Road to Damascus? (aka Tour of Flanders Sportive - 3rd April 2004)

To say I was nervous would be a huge understatement. On the night before the event I listened to The Angel, Rob and Paddy wax lyrical about their exploits in the Gran Fondo, Milk Raas and a multitude of road races and I convinced myself that I had bitten off more than I could chew. God love 'em - they literally force-fed me suitable food and filled me full of good advice and did their utmost to encourage me and lift my morale.

As I approached the bike store the next morning I almost panicked; getting on the bike was the most psychologically challenging thing I've done. Mr Weaver's comment summed it up - 'dead man walking' - hilarious in retrospect.

However, nerves started to give way to excitement as we rode the three-ish miles to the start and once we were rolling over the start I concentrated on keeping my line to avoid annoying other riders.

I was also fully aware that although I had trained harder this winter than the previous year, I had still only managed a lowly 250 miles a month, so I intended to ride well within my limits with the dual aim of completing the 140kms and actually enjoying it. I knew this would mean that the three amigos would soon part company with me, which I'd told them to do without pangs of guilt - they're such top blokes that they would have loyally nurse-maided me along the route without a word of complaint.

Rob and Paddy soon jumped onto a group of fast-paced Belgians and disappeared into the distance with astonishing speed; Phil stayed with me until the second climb when the cobbles made their presence felt.

Now this is where The Angel and I faired differently. I didn't have the fitness to change up to the big ring and ride over them Belgian-style. I considered the only real option open to me was to move out of the way of faster riders to the side (where unfortunately the cobbles were rougher and poorly spaced) and conserve my strength. In reality, I reckon that the extra energy expended by gripping the bars more tightly and carefully picking my way through the pave was as great as racing across them.

Once the initial section of cobbles was over and I knew I could ride them, my confidence increased ten-fold. My bike and I were in one piece, I hadn't punctured (I stopped counting riders that had after 105!), I still had my water bottles (at least 200 riders didn't judging by the sea of plastic) and I felt good. Phil was off riding at his own pace (watch out Ludlow, he's hit top form) so I settled into a rhythm and began to really relax and enjoy myself.

Rob, Paddy and myself had taken the pee out of The Angel's meticulous planning the night before, as he had handed out a tiny list of the climbs that we were to stick to our stems. We later thanked him as this proved invaluable in letting us know what was to come and how far before the next challenge. It wasn't too long before the Paterberg was listed and I turned a cobbled corner to see it looming up ahead at an unbelievable gradient. Bikes and bodies littered the climb. To my surprise I got three quarters of the way before a rider fell sideways in front of me, causing me to dismount rapidly. This is where double-sided pedals and MTB-style shoes really came into their own; I was able to walk around the carnage and remount 5 yards further on and get going - thanks again Mr Weaver for the suggestion! I was riding a 39/29 which also gave me the chance to remount relatively wobble-free. Another nice feeling came when I reached the top; not just because I'd (almost) climbed the Paterberg but because a myriad of riders who'd rushed past me earlier on were against the fence, blown - a feeling I'm not unfamiliar with. I smiled to myself as the story of the Tortoise and the Hare sprang to mind.

Next was arguably the most famous climb of them all, the Koppenberg. There was no way I would be able to even attempt this one as it was totally clogged with bikes and people lain horizontally up the narrow ascent. It was that slippery that not even a mountain bike made it through the wreckage for the whole time I was pushing. The amazing thing for me was that the pros ride up it in a 25 or even a 23! Respect.

The good news was that I never pushed my bike again and amazingly descents became my forte. Another part of my game plan was to brake as little as possible to maintain momentum at the bottom and save my energy as I have trouble eating on any ride. Logical, except no-one else was utilising this law of physics. I flew past De Rosa's, Pinarello's, C40's and other exotica with a big grin on my face, including the one cobbled descent where I simply didn't brake at all as I could see the bottom. It wasn't until I was descending a tarmac section through trees on a road not much wider than two pavements that I received an enforced lesson in handling. A tight, steep corner had hidden a rider and machine prone, 10 yards ahead. I locked up, felt the rear wheel lift, let go of the front brake and slid the rear around him - I was VERY lucky, but the Belgian behind me patted me on the back thinking I'd done it on purpose, as he would certainly have joined us on ground if I had cocked it up. It turns out after speaking to a more experienced Brit later, that the reason I was alone in enjoying the downhills was that I had spent too much time admiring the scenery and not enough time noting the extremely greasy, spring season surface. You live and learn.

The highlight for me, in common with my friends was the Muur. Climbing up the very narrow, very steep cobbled road, surrounded by cheering, three-deep crowds really spurs you on. To be honest, I might have got off here and pushed if it wasn't for the passion of the locals and the adrenalin it induced in my tiring muscles.

It was the same chemical that inspired me to ride the last 6km at over 25mph (I normally struggle to do this on a TT!), largely bum in the air and hands on the drops, with a tail wind into town to finish in a slow but exhilarating 6 hours 48 mins and to walk into the bar of the hotel exclaiming 'who's the daddy!!!!!' at the top of my voice to my already-showered mates and rapturous applause. We talked for hours about our experiences on the Bergs and I felt that I'd truly joined the cycling fraternity for the first time. The night before I'd had no stories, now I had loads! And it was longest ride of any type I'd ever done - Rob thought this was heroic but I considered him outstanding for riding Flanders just a few short months after being told he would be unable to walk unaided - let alone ride cobbles!

Kit-wise, I can recommend Open Pro rims (one buckle only in the rear), Campag Veloce (never missed a change) and a titanium frame (although your bum is still sore after cobbles, no matter what the material).

Everyone has their own favourite discipline but if the testers will forgive me, I have to say that I personally found the challenge, friendship and romance of riding a classic like Flanders a far more satisfying and spiritual experience than staring at my front wheel for 25-30 minutes. I would urge everyone to try it once.

By Phil Smart.

For Phil Weaver's account of the sportive, click here.