Cycling in Belgium – A Touring Bike, a Comfy Bed, and a Glass of Wine

A few months ago, I read a review of a new film called “The Map of Tiny Perfect Things”. Judging by the review and the trailer, it appears to be about two teens who find themselves reliving the same day again and again, Groundhog Day-style. In an allusion to the conclusion of the earlier film, they start looking for Tiny Perfect Things: moments of serendipity or quiet beauty in the course of an average day.

Now I confess that I have not actually seen the film, so maybe I am reading the wrong thing into it, but the idea of Tiny Perfect Things or more specifically Tiny Perfect Moments resonated with me.

Because there are these moments in almost every day that can be appreciated.

They can be moments of physical beauty: mist rising from a field or lake, the play of sunlight through leaves, a beautiful house, a pretty woman walking along, the sight of poppies, forget-me-nots, daisies or cornflowers, an old barn with a red roof, a church spire.

They can be moments of sensory beauty: the unexpected smell of a log fire, the waft of freshly ground coffee, the sound of birds in the trees or a cockerel on a farm, the taste of fresh cherries, the feel of wind in your hair.

Or even moments of near silence: floating through a cool forest on a spring morning; the meditation of riding up a long hill, listening to your breath and the spinning of the pedals; the silence of a lonely farm road.

But they can also be strange and sudden moments of companionship from strangers: the words of encouragement as you ride up a hill “Allez! Allez!”; a dog bounding up to you and the friendly smiles with its owner; the often unspoken bond with other bikers, joggers, hikers out on a beautiful day.

Just a few weeks ago, I went out on a 50 k ride – a completely improvised and slightly random connection of different segments of rides I had done before – and stopped after about 15 k for a drink of water. Across the street, I noticed a couple also out riding and also stopped for a drink, the girl in a bright pink top. We all moved on. About 10 k later, I passed them by the side of the road and again kept on my random route. Then about 15 k further along and many turns later, they passed me again. “Wow! Them again” And then five minutes later, as I was riding up a hill, I saw them coming down the other way, and the girl laughed and said “Hey!”. They had also noticed me…

Now this was a tiny moment and I am pretty sure that I will never see that couple again or if I do that we will not recognise each other, but that moment of companionship had me buzzing for a week and still makes me smile.

And this is part of why I ride a bike week in, week out. Because my rides through the Belgian countryside may not be filled with stunning landscapes or architectural marvels (and my photographs are usually underwhelming), but they are populated with tiny perfect moments that keep me going for the rest of the week and sustain me through these exhausting times.

There is something about the pace of cycling that makes these moments come: fast enough to see a range of sights and experiences but slow enough to appreciate them and stop to take them in.

So please be alive and alert to these moments. Don’t look for them. Let them find you by getting out and seeing the world beyond your front door. “The Doorstep Mile” as Al Humphreys calls it.

You can help engineer them, by being spontaneous, creative or just fun. creating a space or a moment for yourself or others. On Friday, in the middle of our weekly walk through the forest, my friend E pulled out three glasses and some cans of Jupiler beer and three of us sat there at a wooden table in the fading evening light, laughing, chatting and being in the moment.

But above all, watch the world around you and to be alert for the beauty. Stop. Watch. Appreciate. It is so easy to miss these tiny perfect moments when we are hurrying along or engrossed in a conversation or ruminating on our own lives.

And when you put those tiny perfect moments together? A few hours of blessed escape, of sanity, of freedom in these troubled times.

Live your life. Live your life. Live your life.

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:

Who was the fastest rider on the first climb of the Tour de France 2019, the Muur van Geraardsbergen?

And I turn to friends: “The Muur van Geraardsbergen? Bah! Easy…”

Category: Cycling in Belgium

Cycling across a map of Tiny Perfect Moments

“Belgium is flat”: Riding up the Muur van Geraardsbergen