I’ve made up my mind what I want to be now. I’ve
tasted the good life and let’s face it - despite having done almost the
whole route of the Paris-Roubaix in 2006, hardship on a bicycle I can tolerate,
but only in small portions and if it is alternated with the good things in life
at regular intervals. I can stick the pain-pleasure principle, but the pain
and more pain principle...oh no!
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Club loungers |
How have I arrived at this conclusion? Well, I and some mates went to France to
try out the
Ch’ti
Bike Tour in the Flanders region of Northern France in August. (The Ch’ti
are the inhabitants of this region. 'Ch’ti ride- sounds like Shitty ride',
a friend of ours quipped irrelevantly. I like to think of it as “Phew -
another ch’ti day in paradise!)
Almost coinciding with our trip (in fact during all of the preceding week)
some other friends of mine were putting themselves through the ordeal of riding
the Paris-Brest-Paris (once arguably the toughest race in the world, before
the Tour de France was invented). 1000 plus kilometres, meaning 90 hours in
the saddle, quite a lot of that during night time and in the driving rain, wow,
these people are my heroes! Some may consider them a bit eccentric, but you
have to unreservedly admire them! One such rider is Sarah and confided (regarding
the post ride shower experience) that never a before in her life had she ever
clapped eyes (albeit averted) on a more livid and colourful display of sore
bottoms.
As fate would have it, on the very same day that the Paris-Brest-Paris had
it’s Grand Heroic Finale, myself, John, Emma & Neil spent a quiet
morning in Langham’s restaurant on a P&O ferry, getting over a fairly
early start (7.40am) in style by enjoying a leisurely breakfast, starting with
(optional) champagne and a choice of three courses for breakfast, served by
a well choreographed crew of obliging waiters attired in formal black and white
outfits.
We arrived in Calais well satisfied, drove one and a half hours to Lille without
incident and found the entrance to the large park where Ch’ti bike tour
registration was based fairly easily. Of course it wasn’t that easy, because
this entrance was only for pedestrians - the car entrance was somewhere “a
gauche, et puis a gauche a la carrefour, et puis il faut traverser un petit
pont...” went the convoluted explanation and we ended up in some nondescript
suburb. So we turned back and took a long walk, past the ‘Ferme des Enfants’(children’s
farm) and then past the artificial boating lake via the nautical centre and
the artificial beach, until we had crossed the whole of the “Base de Loisir”
(Leisure Base) and reached a gym-like hall where the sign-on for the weekends
two Ch’ti rides, the ‘Laurent Desbien’ and the ‘Tour
des Monts’ was set up.
We had made it! From that moment onwards, we felt like we were being looked
after - we were given all we needed, and more. After signing on we drove to
our three star hotel with the help of a computer print out route map that took
us in several d-tours via a confusing spaghetti-like highway system (the French
do like their intricate roads and few signs) into an industrial estate where
our hotel stood. A faceless low rise, the Mercure hotel boasted three stars,
but was not that expensive. It usual clientele seemed to consist of airline
pilots and elderly coach passengers on a stop over, but it was nice and comfortable
and offered a lovely spread (including local delicacies) for breakfast.
The receptionist didn’t bat an eyelid when we wheeled our bikes across
the soft carpet in the lobby, and we kept them in our rooms without any problem.
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Waiting for the leaders to come
through |
The interior of the hotel’s restaurant seemed to be attempting to turn
the anonymous facelessness into a virtue - it was decorated in the style of
‘Cheers’, the bar where no one knows your name! Hi Norm! I‘d
never have thought they’d allow such a blatant invasion of American culture
in France.
A visit to nearby Lille was definitely a worthwhile excursion for the evening;
it’s quite a big city (it even has a Metro-system) with plenty of attractive
historic buildings, several ostentatious clock towers and clean, pretty flower
lined public spaces. In the main square we came across a very neat little demonstration
with lots of pretty red flags and banners. We followed them and their drum beat
through the city centre streets looking for a suitable restaurant - that is
us, not the demo.
The evening meal was spent in a typical Flandrian Bistro, eating things like
‘Lapin-aux-Biere’ washed down with a good deal of Leffe, blond and
brun, and chatting Franglais with the waiter, who, it turned out, had a sister
working as a teacher in Exeter!
