Against the Wind

So Belgium’s pretty flat.

By that I mean it’s flat, I don’t mean it’s pretty. Oh, I know it has its attractive parts – some of the squares in Brussels, the inside of its chocolate factories, and the breweries. But the country itself is flat. And dull. Flat and dull. Maybe you already knew that. I already knew that. But I still opted to go there for a cycling vacation. I’m not sure exactly why now, although it had something to do with being able to get there cheaply via car ferry, and I only had 4 days, and I figured I could cover a lot of the country in that time. So, Belgium it was.

And at first, it was really quite pretty. I rolled off the ferry in the early hours of a weekday morning and pointed my bike inland, towards the town of Bruges. This is a charming little place, with cobblestone streets, concertina trams and picturesque squares. Perhaps if I’d simply remained there for the full four days, I might have retained my initial positive impressions of the country. Instead I decided that as the town had yet to wake up, I wouldn’t hang around for breakfast, but would instead trundle on down the road.

But which road? Aye, there’s the rub. In Europe, Michelin road maps are treated with the same sort of reverence that is reserved for AAA’s guides in the US. Inexpensive, reliable and easy to read, a Michelin map is an indispensable tool for any traveler on the asphalt ribbons of that fair Continent and I’d made sure I had a Belgian one in my bag. Except on a number of occasions that first day, I had to check the cover to make sure it really was a map of Belgium and not somewhere else. The People's Republic of Chad, perhaps.

I’m fairly competent when it comes to map reading. Oh sure, I have some challenges working out just how far apart the contours are, and it always throws me when the wee symbols aren’t reproduced on the legend. But I can usually do a reasonably good job of tracking my whereabouts. However, even I’m at a loss when the roads mapped on the paper bear no resemblance to those on the ground, which is what was happening here.

Every 1/2 hour or so, I’d roll into some tiny hamlet and pull over to check my progress. To my consternation I was usually unable to find the village. Initially I figured this was because they were too small to be marked and would continue onwards. Eventually I came to a larger town which simply had to warrant a mention. But, try as I might, I still couldn’t place it. Until I happened to glance some three inches lower and found it miles away from where I thought I was. On a completely different road. But here’s the thing. I was now able to locate some of the places I’d already visited. Except they were all on different roads. Figure that one out.

I’m not sure how many miles I rode that day, but I’m guessing it was around twice the 60 I originally intended. By the time I wobbled into Ghent, that evening’s destination, my legs felt like overcooked noodles, while my poor butt was on fire. The first job was to find a room for the night and while young man at the tourist authority was very helpful, the address he gave me turned out to be that of a bank. I had no enthusiasm for riding any further so I simply walked my bike around the streets until I stumbled onto a small, cheap but clean looking lodging house and checked myself in for the night. Out to dinner and I decided that a quick beer as an aperitif would be just the pick-me-up I needed.

"Would you like a light beer or a dark beer?" asked the barkeep.

"I dunno, dark I suppose." Apparently in Belgium, "dark" is a euphemism for "so strong it will knock out a horse". I realized this was going to be a challenge when I placed my head over the goldfish bowl sized glass and almost passed out from the fumes but never one to resist a challenge, I manfully stuck at the task and after about an hour, finally drained the last drop. Problem was; I didn’t feel much like eating any more. I didn’t feel much like doing anything except lying down on my bed. And even achieving that goal was a challenge because my bed was some half mile away and the sidewalks had decided to bounce up and down, whilst the walls of the buildings took turns at leaping out and punching me.

I awoke the next morning, fully clothed and half off the bed but at least that told me I’d made it home. Southbound today, with a target of Ypres, around 65 miles away. No real problems with the roads this time, it was a straight shot. No, today’s challenge came from the headwind which I would estimate was only a little below hurricane force. You know you’ve got your work cut out when you’re riding a 10-speed bike and have to use the lowest gear to climb the gradient of a freeway overpass. (I should point out, I was in much better condition in those days – but this really was a serious headwind.)

Every piece of garbage and debris in Belgium seemed to be blowing down that road too. No tumbleweeds, but sheets of newspaper, bits of cardboard, dust clouds and on one memorable occasion, an empty coke can which bounced up and hit me in the chest. You know those little wooden sandwich board signs some stores have out on the sidewalk? I watched one of those cartwheel towards me from several hundred yards away.

"That’s going to hit me." I thought. "There’s no point in trying to swerve. Wherever I go, it will hit me." But I did swerve of course, right at the last minute. And for a brief second I thought I’d outsmarted it. But it wasn’t to be – it swerved too. I zigged, it zagged and caught me a pearler, right on the knee. I protested loudly and violently, but my curses were simply snatched away by the wind. Darkness was falling when I finally creaked my way into Ypres. Dirty, tired and very cranky, I was wrapped in a cocoon of self-pity.

Of course, at that point I didn’t know that in Ypres, I would experience something which brings a lump to my throat even now, almost twenty years later.

To be continued...