It's a bright but cold day and an easy ride downhill from Clapham to Victoria stations where I meet Pete and Todd for a smooth train ride to Dover. The ferry boarding is smooth despite the recent chaos and within a couple of hours of millpond calm seas we are disembarking at Dunkirk ferry terminal. The usual exiting shennanagins but soon enough we arrive at our hotel in Gravelines just outside the centre. It's very functional with 3 beds in a row but clean and the bikes are safe in the enclosed courtyard. Very safe I assume as the place is crawling with armed gendarmes who are obviously staying here too. I avoid eye contact as my last contact was being CS gassed a week ago in Lille. We cycle into the fortified centre and wander round a grassy bit with statues overlooking the marina. It's very chilly out but after a couple of strong Flanders beers in a bar and food at the Irish kebab shop we return home for a couple more beers in the hotel bar watching a very weird karaoki program on telly. As I have the middle bed I am treated to snoring in stereo but sleep well considering I've cycled under 20 miles today. A good Friday.
Saturday breakfast is uninteresting for me but the baguette and jam washed down with coffee sets me up for the day's riding. Just as well we had the hotel breakfast as we don't find an open bar or cafe until the afternoon. It's pleasant cycling weather albeit a bit chilly and we follow a meandering GPS vs Google route following the river Lys at one point and I think dipping into Belgium for a few hundred meters. We reach Roubaix in plenty of time to see the women's (femmes) race finish but before they arrive we cycle down the last cobbled section on the velodrome approach where we are cheered by a few early fans and given dirty looks by the heavily armed gendarmes. We cycle round the velodrome and surprisingly find that we can walk up a grassy bank and we're in the public section of the velodrome opposite the main stand and finishing line. We're right against the barriers and watch the big screen with french commentators until the leaders enter the track to great applause. They race right underneath us with one rider crashing out with a touch of wheels just before our spot and we see the Canadian Alison Jackson win the sprint. Our spot is great as she continues round to just in front of us and we see her magnificent victory dance. We wait with everyone else for the others to come in, the second bunch hot on the heels of the first who managed to hold them off, with the stragglers having to see the winners ceremony on the screens. But chapeaux for finishing and they all get a great cheer as the go round the track. All over we mooch around the team buses and I grab a biden from the St Michel - Mavic - Auber93 team car. Has a "p" or "d" on it so may possibly be one lined up for Margot Pompanon as it's full of energy juice. Having won our little race from the coast to see les femmes arrive we celebrate with a couple of beers in the surprisingly unpacked club house where we look at myriad photos, I buy a cycling cap and we chat to Alan the Irish Italian Swiss who's just completed the sportive. Chapeau. We cycle to the north of Roubaix to our hotel at Tourcoing which is very cramped but clean. It's full and seems to be split between those who's seen the cycling and more permanent residents with kids so I assume used as a hostel for migrants or refugees. There is nowhere open for a drink near us and we resort to a kebab burger place which servers the usual crazy amount of chips. Dining back in our room with a couple of beers we are knackered after our 75 miles.
There's a bit of snoring going on but the miles helped us all sleep through it and we wake around 7.30. As there's no rush today we have a leisurely breakfast which is the same as yesterday for me but it's the coffee that counts. We cycle to the velodrome then trace the race route in reverse along the pave or cobbles at Hem. A bit further on at Chereng we can't resist sitting in the sun along with what seems like the whole village who are at trestle tables drinking beer, eating hot dogs and chips (copious amounts of french fries) and watching the race on the big screen. It's a celebratory atmosphere and the kids are catered for with a bouncy castle. We have 2 and a third beers due to not understanding french too well and as we leave we see that the place is twinned with East Peckham. Maybe the village dignitaries didn't like the look of central and west Peckham. We are pushed off the race route by the armed gendarmes and we follow the hoards to a classic piece of pave called Carrefour d'Arbre. Not sure why we couldn't ride the route here as lots are doing so along the cobbles to the cheers of the drunken mobs lining the route including our friend Alan who's dressed as a banana. With the sun beating down and the beer obviously flowing it's a festival atmosphere with music blaring from sound systems and folk using the field as a urinal with no cover including someone having more than a piss. His wife's (surely no one else would do this) attempts to shield him with a coat are completely inadequate and he gets a massive roar from the crowd as he pulls up his trousers. I guess any distraction when you're spending 2 hours waiting for cyclists is worth a cheer. The caravan whips folk into a frenzy and when we spot the helicopter it's madness. We're right on the cobbled road and so arms length from the riders indeed less at times. It's like watching a cup final stood on the edge of the penalty area. The first two riders speed towards us and it's the favourites van der Poel closely followed by van Aert who seems to be losing the wheel and as it turns out he's punctured. What a time to have one so close to the finish and almost inevitably van der Poel cruises to a fairly easy win (well, the last few k's were easy) which we can watch on the big screen whilst still cheering riders passing through. If