The following is the third and final part of a story I wrote for Embrocation Cycling Journal, the brain-child of Jeremy Dunn. The story appeared in Issue Number 2. (You can buy issues 2 and 3 here. Please support them!) The first and second sections of the story can be found here.

Two kilometers from town, I turn from the main road toward Oud Heverlee. This cobbled strip is just enough for one final burst, one last test of my power and souplesse. I make a right, sweeping down the little hill through dilapidated brick houses, barns, and rotting barbed wire fences. Slipping my chain onto the big ring for one last time, I check my gearing—too little and I could lose my chain as soon as I hit the stones, too big and I won’t be able to maintain my cadence over the entire length of road. Reaching down to see that my bottle is secure, I hit the stones soundly. I’m in it now, my legs pumping, working to maintain and increase the speed. I can hear only the sound of my heart in my ears. I keep my head low for balance, and I can feel my breath on my wrists and hands. No need to consult the heart rate monitor—I know the extent of the effort. My nose runs; I can taste blood on my breath. After twenty-five meters I’m able to get one more gear, another after twenty-five more. I know there is slight dip near the finish that I need to account for in my final burst. I can’t try to stand on the pedals, for the sudden shift of my weight could send me tumbling to the stones; I can only rise slightly from the saddle, keeping myself loose and centered over the bike.

By now, focused only on the end of the road, I can’t feel the pounding of the stones. I can’t hear the slap of my chain or the pops of my spokes twisting under the strain. I can’t feel my heart beating or the burning ache in my legs. There is no time to worry about oncoming cars or stray dogs running into the road. I am not chasing or being chased; I am simply alone in the moment, comfortable with the route I have taken.

The following is the second part of a story I wrote for Embrocation Cycling Journal, the brain-child of Jeremy Dunn. The story appeared in Issue Number 2. (You can buy issues 2 and 3 here. Please support them!) The third and final section will appear next week.

            The Flemish call the stones kassein, and I often wonder if this word came from the French word cassé, or “broken”. Only farmers use these stoned pathways now, and they were designed with little thought to traffic flow and sight lines—certainly with no regard for skinny, smooth-legged cyclists. I know this road ends with a blind corner where it rejoins the national roadway. I also know there is a slight rise about 500 meters before this corner where I can quickly glance over the field to check the road in both directions for upcoming vehicles. I concentrate on that moment; if I miss it I’ll be forced to slow myself to a stop, a risky venture on such an unpredictable surface.
            I crane my neck—no cars today—and set my mind on the new task at hand: rejoining the main road. Sections of cobblestones are not dangerous in and of themselves; there is a technique to riding them that anyone can learn, and even the most svelte riders can adjust their bodies to the jolts and jars. The tricky part is the transition from one surface to another. Knowing this, and nearing the end of the stones, I choose my line back onto the main road, re-center my weight, and point my knee in anticipation of the turn. Coasting into the corner, my chain slaps against my aluminum frame, tapping in rhythm with the pattern of the stones. Suddenly, my rear wheel hits a stray patch of gravel, sending the rear end of the bike skidding out from under me. In one fluid motion I unclip my cleated right foot from the pedal, plant my heel, and right myself and my bike by pushing-off and away from the roadway. I exhale as I regain my composure and my rhythm. My sunglasses slip, but hold.
            Now poured concrete slabs pass under me smoothly save for the untarred seams that send pulses through my frame, reverberating in the roots of my teeth. I take a swig from my bottle, the sugary drink replacing the grit in my mouth with a sweet, sticky film. I drop the chain from my big ring, shift-up a gear or two in the rear, and settle into a steady tempo. Leaving a slightly wooded area I can see the gentle upward slope of the roadway rise above me through the plowed fields. The wind is neither in my face nor at my back. I shift down one gear, lower my torso closer to the top tube of the bike, flatten my back, and bend my elbows. This might be a little more intensive than I had hoped for a pre-race ride, but opening-up a bit might be good for my legs and lungs. The wind is less than I expected, and the rain has held off for the moment. I smell the freshly turned earth around me, lower my head, and continue my ride home.

The following is the first part of a story I wrote for Embrocation Cycling Journal, the brain-child of Jeremy Dunn. The story appeared in Issue Number 2. (You can buy issues 2 and 3 here. Please support them!) As the Northern Monuments begin in earnest this week, I thought it would be nice to share the story again for those who might not have read it. Come back for regular installments.

Like most of its citizens, I hate Belgium. And that’s why I know I’m starting to belong here, for Belgium is the only country I am aware of where national pride is expressed as a form of self-deprecation. In Northern Europe, all paths at least lead through Belgium. As an American, I can’t wait for the moment when I can raise my eyebrows, turn-up my nose, and ask a newly arrived foreigner: “Why would you come to Belgium?” For true Belgians, you see, there is no valid reason why anyone would choose to relocate to their little country trapped in the French-Dutch armpit of northern Europe. But of course, like the others, I am here for reasons of my own, none of which can be overpowered by the Belgian national pathos. And besides, I have a race tomorrow.

On my bike things are clearer for me. The clouds stretch across the sky like a gray leather hide forming a tent over the maze of cobblestones and concrete slab roads on which I train. Sheets of rain cascade down in the distance, and sunlight peers through an adjacent patch in the clouds hinting at a rainbow for a small village on the horizon. In Belgium, the sun lies in wait like plaster behind layers of drab wallpaper. My emotions mirror this weather frequently, and some days I need hard rides and jarring roads to bring peace of mind.

I picked a route that takes me past my favorite tree. There it stands, as always, a beacon in a field of beets, flanked only by the small brick shrine built by a pious farmer years before, guarding his crops. Passing it, I turn in the direction if Tienen and my favorite cobbled roads.

Easing myself onto the stones, I slip my chain into the big ring, center my weight, loosen my joints, and float across the ridge of rocks. My legs pound a rhythm to keep me on top of my gear. My hands begin to hurt and my fingers go numb. The stones beneath me are slick with tractor oil, manure, and rain left from a passing cloud, but I pick a line that guarantees the support of my snake-thin tires. Luckily, this road is flat, and I won’t need to change gears. One missed shift could interrupt the delicate balance between rider, bike, and terrain, sending me directly to the sharp, granite stones.