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

There are days I wish I wasn’t a cyclist.

Days when my boyfriend calls me in a small voice to tell me he’s got the flu. Fever, dizzy, nauseous. He says I’d better not come home, even though we didn’t see each other for almost two weeks, because he doesn’t want to infect me just before Flèche Wallonne. He will manage, I can’t do anything for him and he’s of no use for me. Says he.

On those days I’d long to jump in the car anyway. For him, to take care of him. And for me, to be at home a couple of days, to sleep in my own bed and have my own stuff around me. I was really looking forward to that. I don’t want to wander…

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The Spring classics are over. For the first time in my life I raced them all and now I’m tired. That’s why I take a short break. No racing for ten days to make sure I’m fit again next weekend in Luxembourg.

Rest and think things over. With a smile – a broad one even. I finished eighth in Ronde van Drenthe and 14th in Trofeo Alfredo Binda. I had good legs but bad luck in Ronde van Vlaanderen. To conclude, I finished 19th in Flèche Wallonne last Wednesday. I’m currently 14th in the World Cup ranking – a ranking I’ve never even been in before. The Spring has been good for me. Much better then I expected.

This all came after a season in which I didn’t get to do one single World Cup event, a season in which I felt strong but got exactly zero chances. A season in which the DS told me during the February training camp: “If it would have been up to me, you wouldn’t have been in this team. You’re not good enough. The level is way too high for you.”

An entire season long I’ve been told I had nothing, absolutely nothing to do in the big races. That I’d better just quit bike racing. That I never amounted up to anything, and never would.

A season in which I didn’t get to race the World Championships Team Time Trial, my biggest dream of all. I had proven to be a better time triallist than three of my teammates who did make it into the bronze medal team.

During a season like that it’s almost impossible to keep confident. I really lost faith a couple of times. Why was I doing this? Why did I train so hard? Why did I give it all for my team mates in races, while no one saw my effort, let alone appreciate it? Was I wrong, did I think too highly of myself? Did I have the wrong image of myself as a cyclist? Wouldn’t it be better to just quit, indeed?

In the Ster Zeeuwsche Eilanden, a small stage race in Zeeland just before the women’s Giro, I hit rock bottom. I really wanted to do the Giro – just like most of my team mates. The final selection hadn’t been made yet. We all got the chance to prove ourselves that weekend, to prove we belonged in the Giro team, the DS told us by email. A short while later he phoned me telling me that my team mates got the opportunity to prove themselves but that it didn’t apply to me. He wouldn’t take me to the Giro anyway, he said.
A slap in the face would have been less painful. I realized it didn’t even matter what I did. I could finish last, or I could win the whole damn race. I could even stay at home: it wouldn’t make a difference. Why the DS called me before this weekend and not after – so I could keep thinking I had a fair chance – is still beyond me. My morale has never been lower than during that race. Crying on the bike. It was horrible.

The contrast with this season couldn’t be bigger. I had a good winter, thanks to my coach Ingrid Paul. I found a team and a DS who have a lot of faith in me. I get to do the big races now. It’s all going really well. But it’s still hard to really truly believe in myself, to not feel so insecure anymore. The feeling I don’t really belong here is still vivid. I still feel that my latest results were just a coincidence. Of course I know that finishing top 20 in all World Cup races can not be a coincidence. But still.

This feeling roots deep. The first thing I yelled to my boyfriend and parents after I finished eighth in Drenthe was: “See! I can do this!” It will take a while before I can finally shift that nasty feeling I had last season. But it’s so good to see that things can be different, that perseverance does pay off. With a lot of gratitude towards all the people who had and still have faith in me.

Photo: Tom Peeters