The rumble of the bikes over the cobbles is being drowned out by the ringing of cowbells and cheering from the crowd. This is the way the Transcontinental Race No.8 starts, not with a whimper, but a bang!
It’s shortly after 10pm on a Sunday evening late in July, and the sun has just set in Geraardsbergen, Belgium. There’s a strong smell of burning oil coming from the lit torches held up by the friends, families, and townsfolk that line the steep, cobbled gradient of the upper section of the Muur.
The Muur has featured frequently in the Tour of Flanders professional bike race. It translates both literally and figuratively as ‘wall’. I’m doing my best to keep my laden bike upright whilst pedalling up the narrow winding road, along with 239 other cyclists who have been waiting for this moment for many months.
I have to swerve to avoid a bag and cap in the road, which have shaken loose from a bike ahead. I’m being blinded by a hundred red lights. ‘On your right!’ screams a voice from behind. I struggle to maintain a straight line over the jarring surface, having made the mistake of dropping into too low a gear and now worried that if I put it back in a big gear I might grind to a halt. I wasn’t going to put my foot down on this hill.
