It’s not easy being him. He doesn’t like hearing that it is. Cycling is not just a sport to fill his free time. It used to be, but not anymore. It’s not a hobby or a way to travel the world and meet new people. It has become everything that is familiar to him, all he knows. It’s not easy for a 23 year old to pack their entire life into a suitcase and head off to a foreign land for seven months. When he lands in Belgium for another racing season, he has no return ticket, no idea when he’ll cross paths with his next burrito. He never got to see the final episode of “Friends.” Want to talk about current events, new songs and movies? Don’t ask him, he has no clue. It’s the simplest things that are often the most difficult. All winter he makes new friends, and just as he begins to find his comfort zone, March arrives. Time to say goodbye. Now he’s not even sure where they live and doesn’t have e-mail addresses or phone numbers. All that was left behind for new friends in a foreign land. His new friends become his family. They don’t know each other at all, but they share the same dream. Like him, his new friends have no idea which direction is home, but they need each other’s support more than they openly admit. For the next 7 months he lives a methodical life and struggles to keep in touch. He shaves his legs every three days, counts calories and isn’t self-conscious about wearing Lycra. There are no parties, late nights or girls. He’s grown to appreciate the rewarding taste of a nice cold beer, but stops after one. He’s covered in logos, likes training hard, compression tights, taking naps and watching his weight. His life is filled with long car drives, tofu, vegetables and early nights of stretching and reading. He gets a thrill from making other people feel pain and loves being compared to a machine. His goals and dreams are his fuel. They get him so fired up he gets diarrhea. If he lets his thoughts wander, it’ll be another sleepless night. Nobody but him truly knows how many sleepless nights there really are.

He has no one to share his war of emotions with but himself. There hasn’t been a steady girlfriend as long as he can remember. “Women weaken legs,” he tells himself in a convincing manner, because for the time being his companion is a bicycle. “Bicycles never complain and are always on time,” he chuckles, covering up something hidden deeper. Despite the lonely road, he hangs tough all year. Through injury and illness, rain and hail, he never loses focus, never shows emotion. He handles the ups and downs of European cycling better than most. Most crack, he doesn’t. Cycling can be an evil bitch one moment, the sweetest angel the next. There’s no hiding, no bench to sit on, no timeouts. People never talk about the mental strength it takes, only physical talent; that upsets him. The odds are against him. Some make it, most don’t, but he tries not to think about that. Along the way come the results and the other small reassurances that put him one step closer to his goal, but they only make him dig deeper, sleep more and eat less. There’s still a rib he can’t see.

Before he knows it, the weather and his form have turned for the worse, which can only signify one thing: October, time to leave. Most have either cracked and gone home or packed their bags a week early. He packs at the last minute and leaves things behind. While most can’t wait to head home, he’s sad to leave. But that’s okay — before he knows it, it’ll be time to return.

At home in America, his second life begins, that of a normal 23 year old. He likes cold beer and attractive women. He doesn’t give a crap about your retarded Von Dutch hat. He likes how his cowboy boots make him a tall glass of water. He fears no beer and loves a good late night. He blends in with the crowd, but without his bike something’s missing. He can only go a few weeks without it. Somewhere between the time that the fifth and sixth extra pound find his ass, he begins to grow restless. He feels out of place at the bar and begins finding himself thinking about his fitness, his training and his competitors.

Let a dog roam and he’ll find his way home.

He observes the attractive girl’s mouth moving but doesn’t understand the words. All he hears is, “Wah-wah-wah [I wonder how many watts I‘m putting out right now], wah-wah-wah [I could drop anyone in this bar], wah-wah-wah.” He starts thinking of cobbles, fighting for position and the Roubaix velodrome. They’re more familiar than her words. And that’s when it begins. John Foggerty’s raspy voice wails out, “Some folks are born made to wave the flag, ooh they’re red, white and blue.” “Fortunate Son,” he just loves those lines. They excite him so much he gets diarrhea and has to leave the bar. Goodbye attractive girl, maybe next winter.

Every night his dreams find their way into a new breakaway, just killing it. He won the Tour of Flanders seven times last winter.
The sleepless nights start back up as he lies awake thinking about the Kemmelberg and the Olde Kwaremont. So he does what he knows best and begins working hard. Sacrifice and suffering are his closest friends. His focus and dedication are matched by few and admired by most. George Patton’s words fill his head, “I do not fear failure. I only fear the “slowing up” of the engine inside of me which is pounding, saying, “Keep going, someone must be on top, why not you?“ Before long beer and women get a back seat to long rides on lonely roads with only his close friends Bob Seger, Biggie, Led Zeppelin and The Doobies to keep him company. They’re the best friends he’s never met. The glycemic index now has more appeal to him than Pi Phi’s Date Dash. The obsession has begun all over again, just as it did last year. Each winter he puts more miles on his bike than he’s ever put on his car. With a small impersonal wave to his neighbors, he rolls out at 9 a.m. When he returns at 3 p.m., he’s exhausted, too tired to wave back. There’s no time to worry about their feelings, it’s early March and they won‘t increase his lactate tolerance. With Spring on the horizon he knows his moment has come. It’s time to pack his life back into a suitcase and board a plane to join his new friends. Soon he’ll be on the attack, turning dreams into reality, leaving the Euro’s to wonder what the hell got into the cowboy. Another long season of echelons and cobbled roads is about to begin.

Well I’m back again to answer one of the last questions I received. This one comes from Janet. Janet’s one of my most loyal readers and she wanted to know about the current state of Belgium’s agricultural world. Well…..um…..Belgium’s basically one big farm field. Yup, that’s it, just fields. Around here you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting a cow smack dab in the ribs. (more…)