Mobjack Bicycling

The Mathews Freewheelers will be leading a ride from Williams Wharf on Sunday, May 20.  The Freewheelers are a loosely knit group of riders who usually meet at the Best Value parking lot on Sundays at 2PM.  This week, though, they are meeting at 9 AM at Williams Wharf.

The speed during Freewheeler rides tends to stay between 15 and 22 mph most of the time, with a few sprint points thrown in for fun.  For riders who like to push a little and want to go for a quick ride  without having to worry about looking for direction signs and with a group that has a good feel for the local riding conditions, this is an ideal ride.  The group stops for mechanical problems affecting a single rider. There is almost always someone willing to ride a little slower when it is necessary to provide support for a straggler — and almost always someone willing to ride a little faster when competitive juices flow.

Come out and ride with Mathews County’s own bicycle group and get to know some folks who would be glad to see you again on Sundays in the future!

Mathews County is a destination for may bicyclists because we have flat roads, pretty water views, some friendly spots for meals and lightly traveled (by automobiles) roads.  There is a lot to attract advocates of long slow rides and one place to get information on how to enjoy these rides and to purchase some of the equipment necessary is Dovetail Bicycles.

Welcome home to the Belgium Boys.  We enjoyed the posts from Belgium, France and Germany and the accounts of riding in the rain.  Perhaps it is fitting that the first Sunday ride post Belgium should be rained out.  At least it was nice to have the option of not participating in a rainy ride, I suspect!

Yesterday, April 16th, we peddled into Germany.  The line between Vaals (Netherlands) and Aachen (Germany) is pretty much non-existent.  One wonders if any recent annexation has occurred or been attempted. 

It was a bit cool, but tolerable as we made our way east the 30 kilometers to Aachen.  Once there however, the temperature dropped and it became dark and ominous.  Go figure it would be dark and ominous in Germany.

We toured Charlemagne’s Cathedral, where at one time over a millenia ago, all power in this part of Europe originated.  Go figure the Germans would at one time or another want to consolidate and rule a much larger area. 

We then visited a nearby establishment for a late lunch and a German beer.  Jim had a Pilsner, while Rod and Dale each had a dark beer.  Jim commented the German beer had a crisper, purer taste.  We’d already learned that in Germany one must follow the rules and make beer a certain way so as to ensure the purity of the German product.  Go figure the German’s would have a concern about purity.

We each ordered an authentic German meal, enjoyed it immensely, and then headed back to the Netherlands.

The invasion of Germany is considered a success, even if we can’t say for certain when or where we actually crossed the border.

The individual in the photo had a write up in an American magazine a few years ago and was referred to as the beer version of a particular soup purveyor on the Seinfeld comedy a few years ago.

That description is dead on.  He calls his patrons victims.  He asks you what you’d like, then tells you what you’ll get.  You can’t even tell him the kind of beer you want because you’re thinking in color, and he insists you close your eyes and think of taste and smell.  In the end, you surrender and hope for the best.  Everyone seems to get something different based on the Bar owner’s interpretation of his individual victim.  He insults you, and smokes and drinks at your table.  He gives you peanuts but warns against leaving shells in the ashtray or on the table.  “The shells go on the floor.  If you put the shells on the table, I will put your beer on the floor.  The shells do not go in the ashtray.  They could start a fire.  Don’t make me show you what I do when I find shells in the ashtray.” (OK I may have taken a small liberty with that one.)  It was absolute abuse however for the two hours we were there.  He was very clear about each of us having free will.  You choose to come in here, and you may choose to leave.

When we weren’t suffering, others were.  It was hilarious.  When he gave me my first glass, he made me drink the last swallow (presumably having to do with brewer’s yeast) from the bottle.  Then I was required to sniff the glass, take a drink, swish it from side to side, and then swallow.  At that exact moment I believe his words were something to the effect of, “Zuipen kreng!”  (You translate from Dutch, alstoblieft) I did what I was told. 

He was pleased to know we came from America.  He wanted each of us to know his ability to speak and write in our language.  To that end, he wrote, “U Naait Het Steeds”  This was a clear expression of his appreciation for our country.  (You translate from Dutch, alstublieft). 

The man knows his craft.  As we were leaving he showed me the articule and made me read it aloud to the others.  Never before has the press been so accurate on any subject.

Everybody behaves in his bar, except to the extent he allows or encourages them to do otherwise.

The Take One bar is a must visit, if you have the nerve.

Internet access has been limited for us, so we are far behind in the description of our travels.  Our chief scribe and songwriter did pour forth his heart and soul in response to the three day journey fom Tournai to Maastricht, but we have not done justice yet to our stay in Tournai.

Our first impression was that Walloon drivers were more intense and much less welcoming of the Three Cycling Stooges (”Providing low brow entertainment on a highly consistent basis…”).  To which my response was, of course, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke; time to ride with a little more edge to our style.”  This, however, was a bit easier to say than do with packs on our backs.

Be that as it may, we arrived alive and upright and were welcomed by the helpful proprietoress of our hotel.  That night at dinner we met the spirit of Tournai and were completely won over.  Anthony is the front man of a generally two man operation at L’ Ecu de France, an excellent and very comfortable restaurant across the central square from our hotel.  I must explain that it is usually our practice on this trip to wander about town looking for different restaurants each evening.  But not in Tournai … we ate every evening meal at L’ Ecu.  The food there is very, very good.  The French influence in Wallonia shows to great advantage in this aspect of its culture.  And Anthony was a most welcoming, energetic and entertaining host.  He is also a prodigious cyclist: he has ridden his bike from Tournai to Jerusalem (see http://wanderer72.canalblog.com).  What more need I say? We, too, were prodigious, though more in our appetites than in our performance.  We downed great quantities of L’Ecu’s food and beer.  At the end of our stay, one of us was heard to say, “Oh shit, hammered again.”