I’m not ashamed to admit it, but we may have overdone the eating a drinking
a bit, because at least one of us felt quite dizzy afterwards and thought might
not be able to join the ride the next day.
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| On top of the Mont-de-Cats |
However, the next morning we were all up at five (GMT) eating a hearty French
breakfast which consisted of the usual continental fare, bolstered by a choice
of little French pastries and yoghurts and, in addition to the dinky jars of
‘Bonne Maman,’ a collection of local chicoree chutneys (avec les
fruit d’autonne, avec framboises, avec onions - nice, but an acquired
taste) presumably to go with the centre piece, a giant ham sitting on a specially
constructed scaffolding.
Off to the start line at the ‘Base de Loisir”, where the 500 odd
starters were ready to set off. Somehow (I won’t go into detail), Emma,
John and myself managed to get to the start line late - we were last, to be
precise. The fairground compere (for it was a fairground atmosphere with a stage,
balloons and all sorts of stalls) spotted us and shouted “ah, les Anglais,
et ici, la derniere!” into his microphone, so now everybody was aware
of it.
Despite our best efforts we never caught the other 500 starters, including
Neil who had set off without us and was able to stay with the lead group for
a while. We did catch a lot of riders and nearly managed to reach the big group,
but the effort meant that by the time we reached the first climb, I for one
was completely worn out.
And for a flat region there were surprisingly many climbs! Luckily we were
cheered along all the way 'Allez-allez, les Anglais, bon courage!' by spectators,
friendly marshalls and the volunteers at the feed stops. On top of the Katmont,
the highest rise in the area, and unexpectedly steep, the volunteers had dressed
up as local peasants, with striped tops and bulbous black caps, some with sooty
faces, possibly a reminder of the local mining past.
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Welcome refreshments with local
colour |
The roads had not been closed for this ride, but somehow the organisers had
managed to keep most of the traffic out of the way, and the few cars we did
come across took extreme care not to hamper our progress. The whole route was,
if not exactly lined, then certainly dotted with friendly spectators who shouted
encouraging things and clapped us, even though we were nowhere near the top
group of riders. Mind you, if it’s true that the leaders included riders
like Frank Vandenbroucke we may be excused after all. We heard people quipping
about the Ch’ti ‘race’ and then quickly correcting themselves;
“erm, sportif!” while slapping their thighs. My impression was that
at the front end, there may well have been a lot of competitive riding going
on, but at the rear end it was definitely a sportive, and we were treated with
the same respect as the faster riders, if not more.
As our little group was joined by other riders, we took turns at the front
and zipping along nicely. But sometimes some seasoned (or rather past their
prime) looking blokes, possibly taking offense at being caught by two women,
would try and throw a spanner in the works. They’d overtake and then slow
up again, overtake and slow up, until it got quite annoying. Luckily they gave
up at some point, obviously despairing at our supreme prowess and determination.
At the final feed stop, we were persuaded to use a short cut, thereby avoiding
the last loop of 50k, we allowed our pride to yield to better judgment and hoped
to catch the peloton. We got to the carrefour in question almost exactly at
the point when the leaders returned after completing the loop, so we managed
to see several pelotons swish past, including Neil, who was still doing well,
despite having had a mechanical.
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After-ride rest at the pleasure
base |
We got to back to the 'Base de loisir' early in the afternoon and
sprinted to the line, with Emma crossing it first. But I don’t think John
will let her forget this terrible faux-pas too soon, after letting him drag
her all the way to the finish.
Now it was time to redeem the vouchers for ‘un repas’ and ‘un
boisson’ that we had been handed at the sign-on. A long queue snaked around
the gym, but then we were rewarded with a tray of a choice of salads, local
pate (with chicoree baked into it), a gruyere flan and a cold beer.
For our evening meal we proceeded to the Restaurant next door to the hotel.
The building could be seen from the motorway and was a strange mix of thatched
rural idyll and ‘Happy Chef’, with red neon tubing outlining the
oversized chimney and spelling the words ‘Courtepaille Grill’.
