A few weeks ago, I was out hiking near Brussels with a bunch of expats. As the hike progressed, I asked them whether they enjoyed living in Brussels. I got the typical snorts of derision over the weather, the dirtiness, the dysfunctionality of public administrations, and how boring and flat Belgium was.
And so I said “What about the Muur van Geraardsbergen?” He had never heard of it, but did admit that Belgium had what he called “the Ardens”
Now I am not pretending that Belgium is mountainous: far from it. Its ski slopes are risible and there are no long cols to rival France, Spain or Italy. But it does have some short and sweet hills that can get the lactic juices flowing and even give the pros something to smart at.
And most famous of all is the “Muur van Geraardsbergen” or “Mur de Grammont”. As epicroadrides.com describes it, it is the Mont Ventoux for Belgian cyclists, often the defining moment of many Tours of Flanders. epicroadrides.com says that “The last 100 metres of the climb represent some of the most photographed real estate in all of cycling.”
Last June, with the Tour de France about to stage the Grand Départ in Brussels, I suggested to friends that we try to ride the first stage, not all in one go, but in two or three rides. In the end, it was only two of us and we only managed to ride the first 80km and never got around to the rest, but it did still give us the chance to take on the Muur and the succeeding hill, the Bosberg.
After calmly cycling out of central Brussels through Molenbeek (or as Katie Hopkins referred to it: “a jihad capital”) and meandering through the foothills to the west of Brussels for 40km, we hit the town. I am daunted. It has such a reputation, such a history. The tales of cyclists cracking are legendary.
And yet the entrance is so innocuous: there is no huge hill looming in the distance, no Tower of Mordor scanning you balefully. Instead a few outskirts and then a fine entrance to the town proper: a narrow bridge across a small river.
But then, once you are around the corner in the narrow streets, it suddenly opens up before you ominously like an optical illusion: everything turned at 45 degrees, an upturned plate of jelly, a looming grey wall with a seemingly vertical road opening out into the main square. Everything seems off wack, sliding downhill towards you.
So you head up gingerly, mild cobbles – of course – warning you of what is to come and as you head up the main square, the cobbles get more and more fierce.
And just to taunt you, some joker from the local council has put tiles on the road marked “Start” to tell you that what you have already been up was not even the welcome cocktail, the amuse-bouche offered by the house, it was at best the cloakroom and possibly only the driveway.
And on either side are cafes full of locals who have seen it all before: the fools trying to test themselves, full of optimism on the way up and returning on the way down like survivors of an epic mountain climb, shell-shocked and beaten or triumphant and beaming.
You skim the corner left then right, passing the Sint-Bartholomeuskerk before the road tightens up another couple of notches, a long straight line before you turn 90 degrees and it “flattens out”, still pushing you but now only 3-4%.
As we went through that day, the streets had fencing around them, waiting for a triathlon to come the other way. A mother, possibly thinking that we were leaders of the main race, stopped and applauded our pathetic efforts and encouraged her children to do the same. I felt unworthy but it boosted me.
Now on the narrow straight, my friend has shot off, determined to teach me a lesson. I have lost him in the twists and turns, so I am relying on my GPS, and the brown signs with “Muur” and a bicycle on them.
And then the route flicks left and the road narrows still further and then at the end, you turn right and are on the fabled path to the top, closed off to traffic with a bollard, barely 3 meters across with a severe camber on both sides.
And still the gradient is getting steeper and there is no room for error: no wonder that on race day, so many cyclists find themselves stranded with no room to move. You either keep going straight up or you are off and there is no trying to get going again: 14-15% with rough cobbles: not a chance. My legs are straining, my heart is pounding, and my right hand is desperately and pointlessly clicking at the gear shift in the hope of a finding a lower gear.
The path curves round in a sort of U: to my surprise, as I come to the middle part of the U, I see the friend who has left me for dust a few minutes earlier now struggling and definitely within range. I had no intent to race him: merely to make it to the top, but hey, why not? I am closing, closing, but unfortunately, he sees me slightly too early as we turn the final corner and with the gradient easing off, just has enough to push to the splendid chapel that sits at the top, with me right behind him, closing for the kill.
It is awesome. It is magnificent. I want to do it again.
But instead we pause for photos and a well-earned drink of water, before dropping casually down the other side, My friend has burnt himself out, so spotting him weakening on the cobbles as we head up the milder but still 5-7% Bosberg, I take revenge and sprint past him half the way up, not even looking behind, not slacking the pace until I am sure the hill is over and he is well behind, only then turning round to see him coming in a satisfying ten seconds later. Every dog has its day.
Belgium, flat? Give me a break…
A few weeks later, the Tour goes through. Here is Cycling Weekly’s report:
And I turn to friends: “The Muur van Geraardsbergen? Bah! Easy…”
Great story thank you Crisp! I didn’t know we had such epic climbs near Brussels 😊