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| Day Two route |
Waking from the hotel, we ate a healthy breakfast and studied the weather forecast. It seemed that, like yesterday, at some point today we would find rain and so dressed accordingly before we pushed off from the hotel and headed into Dunkirk town.
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| The Hotel "deck" |
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| Dunkirk town |
We rode cautiously whilst adjusting to the unfamiliar road system and took to the dedicated cycle Paths at every opportunity. After 5 miles or so, we left the traffic of the town roads and turned to ride along a straight canal.
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| Quick, grab the camera....a FEATURE! |
The road was absolutely flat and totally featureless; and the surrounding countryside matched it mile for mile....mile after mile.
A cross wind pushed down on us all the way and we found, to our surprise, that riding in flat roads was a lot more of a challenge than we had expected. Limbs, hands and necks began to ache, complaining at being locked in the same position for mile after mile and that's nothing compared to the pain in our collective arses. Not soreness (although for some this was an added joy) but rather a dull and almost constant ache.
We desperately sought variety, but like an addict in rehab we had none...at all...nadda.
On came the sweats and the delirium as we each craved the fix of a hill, a town or just a bend in the road. By the time we reached the border with Belgium, we were each suffering from enforced "cold turkey" and were individually displaying symptoms of withdrawal.
At this Point, I would have settled for a quick pot hole or a sneaky bit of broken glass...but there was to be no reprieve, we had to push through.
Eventually, far on the horizon, like a shimmering mirage, fixed in the sights of the barrel straight road we could spot a feature...was it a rooftop, a house...a town perhaps? All thoughts turned immediately to the joy of traffic, bends in the road, junctions, potholes...oh the sweet, sweet potholes.
Spurred on by the promise of a fix, our pace quickened and we rolled gratefully into the town of Verne. After enjoying a few bends, some turns and drinking in all the lovely potholes, the group settled into the cafe De Plakker for a coffee stop, whilst I went in search of a toothbrush.
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| Chris the younger, dressed for extreme coffee drinking, safety hat and all. |
After a short rest, we remounted and cycled on across the canals and headed for our midway point in the village of Diksmuide. Whilst we were treated to a few bends, the road remained flat and the wind moved about us as we switched direction from time to time. The roads, for a Saturday were mostly deserted and two abreast riding was the order of the day, encouraging banter and discussion as we rolled over the miles.
As testimony to the featureless surroundings, little else remains worth mentioning until our arrival, some 25 miles later, at the town square in Diksmuide (the Flemish like a nice square) where we gathered around a table in the Cafe De Yserpootunder, under shelter with ample bike parking, to rest our locked joints.
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| Brilliant Flemish bike-stands, complete with soft rubber grips to gently caress your frame. |
Whilst waiting for service the rain began to fall, amplified by the canopy of the bar terrace roof and slowly we watched as the roads changed hue from grey to black. After something like 30 minutes (waiting for a coke) we gave in and relocated, in the rain, to the promising looking De Vred Restaurant, where, within 10 minutes we were all tucking into something hot, hearty and full of carbs.
After lunch we set off in the now persistent rain and settled in for a wet, dirty ride. The segregated cycle lanes, while safe and well planned, tend to allow mud and sand to build up in them. Add this to 2 quarts water and mix thoroughly at a low temperature and you have the perfect recipe for a batch of filthy, crunching bikes that start to skip gears and generally complain much more than their riders.
At 25 miles, in an attempt to provide some variation, we headed off the main road onto a single track bike path and wound our way around the backs of the villages and churches. Not that there was much sightseeing to do, the rain persisted and our eyes were fixed to the few feet of slippery road surface immediately in front of the bikes.
As we rejoined the main N32 and rode through the town of Standen, we were faced with a straight road longer than any we had seen all day. A small mirage formed at the distant end and, at one point I could have sworn I saw a large aircraft taxiing for take-off.
Rain dripped from my nose and was blown off with regular puffs. To match this rhythm, the joints in the slabs of concrete that formed the cycle path pounded a monotonous beat. To finish off the symphony, my right pedal developed a creak and my left a small click, until I was a virtual one man band playing myself down the straightest most never ending road to Standen, with soggy feet and a dampened resolve
Thump,
Puff
Creak, Click
Thump,
Puff
Creak, Click
Something had to change.
