If you want to find yourself a nice guy, you could go for walks in the park with a cute doggie. Just look around if you find yourself in a park: dog owners do love talking to each other. Enough to talk about, since they are companions in adoration for four-footed hairballs. No wonder there’s a lot of flirting going on over the backs of the wagging shitfactories.

Of course there are women who are looking for a decent bloke, but who dislike dogs. I’ve got the perfect solution. Don’t buy a dog anyway! Barking, drooling, scratching, stinking and panting; you’ll never get used to it, not even for this higher cause. No. Buy a race bike. Take it with you on the train. I assure you: nice men will start talking to you without a doubt. It goes like this: First, they’ll study your bike from the corner of their eye.

Second, they’ll check you out. Then they’ll examine your bike a bit more thoroughly. You’ve got to keep looking the other way pretty stubbornly to avoid a conversation now. One small moment of eye contact and the guy will burst out: “Nice bike! Do you ride it frequently? Where? Do you like to climb?” – and he’ll start telling you all about his own cycling adventures. And his reflections on life itself.

Last week, for example, I met a soldier who poetically compared the battle field in Afghanistan with the battle field of a bunch sprint. I talked to an American bike fan who thought the speed bumps in the Netherlands are lethal. And the obviously lesbian railway conductor gave me a juicy wink of the eye after she found out that the cool bike belonged to me – and not to some random guy, like she’s used to.

The men who start talking to me on the train are all sporty and attractive. Some are even handsome too. Before you know it you’ve got yourself a bike date. Just like that, on the train. It only costs you 6 euros for the bike ticket (at least, in the Netherlands). You can’t even buy half a bag of Bonzo for that.

See. That’s what I mean.

Alright, my body was bruised, but actually I felt pretty okay during yesterday’s second – and epic – stage of Tour de Languedoc. A stage with over 3000 meters of climbing (don’t believe Strava, with it’s 4000 meters), and a massive headwind. If they ever tell you there’s no wind in the mountains: don’t believe it. The wind roared relentlessly.

The recoil from my crash into the car kicks in today, apparently. Man, I feel bad. But this is a stage where the riders who are not important for the general classification, like me, try to get into a breakaway. I want to be in that breakaway. So I try to get over my inertia and play my part in the game of attacking and getting caught back. The bunch is nervous. The wind blows hard, the roads are narrow and winding and we go up and down all the time.

After the gazillionth attack I’m exhausted, so I hide myself in the peloton for a short while to catch my breath. But of course, it’s always like that: at exactly this moment the breakaway goes. I grumble and try to ride to the front again. Maybe there are a couple of riders who want to bridge to the breakaway and I can join them. Suddenly, a crash at the right side of the road. I brake, pull my foot out of the pedal and have to chase back to the peloton. I struggle. I really don’t have a lot of energy today.

Back in the bunch, I see the breakaway has a gap of 45 seconds. There’s no rider from my team up there. If I want to cross – and I know I have to, because before the race we agreed there should be one of us in every breakaway – I’ve got to do it now. I wait till we’re past a small hill and attack. From the corner of my eye I see another rider doing the same. She passes me and I get into her wheel, gasping for air. Together we soar across a small bridge.

Corner to the left. Sharp corner to the left! The rider in front of me sees the corner too late. I am in her wheel still, seeing hardly anything but her back, trusting her judgement, like you have to in a bike race. The rider in front of me brakes too hard and too late and I react even later. My back wheel slips.

A moment of silence, lovely silence where I sink into, with just the soft sound of a bird singing. It’s a little pink bird.

Then my DS Dany and the race doctor, who try to help me upright. Nauseous. Djeez I feel nauseous. I can’t stand on my feet, I feel myself gliding back into the black silence time after time. I hardly hear Dany saying I’d rather not continue the race. He takes the helmet off my head. Totally broken, I hear him saying. Someone pulls my racenumber from my back, it seems. Hands hold me upright, yes please hold me, otherwise I’ll collapse, don’t you see I can’t stand on my feet right now? They help me into the ambulance.

The doctor investigates me and slowly my head gets clear again. I scour my bodyparts but I don’t see any roadrash. O wait, my right bum cheek hurts. I must have crashed on it. After a short while we pull over. The doors of the ambulance open and I see a bleeding rider, lying in the grass. The doctor motions at me, I have to get up. He conducts me into the broom wagon. The other rider gets my spot in the ambulance. O so slowly we follow the race. My buttocks get more painful by the minute, but I’ve got no choice to stay seated on them until we reach the finish line.

You were sitting on the road, upright, my teammates tell me. They passed me with the bunch right after I crashed. You sat there, looking at us. That’s why we thought you were okay. I even asked you if you were all right, adds one of my teammates. Really? I hardly believe my ears. I cannot remember a single
thing. You didn’t remember your name when I arrived, adds Dany. Were you there for a long time already when you started to help me on my feet, I ask him. Yes, we were there for several minutes. You had no idea of the day of the week, nor where you were.

I swallow once I realise that I miss a piece of memory. Five minutes, at least. Incredible. Dany shows my helmet. Almost in two pieces. I swallow again. I shouldn’t complain about bad luck, crashing twice in three days. No, on the contrary. I’ve been extremely lucky.

————————————

At night they made a brain scan in the hospital of Carcassonne, to make sure I had nothing serious. The results were okay: no damage to the brain. Just a minor concussion, but after two days of rest I hardly notice that anymore. My body though is bruised everywhere after the crashes. But I recover quickly. Being in shape has it’s advantages, not just on the bike. The other rider managed to stay upright, by the way.