[At this point let me make a brief aside to say that we have been met with friendliness and good humored assistance from almost all the people cast in our way on this trip (remember, “Providing low brow entertainment, etc….”).  There was one incredibly bitchy exception in a bike shop whose name and location in a certain Wallonian city shall remain unspecified.  Putting that experience aside, three lost little lambs could not have asked for better shepherds along the way than the Belgian people.]

One interesting current fact about Tournai is that it will be the finishing town for the second stage of the Tour de France.  To keep the excitement of this event in the minds of its people, the powers that be have placed a giant yellow jersey on the side of the bell tower at one end of La Grande Place (that’s “town square” for those of ya’ll who don’t parlay the fransay).  We thought it only appropriate to echo this sentiment on the occasion of the arrival of the Freewheelers with an equally lovely yellow jersey hung from the opposite end of the Place.

Hello Mutha, hello fatha, It rains in Belgium, more than I thoughta, Rode all day long, in nasty weather, My underwear is drying on the radiator. Oh the hills they are so deceptive, Relax, it’s Belgium, they’re so receptive, The land resembles the Midwest farm fields, And then you climb something like West Virginia coal fields. Seventy-five clicks in the saddle, I’m wet in places, didn’t know I had ‘em, Got off the bike and it’s still raining, So I sit here typing just a bit complaining. At a farm house out, in the country. It’s very scenic yes, but now I’m hungry, Three clicks into to town’s, more than I am willing, I guess my stomach tonight I will not be filling. 

The owner’s knocking now, on my room door, How much mud have I, tracked onto her floor? She’s off’ring a ride, three clicks into town, It’d be an ugly response if we turned her offer down. There’s a church in Nevilles, that is very old, Six hundred AD, or so I am told, It’s the oldest, in the country, I took a picture, and remembered I’m still hungry. At the rest’rant, I carbo-loaded, Don’t understand it, but I’ve been sold it, I hope the noodles do the job when, I wake up tomorrow, and I do it again. Tomorrow morning, back in the saddle, Rain or sunshine, what’s the matta? Without the rain gear, I’m soaking all wet, With the rain gear, I get to baste in my own sweat. 

Haven’t lost the weight, I had hoped to, Grimbergen Bier is not, what I am used to, Something tells me, this poem is near end, I need some sleep so I can do this again. Hello fatha, hello mutha, Back in the saddle, for anotha 80 clicks or so, it’s on to Huy (Who-wee), The clouds are heavy and they’re laughing right above me. My knees are creaking, my back is aching, My bike is squeaking, a fire’s breaking, Where I’m sitting, it is rattled, Dear God I must soon climb down from this saddle. Huy was built by some guy Napoleon, It’s on a river, that much I do know, We walked a mile up hill, to Mur de Huy, We missed it but we suffered miserably. 

Now on to Maastricht, where there’s more flat land, We rode through thick mud, it was like quick sand, Now what’s before me, is not what I guessed, A freaking hill they call Saint Nicholas. It goes forever, and never ceasing, Onward and upward, there’s no decreasing, The angle of assent, is beyond belief, This saddle offers me no real relief. And so we are now here, but in a quandary, The internet is down, and there’s no laundry. I’ll shower with my clothes, and wring them later, It’s back to drying on the radiator.  So good bye father, goodbye mutha, Bit more expensive than I thoughta, The bier’s the best here, and very able, I’d like another, If I could get up from the table. Anonymous

When we watched the Ronde van Vlaanderen, there was much race to go after the racers passed our position.  At that point, we did not know how the race had developed nor how it would end.  Fortunately, we were able to watch most of the rest of the race on TV at a local bar.

 At Paris-Roubaix, we were stationed at a point close enough to the end of the race so that we knew that Tom Boonen would win if nothing bad happened to him.  He was alone at the head of the race with a lead of more than a minute, and he looked strong and determined.  No one who passed by after him looked nearly as strong, though incredibly strong they were.  The pain of the route and of the effort to try to catch Boonen was carved into their faces.  We were privileged to get a close glimpse of this struggle.

Mike was right.  There were hooligans there.  “Hooligan”, by the way, is a Flemish word that means crazy Americans knocked on their asses by Belgian beer.

Cycling in Belgium is an amazing experience.  The country has a system of bike paths along canals and rivers that makes getting from one city/town to another a real pleasure.  The cities have bike lanes, sharrows (shared lanes) and many low speed cobble stoned roads.  We have seen many different type of cyclists during our travels…from old men and women riding for pleasure or to the market, to mothers carrying 2-3 kids around town, to college students riding at all hours of the day and night.  Along the canals we have seen more recreational cyclists.  We have been know to catch the wheel of fast cyclists (or a slow scooter) that have the nerve to pass us!  During one ride we came upon the Movistar Racing Team out on a training ride.  We immediately PASSED them.   Why didn’t they try to catch us when we looked back at them?  (A) Was it because they didn’t want to change their pace during an organized training ride that was only one day before a big race?  (B) Was it because they knew that they had met their match?  (C) Or was it because they were heading in the opposite direction?  If you voted for “A” you don’t know the male ego.  If you voted for “B” we will buy you a drink when we come back to town! (It will not be as good as what we are currently drinking!)