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Skinny tires yesterday, fat tires this morning, as in the missus shuttling me to Chalet Reynard, from where I subsequently climbed the remaining 6 kilometers to the top of the Mont Ventoux. Lots of headwind today – passed a few dying roadies along the way.
Here’s what to do for a brilliant AAA-grade non-stop 10 kilometers-long singletrack drop: just before the top of the Ventoux, at the last hairpin, hop on the singletrack that veers off to the left, that passes by the Chapelle Ste Croix, and that brings you a few kilometers down to the Jas des Pèlerins. At the Jas des Pèlerins, continue straight ahead, and aim for the Combe Fiole and the Combe d’Ansis. When you hit the GR91 (not the GR91B), follow it until you’re back down in Bédoin again.
The top section is rocky and loose (the defining characteristic of mountain biking here in the Provence – ‘des cailloux partout’), the bottom section somewhat more wooded. All is perfectly rideable. A great classic run. (Might go again tomorrow.)
Despite having turned 40, despite having become father in September last year, and despite a relatively fickle amount of kilometers since (a little over 3000), I still got the mojo when it comes down to riding bikes.
I didn’t ride for six full days after getting home from Mallorca (for lack of time – I would have gone out for a few spins ideally), then a day of travel Saturday with one hour a la moulinette (as the French say) in the evening, another hour a la moulinette yesterday, all in trying to get ready for the big push up the Mont Ventoux this morning, from the hardest side, the Bédoin side. Time: 1h 32.
Picture taken from the garden of the gite we’re staying in (Bédoin) - our first trip just the three of us.
Saturday the 28th of April I’m off to Mallorca, Europe’s cycling island, for a week of road biking, as a participant to Stephen Roche’s cycling camp. I’ve been two years ago as well when we were a fun bunch of Frenchmen, Americans, Canadians, a lone Swiss, and us Belgians. As always with road biking in group, it’s a race and not a race at the same time. We’ll be grouped according to fitness, go from there, and duke it out on Mallorca’s hills, which are not too steep and thus allow for some playfulness. Even though it is mountain biking that hooked me to ‘the’ lifestyle, I was a road biker first, and have always cherished the physical aspect of the sport. A great ride drops me home tired. In addition, we’re staying in hotel Ponent Mar, because of which I feel like I’m getting two vacations for the price of one: a cycling vacation before noon, a sun/beach/pool vacation after noon.
I did have a chat with the affable Stephen Roche two years ago. I asked him about his 1987 triple crown whereas (his words) most Belgians typically talk to him about his heart-wrenching loss in the 1987 Liège-Bastogne-Liège, when him and Claude Criquielion dithered in the final kilometer only to let the much faster Moreno Argentin come back from behind and win it in the sprint. He sincerely regretted having botched a rare chance at winning this prestigious monument.
Picture of hotel Ponent Mar, taken from the internet. Looking forward, a well-deserved break after a few months of daddy day care.
I rode another three hours along the banks of the mighty river Schelde yesterday. Policemen were fishing a dead body out of the water, and I got passed (I subsequently trailed him for quite a ways) by Dries Devenyns, on what must have been one of his first training rides after his crash and broken shoulder in Paris-Nice a few days back (in trying to bring Leipheimer back to the peloton). The guy is a brilliant rider, completely coming into his own this season, and made it into the decisive break at this year’s Omloop Het Nieuwsblad, together with Boonen, Vanmarcke, Flecha, and Hayman.
I struggled in the third hour, still not feeling recovered from the riding I did last weekend, specifically on Saturday when I scaled the Kluisberg, Knokteberg, Kruisberg/Hotond, Oude Kwaremont, Paterberg, Koppenberg, Steenbeekdries, Spichtenberg, Taaienberg, and Eikenberg, plus the cobblestone sections of the Mariaborrestraat, Donderij, and Etikhove dorp.
I really don’t like riding in the Flemish Ardennes (all this is road biking), what with the stones and hills that make you bleed, the twisting and turning, the third world country roads, the ever-pernicious wind and the ever-pernicious wind chill, the chain slapping on the chain stay, the feeling of forever being in the wrong gear. In my mind, the Ronde van Vlaanderen is the hardest classic.
I left home early this morning and rode a full 4 hours, on my own, 110 kilometers at an average speed of 27.7 kilometer/hour, crossing the mighty river Schelde, the E40 motorway, and the railroad connecting Ghent with Brussels in order to get at the heart of the Flemish Ardennes, where I scaled both the Volkegemberg and the Molenberg – the latter one is part of the much talked about new track for the 2012 Tour of Flanders. On my way back I briefly stopped at the monument in honor of Wouter Weylandt, Frederiek Nolf, and Dimitri De Fauw, all three Flemish professional road cyclists who died too young, in case of Wouter Weylandt even with a baby on the way. (Alizée Weylandt was born the day before Bodhi.)
The Portes du Soleil region is 12 ski resorts (straddling the French-Swiss border) combined, 650 kilometers of pistes in total, with magnificent views on the Mont Blanc. Picture taken at the top of the La Rosta lift, Les Gets.
It’s been 9 weeks now since I relinquished my job to become a full-time stay-at-home dad. I felt euphoric in week 1, but a bit anguished in week 2 and 3, the question that weighed on my mind being whether my leaving wouldn’t come back to me like a boomerang when one day having to re-enter the (tough) labor market. After all, long-term freelance project management positions (which is what I was doing before) are hard to come by. Week 4 to 6 were just great, week 7 the week he had to start going to a nursery, where in the end he only stayed three half days before we pulled him out for good. He suffered through a week of diarrhea in week 8 (last week), the aftermath of his brief stint in the nursery, and I suffered with him, one day even running out of clean clothes.
This week, week 9, we’re completely on track again, solid sleeping, solid eating, all smiles.
Next week is looking good too, a ski trip to Morzine (French Alps) together with my sister (his godmother), my sister’s husband, and her kid (my godchild). Last year there was almost no snow, this year there’s supposed to be plentiful – you don’t even have to bother looking up snow reports.
Ps. The idea was for me to start looking into a few other options as of week 7 (with him in nursury) but all that has been temporarily suspended, or will be second fiddle to the kid.
Sometimes here in Belgium the clouds hang so low and thick and dark over the land that in their lowness and thickness and darkness they exert a palpable and ominous physical presence on the beings underneath. As if someone strung a giant tarpaulin over Ghent and the villages sheltering in its vicinity, a malevolent shadow to be imposed at will. Between when it rained and when it didn’t rain (the day before yesterday), the roads never really dried up; toward the evening, light started filtering back in and the edge of the tarp stood out in sharp contrast against a reddening evening sky.
Most of you probably haven’t even noticed it, but the ‘About’ section shows my real name and has been showing it for a few weeks now, instead of monikers of sorts. Folks who have known me for instance when I was doing my Ph. D. and wonder whatever happened to all that other stuff I was always doing, well LinkedIn won’t be the only hit anymore when they enter my name in Google. You may say ‘why bother’ - the thing is I always had to bother, the wrong way around. A small change, but a portentous one.
Spent the evening in Brugge (Belgium) yesterday (brilliant weather) for the opener of the new season, Club Brugge (or FCB) against VC Westerlo (the team coached by Jan Ceulemans, a former Club Brugge-great). They played bad, but won brilliant (5-0).
The two squads walking out of the catacombs and on to the pitch.
