Stage 5: 183 km

“Tell me I can’t win tomorrow,” Jens said. “I dare you.”

“Ok, 50 bucks says Jens is in the break tomorrow,” F. Schleck said at dinner.
“Who’s in?” Continue reading →

Prologue: 7 km TT
Heavy artillery barrels jutted from bunkers in the dunes along the chilly coast.
Streetlights flicked on at 2PM to cut the fog. Steam curled off our backs as we
churned our legs warming up for the individual test. One by one each of the 200
riders lurched off the start ramp and blasted across the finish line less than
nine minutes later, eyes bulging, coughing, foaming at the mouth. Our defending
champion, Jesse Sergent placed 5th but Robert Wagner bested him for 3rd. Last
year’s teammate, Micheal “Kawasaki” Kwiatkowski won the event.

Stage 1: 182 km
As in GP Samyn, a free-for-all undercut regular cycling etiquette that respects
leadership and even safety. I covered futile attacks into a headwind, but it
took over 60 km for a breakaway to escape. When crosswinds and crashes
threatened to take us out at any moment, everybody wanted to be near the front,
but nobody wanted to be on the front in the wind. This caused a constant
reshuffling in the peloton on narrow roads. In addition, everyone seemed eager
to sprint to the front when a chance presented itself, but few had the power to
do it and floundered clogging the edge of the road. Sometimes the only option
was hopping on sidewalks, on and off the road, and avoiding posts. In the end we
had a bunch sprint of 90 riders.

I hate racing in Belgium for the same reasons I love to watch it, all the
craziness.

Stage 2: 186 km
We watched windmills whirl through the rain streaked windows of the bus.
Reluctant to imagine my miserable condition in three, four, or five hours later,
I motivated for one kilometer at a time,

I began pulling behind a 7 man break with my teammate, Busche, and team
Quickstep after 20 km. It felt nice to flex my legs without shoulder-butting
around in the peloton. Before the second of three critical climbs, I had been
forced back to around 50th position. When I tried to move up on the outside, I
got shoved off the road. When I swerved back to the pavement, a lip in the road
yanked my wheels out from under me. I hit the ground.

In angst I realized that the crash had disabled my bike. Our mechanic sprung
from the car, but I had lost too much time. I could feel my hip seeping blood.
Regardless, I pedaled in earnest. The caravan of cars was prohibited to pass the
narrow cobbled climbs. Without their shelter, I chased in vain. Jose, our
director, told me to abandon in the feed-zone after 110 km.

Dejected and with no alternative, I hit the showers.

106 of the 197 starters finished the race. The yellow jersey also crashed out.
Wagner lost 3rd overall and Jesse moved into second.

I do my best to summarize these five hour 120 miles races in brief readable reports, but last time I cut a few notable occurrences.

I forgot to mention how I rode nose wheelie for 30 meters while leaning into the back of my teammate at 60 kph to avoid crashing into a fallen rider in the chaotic final 10 km. Our team doctor silenced a worrisome knee pain with a somnolent mental therapy and more hard-nosed anti-inflammatories and a massage on twisted tendons that made my eyes water. Also in the first report, Jose and Azevedo are the same person, Jose Azevedo, our legendary Portuguese director who placed 5th in the Tour de France.

Stage 3: 195 km
After the queen stage, Jose Azevedo delivered my roommate, Andreas Kloeden, and I tomorrow’s schedule. He talked about my race in his easy Portuguese accent.

“You always give your best. It was a hard day- the third hard day. Always up and down. Team Sky, they never went easy. You stay up front in the beginning and this expends energy, also. When you dropped on the climb, some guys would have gone easy, but you fought and came back to help the guys. This is the first race of your second season at this level. Don’t worry, man. I’m happy with you.”

Having watched the drama from the car following the peloton, he had known I would appreciate the feedback. Team Sky, confident in their leader, had clobbered everyone on the climbs before the final summit. On one climb, the elastic snapped, but I caught the front group again on the decent. Then I dropped again with 15 km to go. I rode up the final summit with two riders from Sky.

“Impressive what you guys did,” I remarked.
“Yeah,” grinned Nordhaug. “I think we made some guys suffer today.”
“You’re lookin’ at one of them.”
“Know who’ll win today?” he asked.
“The way you won in Mallorca, I thought you might. I don’t know. Tony Martin?
Machado?”
“No,” he paused almost thoughtfully, “Riche Porte. The way he rode at training
camp- I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Near the top, Sky supporters gave thumbs up. Porte had won with our own Portuguese, Tiago Machado, in second.

Stage 1: 151 km
I should have discerned the consternation in Asevedo’s tone as he gave tips to anticipate the critical narrow roads and steep climbs, but his confidence in a sprint finish hoodwinked my hopes for a moderate to easy first stage. We followed Jose’s advice, and it saved us energy. As predicted, the race did end in a pack sprint. Everyone, however, arrived at the finish tweaked by relentless undulations. Jan Bakelants, our top finisher, placed 10th.

Stage 2: 187 km

Despite another jagged profile, we set off at a relaxed jaunt. The yellow jersey’s team took firm control of the peloton after three riders escaped. Wider and smoother roads, afforded margin to catch up with other Americans and friends in the peloton. Breathy conversations passed the first two hours. Then we turned into the mountains on a narrow road. After driving hard through loose corners and stomping up the climbs, the road spat us out on a large costal road.

When the TV cameras flicked on to televise the race, a Portuguese team tried to animate the race riding full gas on the front and stringing the peloton into one long line. At that moment, I was filling my jersey with bottles from the team car. Delivering those bottles to the front of the peloton caused pain. When the Portuguese team blew themselves up, a dangerous fight for position lead to another large bunch sprint finish.