the leaders looked grittily determined the stragglers have a vacant look wondering how much pain they can put themselves through with no chance of glory. Easter Sunday may be a time of peace and goodwill to some but not for these Trojans. We clap much as Roman crowds must have clapped gladiators, respectful and damn glad we're watching not participating. We cycle back the way we came and the pave is even worse with my brain banging against my skull. Back on tarmac we hit the team buses watching the bikes being hosed down then the club house again. Although this must be the busiest day of the year the barman is in a bad mood and refusing to serve anyone. I find this out from a french woman at the bar who I'm stood next to and ask her if the bar is ferme as the barman refuses to make eye contact with me and she immediately answers in english realising by my poor french pronunciation I have a feeble grasp of the language. She then has a very animated conversation with the barman who reluctantly pours her 2 beers in glasses. She asks what I need as I definitely won't be served by the moody barman and he doesn't like her ordering on behalf of non french speakers but relents giving me 3 plastic cups instead of glasses. I thank the french woman and offer to pay for her 2 beers but she insists of paying for my 3 instead. The two sides of stereotypical (i.e. probably not representative at all) french culture at play simultaneously... moody gallic bald man refusing to do his job juxtaposed with charmingly generous chic french woman. Next to a stereotypical Brit who can just about say yes and no in french. We part with a french kiss, no not what you're thinking but the proper french cheek to cheek "faire la bise" but I may have made a faux pas by only doing it twice instead of thrice. Anyway the beers go down well and as the barman is still moody and steadfastly refusing to serve anyone even charming women let alone smelly foreigners we cycle off to find food which isn't easy but find a place where the manager dashes out to tell us we can bring the bikes into the restaurant. Keener than the last place for sure. After a great pizza we cycle home for a last beer of the holiday together although we don't know it at the time. A touch under 30 miles ridden today but surely cobbles count as double?
Monday me and Pete breakfast looking at the murky moody weather. Todd's leg and back are playing up so he'll be getting a train from Lille to Dunkirk. wWe three leave at the same time but going different ways so say see you at the ferry. After negotiating miles of suburbs Pete and I reach the open Flanders countryside and feel the full force of the wind so typical of this region. After getting in a few miles we stop at the same place we had coffee 2 days ago and the woman owner grins at us in recognition. On leaving the rain that's been threatening starts and pretty soon it's fairly heavy and feels like hail as it's blown into our faces by the strong wind. I wondered at one point if it was snowing but realised that its the blossom from the trees and hedges that is being blown around. It's tough going making up time on the straights and getting some weather relief in the winding country lanes. I guess we're getting the full Flanders cycling experience and in some ways better than being like this yesterday and just hanging around for hours in the cold and wet. Would have made the race more interesting though. We lunch sheltered under large agricultural machinery and later on visit a lovely church lighting candles for our departed and getting a little bit drier and warmer. Maybe we weren't generous enough as the big man upstairs (or woman or indeed any gender or possibly genderless) isn't too pleased sending biblical weather onto us for the next few miles. Plus a few artics to spray us and buffet us about. To be fair french drivers are very cycle friendly and the lorry drivers do give us plenty of room. The rain eases as we near the coast so maybe it was a local god we upset. The Dunkirk Aluminium Factory is a sight for sore eyes as it means we will easily win the race to the ferry. We negotiate the various checkpoints and about to go into the terminal building when a fellow cyclist shouts do we want to get the 4 o'clock ferry as it's running 20 minutes late and about to leave. A friendly ferry official says we need to get on now if we want to catch the ferry and a quick call to Todd to ask if he's here (he's not) and if he minds us getting an earlier ferry is not definitive but Pete and I are wet, windblown and chilled and the thought of a warm ferry and a cold beer are too much to turn down. The crossing is a little choppy making us stagger around nothing to do with 2 lagers each. We disembark before the cars into brilliant sunshine and it's a 35 bike race to the train station of various routes ours being the pedestrianised pave section. Pete and I arrive just behind the first couple but they have to buy tickets so we're first on the platform. So we're the van der Poel's, the couple had the equivalent of a puncture and the others the also rans. OK they may not have realised that we were racing but hey. Easy journey back to Victoria the lowlight being shouted at by a very pissed bloke with buggy coming out of the loo shouting at me "don't f**king wake im up" when I didn't say anything to either of them. Lovely to be back in Britain. Pete and I take our leaves with "great trip, cheers mate" etc. Then a windy ride back to Balham but negotiating the steepest and highest climb of the last few days that is the road from Battersea up to Clapham Common. After 70 miles in the day after saying hello to everyone in the house I take a hot bath which is heavenly and I'm enjoying as much as the cyclists enjoyed the legendary Roubaix velodrome showers. A great weekend and makes me determined to go and see another spring classic next year.
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