After an appalling false start in Tour de Languedoc, so appalling even that we, riders, protested at the start of the first stage, the organiser of the Tour did live up to all his responsibilities in the end. There were 48 gendarmes to keep us safe, no crossing stays unattended and after the first nights in a stinky caravan with mouse dung, smelly blankets and bad food, they’ve given us better accommodation and ditto food.

During the first stage, which is actually the second one because the first stage got cancelled, I ride with my jaw dropped onto my frame. So stunning is the scenery. The French made themselves look like fools again, but my oh my, they do live in a gorgeous country. Panoramic views of the snow capped Pyrenees, fields full of poppies and corn flowers, picturesque villages; France like you only see France in films. That’s where we ride our bikes, on roads swept clean by gendarmes, nice and smooth asphalt under our wheels.

After the last climb we soar onto the plain, towards the Mediterranean Sea. The wind is blistering hard, roars in our ears, tugs our jerseys. The peloton is still complete, because the stage wasn’t difficult until now. As soon as we hit a corner and get into the crosswinds, the bunch explodes. I find myself back in the first group, until – KGGGGRRRRR – the derailleur of a Russian rider sweeps a couple of spokes out of my front wheel. I manage to keep myself upright, but I come to a standstill immediately. I put my hand in the air – to warn the jury I’ve got a mechanical, so my DS will know he has to come and help me as quick as possible.

I look over my shoulder. Tufts of riders everywhere across the long, straight road. And very far away the following cars. Shit. One by one the tufts pass me. Where is my DS? I wait and wait, with my front wheel in my hand now, and my hand in the air. If they still don’t see what’s wrong… Finally my DS arrives. “They didn’t warn us!”, the mechanic yells, while he puts a new wheel onto my bike and gives me a push. With my tongue on my shoes I chase, until I’m back in the peloton.

I am so angry that as soon as I see a good opportunity, I lift my butt and attack. And again as I’m caught. And again. And again. Until the final kilometers, where the speed is so high that attacking becomes impossible. Normally I am a big coward in a bunch sprint, but apparently the destroyed spokes gave me just that bit of extra adrenaline to manage to stay on the front. Roundabout, last corner, 500m sprint untill the finishline – I remember that from the roadbook.

There is the last corner. What we don’t see, but you would on tv if there would have been a helicopter above the peloton, are the parked cars in the street to the finishline. Business as usual in women’s cycling, we find parked cars everywhere along our courses, but of course they make things pretty dangerous. Especially in the last kilometer of a race, let alone if the cars are parked just around the corner. So what you would see coming on tv, happens.

The first seven riders sweep around the corner unscathed, yet they swerve panicky around the suddenly looming car. The eighth rider gets hit by the swaying back wheel in front of her and hits the car at full speed. I am that eighth rider. The ninth and tenth rider crash into me. The riders after us manage to save themselves, alarmed by the racket of squeaking brakes and snapping carbon.

I find myself back folded against the car, a bike that’s not mine on top of me, the chain wrapped around my elbow. The first thing I think is: SHIT! SHIT SHIT! SO FAR FOR MY TOP RESULT! I stagger upright, scramble for my bike and help the rider that crashed into me. The DS arrives and the mechanic replaces my folded back wheel. I try to get on my back again but see my handlebars are totally broken. Spare bike from the roof and off to the finish, shaking my head in disbelief, meanwhile checking my body for injuries. At first sight, they don’t seem to be too bad.

But soon the crash appears to be heavier then I thought. My elbow swells until it looks like a melon, a couple of ribs start to hurt and I see scratches and bruises over all of my backside. I fear the night that comes. Not to mention tomorrow. But hey, this is bike racing – at least, that’s our mantra. We lick our wounds and go on, smiling.

(Still shit not to have that top result, though. Shit.)

Throwback Thursday!

Only three years ago. The day after Flèche Wallone, my first World Cup race ever. Such skinny legs I had back then. Such an honour Rob Hodselmans filmed them, forever captured for posterity.

Look kids! This is what grandma did when she was young(er)!

Cameraman: Rob Hodselmans
Music: Glenn Corneille, edit of Jeff Buckley’s “Grace”

We’ve just passed the second climb in the local lap. About 30 riders; that’s what is left of the buch. At top speed we ride towards the village of Dahlem. With only 30 kilometers to go, girls attack continuously. One after the other. I’m very active too, because this is the most thrilling game there is. For a moment, things seem to quiet down, just in front of me. My speed is still high, so why not, and I go – assuming some girls will catch my wheel.

After a couple of seconds I glance back. Gap. I look once more. A pretty big gap, even. I’m all alone. What to do? Race on, I guess. The road drags slightly uphill, I try not to slow down. I look back again. The gap is bigger. Then I see someone coming. Alone. Blue, white and black. It looks like someone of Sengers. It is Anna van der Breggen. Moments later a Rabobank-rider crosses. Lucinda Brand joins us. Anna and I work hard. Lucinda just sits in the wheel. Her teammate, Marianne Vos, is in the group behind, so she’s not allowed to work.

We race towards the first climb. It’s gambling, but I feel Anna wants to try to do the same as I do: stay away. Try to make it to the finish. Of course I’ve been calculating already: Anna was 10th in the prologue, I was 11th and Lucinda 15th. If we make it, we’ll be 1, 2 and 3 in the general classification. If we’ll be caught back, my teammates Carlee and Ashleigh didn’t spend any unnecesary energy and will hopefully be able to finish it off.

Anna rides uphill in a blistering pace. I almost drop, Lucinda passes me, I can just hold her wheel. People are yelling, I hear my name, cheers from the crowd in the climb. At the top I swallow the pain and…

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Photo: Anton Vos