But the food was excellent, the grilled porc extremely tasty and there were
even really nice vegetarian cassoulets on the menu. But the one who caught the
culinary ‘Queue-de-Mickey’ that night was Neil, who had ordered
‘Chocolat Gourmand’ for dessert. It was served on a silver tray
(with a doily) and consisted of three items 1) a ramekin full of chocolate mousse
2) a slice of chocolate cake and 3) a small cup coffee. Obviously lightly embarrassed,
he asked me not to tell all about his indulgences.
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Posing with Didier Saunier, the
organiser. |
Next day, whilst John and Neil were heroically battling it out on the
“Tour-de
Monts”, Emma and myself having decided to have a rest day, spent the
morning walking around, the festival area, bought the merchandise i.e. Ch’ti
watches and t-shirts, watched the hotly contested roller races on the stage, which
were energetically commentated by the intrepid fairground compere, looked at the
beautiful (and expensive) carbon bikes on display, and walked the short course
for the mountain bike race - another part of the Ch’ti tour. We stopped
briefly to look at some ducks on the canal, and ouch! mozzie attack! In a few
seconds we got bitten numerous times, and a few minutes later the stings had swelled
up into huge blobs! Beware of those French mozzies! Needless
to say we didn’t hang around.
We got back to the finish area just in time to be handed some hand shaped slapsticks
by the usherettes so we could cheer Neil and John over the finish line with
all the appropriate noises. They had had a good ride and John said they went
ever so fast, taking turns at the front with about 15 riders they’d managed
to sweep up en route.
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Bicycle built for disaster |
Back in the gym, this time it was a hearty meal of pasta that was handed out
to every participant, plus a nice cool bier. It tasted great, albeit undeservededly
so. While we ate our food we were being entertained by a slow motion Jazz marching
band, and afterwards Emma and I got a chance to go for a bike ride after all,
on a whole range of clown bikes (clown optional). One had two seats either side,
there were bikes with off centre hubs, penny farthings, bikes with a mobile
rear end or a rotating rear wheel - very unsettling indeed. We had a go the
two seater and managed to stay on for a few meters (after various failed attempts
and producing great hilarity among the lookers on, including the clown).
At the carpark we were ambushed by a group of road-side marshals who were loading
up the leftovers from the feed stops. They shook us all by the hand with great
cordiality and said they hoped we’d return next year! We promised to do
so, with reinforcements, and they seemed very pleased.
After an ice cream stop at beautiful Calais beach, we got onto the ferry and
quickly repaired to our pre-booked club lounge for complimentary champigne,
tea coffee, hot choccie, biscuits, even Toblerone - as much as you like!. We
stretched ourselves out on the large sofas and soft arm chairs, enjoying the
panoramic sea view (the lounge is right below the bridge) and let ourselves
be spoiled by a swarm of solicitous waiters. It wasn’t very busy, and
the few people there were quiet and very cultivated (only one rather subdued
child present). I actually observed a young couple who held their sandwiches
with an extended little finger and sort of cradling it with the other hand lest
a crumb may drop onto their lap. You could easily spot the only cyclists in
the room, our table disappearing under cart loads full of biscuits and Toblerone
wrappers.
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Who's going to take up the turbo
challenge? |
Barely recovered, the following weekend brought the
Tour
of the Cornfields Sportive and we were roughing it on Torq bars once more.
This time it was cross bikes through the rolling hills of Cambridgeshire. Unfortunately
I don’t remember much of the beauties the countryside had to offer. Some
of the farm tracks had so many ruts across, that I almost lost the will to live.
It’s a personal thing - everyone has their own preferences. Ride companion,
Emma, for instance loved it and said the Cornfields Sportive were just like the
Three Peaks (but without the peaks). Please, please someone stop me if ever I
feel overcome by aspirations to do the Three Peaks!
I recently talked to a serial long distance tour rider, who had done the Paris-Brest-Paris
with my friend Sarah. He said that he’d done only relatively short trips
to begin with, slowly getting enticed to go on longer and longer rides, until
a mere 200k ride just wouldn’t do for him any more! I think it is like
an addiction - you have to know when to stop, otherwise you might slowly take
on the molecular structure of your bicycle and spend the rest of your days leaning
against the walls of peoples houses!
saddle soar