And so it did. At last the rain eased off, although I was temporarily distracted by my orchestral attempts and continued to add the puffs for a good 2 miles until Jim rode along side and announced "Rains stopped".
Whilst the weather had changed, the view hadn't and the never ending road was determined to live up to its adopted moniker.
We pushed on and as our clothes began to dry the view eventually offered temptations of a variation.
Was that a roundabout ahead?
Oh the joy of steering once more! My elbows creaked as they were drafted back into service. I had to turn my head and even, as if a gift from the Gods to reward me for my patience, I was allowed to change down a whole three gears.
Chris, However, was by now suffering by some rare form of fatigue paralysis and failed to manage to move at all, sailing straight across the roundabout via the tarmac and missing out on the sweet release of excitement gained from turning his neck just a little.
After a very long, very straight while later, we rode into the town of Roselare for cake and coffee, before treating Gary to a quick cuddle with the cobblestones as he rode at a brave angle up the kerb. Whilst his body made it up, his bike refused the jump and he was thrown to the ground in front of the largely octogenarian clientèle of the Muahieu Tea rooms. We all looked in the other direction and tried as best we could to pretend he wasn't with us.
After tea and cake, we headed off, with all the time in the world, in search of a bike shop and the promise of acquiring team shirts to commemorate the ride. We rode for 30 minutes into an industrial park and eventually came across a sports shop that sold little more than bike magazines before giving up and returning to Roselare and the route home.
We stopped again in Roselare and after another attempt to acquire a toothbrush (this time successfully) Jim stocked up on masses of cleaning products and we set of through the side of the National Weilermuseum to cross a spiral bike bridge onto the banks of the Vaart Naar De Leie Canal. About a mile down the canal side we rode up to a local bike shop...right on the route...who would have thought.
Shirts were out of stock and so we pressed on for another 3 miles. Jim and I were riding to the back of the pack when we heard a shotgun in the distance before coming across the rest of the group to find Chris holding up his bike.
His rear tyre had split at the edge of its rim and the resulting exposed inner tube had exploded with force. Whilst we attempted to patch the tyre with a Tyre boot, in the hope that it would hold for the next 4 miles or so to the hotel, Jim and I were volunteered to return to the bike shop that we had passed and pick up two new tyres. It was close to 6pm and we figured that if the shop were going to close we had only a matter of minutes to make it and so at an average speed of 25mph, we flew back to the shop.
Unfortunately the shop had closed just after we had left it earlier and despite a good rattling of doors and knocking of glass, there was no-one to be seen. Jim and I rode back to find that Chris and the boys had limped on as planned so we rode on towards the hotel over a small footbridge across the canal.
When we reached the Hotel Chris had received word that we were unsuccessful and had been offered a lift by the hotel host, Karine to a friends house, where upon her friend would open up his shop and sell Chris the required tyres.
With amazing generosity, Karine refused fuel money and then offered to run us all into town to a restaurant, as her restaurant was fully booked...and then to collect us too when we were done. We were blown away with her generosity and to cap it all she provided a hose to wash down our sorry looking bikes.
The Hotel Swaenenburg is amazing.
That night we ate and drank well and, as the night went on, the restaurant was abuzz with chatter from ours and adjoining tables. Waitresses zipped back and forth with full trays of meals and drinks and the owner was as accommodating and patient as you could hope.
We ended the evening with a selection of exotic coloured drinks that seemed to eat away at the inside of the glass before heading home in the comfort of the Karines Landrover.
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| I cant look! |
About halfway home, we were suddenly aware of flashing blue lights and Karine was pulled over, to much annoyance, significant embarrassment and mutterings of universally accepted swear words.
It became apparent that as we had been seen leaving the hotel and then turned in the street, as if to avoid the police, we had become suspicious. To add to this, the smell of alcohol wafting from the Landrover was probably obvious to the police well before they stuck their head in the car window.
After some blowing into various machines, Karine proved to the enthusiastic police that it wasn't only the surrounding terrain that was on the level and then we were off ... back on track for the hotel. Full of drink and far too much food, we each waddled off to bed.
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