Districtskampioenschap NH (prelude)

I lean forward, from the backseat, trying to listen to the conversation in front of me. With the din of the windshield wipers swiping back and forth, coupled with my rudimentary Dutch, I catch half of what’s being said. The Flying Doctor is driving, and in the passenger seat is one of his teammates. He's more of a time trial specialist than a road racer, but he's here to qualify for the national championships.

They’re talking about the course we’re driving to. None of us have ever raced it. I’ve heard that it’s easy. I’ve also heard that it’s technical. Maybe it’s both? I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.

The one thing that is of real concern is the rain. It’s the worst kind for a race: enough to bring up the oil on the roads, but not enough to wash it off.

The subject segues to that of other riders. Who’s going to be there. Who won’t be. Who to watch. Who to watch out for.

This leads us to start talking about various riders. The ones that you want to avoid because if there’s a crash chances they’re in it. FD's teammate tells us about one particular rider., and how if he sees him in a race, he’ll go out of his way to get to the other side of the road. I think I know of the rider. Tall, bald, pale, almost always in a skinsuit, with skinny legs, and a pot belly. He has a brother that looks just like him. One rides a black bike, the other a white one. I'm not sure which one is the one to avoid. I’ve never seen either go down, but considering the way they race I’m not surprised. They (he?) tends to get a little too close and personal for my liking. The fact that both almost a foot taller than me doesn’t help either.

We arrive, and after some small talk in the parking lot, we go to pick up our numbers, then head back to the car to change. I use the race flyer as a floor matt, so I can keep my feet dry while I change in the drizzle. While the course may be new to me, the surroundings are not. It’s an industrial park. There’s even a port-o-potty. I almost feel like I’m home.

to be continued...

1,004 words about the Oranjeronde van Amsterdam

Flowers.

Report to follow.

Rub a dub dub

Souvenir from Zaandam.

Easter Monday. A bright and sunny day. Tweede pas. Twee Bruggenronde van Zaandam. My first crit of the year.

Starting on a bridge, with a (thanks to the gates surrounding the course) tight left turn on to a speed bump, followed by a serpentine 200 meter long stretch of bricks leading ‘up’ to the second bridge, into the wind, with a shallow descent, banking left, on to another left, which leads you back to the hill that you started on. If pressed, I’d call it a challenging course.

I could try and regale you with tales of how I spent my 65 laps, circumnavigating the 800 meter long circuit. I won’t. It was a day spent mostly stuck somewhere in the middle of the peloton. The few occasions I found myself on the pointy end of the stick, I opted for caution. Don’t ask me why.

Perhaps it was the fact that this was my first taste of a touchy feely peloton this year: feeling a handlebar against my rump as I lean into a turn, handlebars brushed, tires rubbed, a wheel on my foot, a disgruntled rider subtly swerving into my front wheel. The joys of crit racing.

Next time. Next time.