Also in the vicinity, Kanegem, had a statue of Briek Schotte in front of its cathedral with the added adornment of his name in red as 2019 is the hundredth anniversary of his birth. He was a two-time world champion, 1948 and 1950, and two-time winner of the Tour of Flanders, 1942 and 1948, which may rank higher in the eyes of the Belgians.  Unlike The Tour de France and Paris-Roubaix, the Tour of Flanders was not curtailed during WWII, just WWI.

I ventured into the large city of Ghent to pay homage to Tom Simpson, the British cyclist who died on Mont Ventoux in 1967.  He made Gent his home and is remembered with a bust at its legendary velodrome, which hosts the most-renowned of the Six-Day races.  He is honored in Belgium for having won the Tour of Flanders as well as the World Championships.  Unfortunately the velodrome is pretty much closed except for the winter Six-Days, so I had to settle for a sculpture on the exterior of the run-down warehouse of a building of three racers in furious battle.  The park it resides in is also home to an art museum and a vast expanse of green space.

A couple miles away is a new velodrome named for Merckx where Belgian track racers can practice their craft.  The parking lot was lined with vehicles emblazoned with the Belgian racing federation for race use.

From Ghent it was twenty miles due south to Oudenaarde, the starting point of the Tour of Flanders in it main plaza in front of a glassy museum devoted to the race.  It was no catastrophe that I arrived in the early evening as I’d visited this first-rate museum with a host of interactive exhibits a few years ago.  I sat in the plaza studying my GPS device looking for a patch of forest in the vicinity to camp in as is necessary in densely settled Belgium in contrast to France where I know one will turn up in short order no matter where I am.  

Before I settled on one an elderly gent joined me and introduced himself as a fellow touring cyclist. He had three trips to his credit all starting from Oudenaarde—to the Nordkapp of Norway, to Spain and to Greece.  After several minutes of conversation his wife joined us.  She was equally amiable and fluent in English.  This is the most time I’ve spent in Flanders and I’ve been enjoying it more and more.  Unlike France nearly everyone speaks English.  Someone I mentioned it to was not surprised, saying,“The French are French,” and that this Flemish sector feels so distinct from the French half of Belgium that they should be two countries.

As we talked, Francois told me he preferred wildcamping in his travels whenever he could and knew how easy and satisfying it is and wouldn’t discourage me from it, but that if I’d like I could camp in the garden of the house they’d recently sold.  It was a couple miles away at the top of the sister-hill to the Koppenberg, the most notorious cobbled climb of the Tour of Flanders with a grade of 22 per cent that has resulted in some of the most iconic photos of the race with riders falling over and nearly being run over by fellow racers and race motorcycles and automobiles. The home was presently being converted into a 15-bed hostel of a sort for cyclists.  His wife said she was sure it would be all right, but first she would call the new owner. 

The new owner was happy to allow me to be his first guest.  I was only sorry that my stay didn’t include the opportunity to meet him, as he is a prominent figure in Belgian cycling with a wealth of knowledge, and a world-class athlete himself with a Wikipedia page (Christophe Impens) having competed in the 1996 Atlantic Olympics as a runner.  Raphaelle said she would drop her 81-year old husband off at their apartment, then meet me in front of the cathedral in Melden less than a mile from their former home of over forty years and lead me there.  It was a steep climb, but more reasonable than the Koppenberg and paved. 

She had told me it had the best view in the area, and she was right about that.  It looked out over a tranquil stretch of rich farmland. It was eight p.m., but two industrious guys were still at work finishing off a new patio.  The home will offer primo lodging for cyclists who come to ride the roads of Flanders or to watch the race.  I asked one of the workers if the Koppenberg was the best place to watch the race.  He said there wasn’t a bad place to view it, that it is all exciting. As I have been riding the roads of the race, the words of Christian Vande Velde keep coming back to me.  He said that the mere mention of the Tour of Flanders gives him goose bumps as it is such a thrill to ride amongst such maniacal fans over such storied terrain.

As is the case all over Belgium there was a bar catering to cyclists near the Koppenberg bearing its name.  And a few miles away on the Oude Kwaremont, a mere eleven per cent climb,  a bed-and-breakfast catered to cyclist.

Beyond the Oude Kwaremont back on pavement the road was stenciled with the name of the winner of each year’s race and there was a promenade of iconic photos from the race including a beaming Tommy Simpson in his Peugeot cap, when he was a teammate of Merckx.

A roundabout into Brakel before the twelve per cent paved Valkenberg climb was a massive web of old bicycles.  From a distance I had no idea that the contorted mass of metal ahead was another homage to the bicycle and the Tour of Flanders.

Another of the more brutal climbs of Flanders comes in Geraardsbergen up from the Dender River.  All along the climb, which reaches nineteen per cent, plaques recounted its past dating to 1950 when it was first introduced to the race. All through this sizeable town were signs to the “Muur.”

Near the summit a poem in Flemish on a metal plate with the words stenciled out celebrated Merckx.

A little further on the wall of a cafe a poem extolled Briek Schotte. 

A small chapel resides at the summit of the climb, a favorite picture of photographs with the hillside packed with screaming fans.  The photos usually crop out the crucifix.  It was here that Peter Sagan took a fall in 2016. The Tour de France peloton will be here a week from Saturday on Stage One and could well provide the photo from the stage that will be in newspapers all over the world the next day.