Liege-Bastogne-Liege

Three Nights in Belgium and the Tough Guys Tumble. Or would have tumbled had they tried to mess with us.

Belgium. The land of Eddie Merckx.

Where the waffles are fresh, the streets are cobbled, you can nevigate a river all the way to Turkey, and all your a's turn into q's when you type. Also, the land where the bus station will be shut down and turned into the warmup area for cyclists.

This was not your ordinary bike race. Liege Bastogne-Liege is the oldest cycling classic; and the first true test for the climbers in early season cycling. One day, 25 teams, 250 riders, 262 kilometers, and five americans united under the 100 Meters To Go sign and a chicken flag.

Upon arriving in Belgium, I set off on a quest to speak french; which quickly turned into an escapade of just-try-not-to-speak-spanish-to-everyone-because-otherwise-they'll-speak-it-back-to-you-and-then-you're-REALLY-screwed. Friday I checked into my hostel and quickly met a new friend named Tim; another american traveling for the bike race. Together we set off toward town and split up to find out the most information avaliable on the race...which was not a ton. Tourist information turned out to be tourist lack of information, which did no one any good because it just set us off harassing random officials.

And people who looked official.

I came back that night to meet my two roomates; the smallest Japanese girls with the biggest obsession for cycling I have ever seen. Immediately I was presented with pictures taken of Discovery Channel from the races they had already been to this season, and the entire history of ever single lead rider. Impressive. They also told me the exact schedule of the presentation, and where I should stand for pictures, and that they were going to the race at 6 AM because they were small and needed a spot up front.

Being a massive individual, I wished them luck.

Saturday was spent at the Presentation ceremony, which is cycling's response to the pep rally. I don't know. It was all in french, all 250 riders were announced, and at one point the band was playing "I Will Survive." The most ilportant part of the presentation is the vast collection of what Tim calls swag...random free stuff you recieve from race sponsors. While points are awarded for quality, quantity is what you are going for. Back at the hostel, I met Jane, a fellow Coloradan, and my new roomate and race companion. Jane, Tim, and I proceeded to come up with a plan for the next day. At several points it included us stealing cars, bribing team drivers, and undoubtedly ending up in the middle of Belgium with no hope of getting back, but hey we had each other. We ended up deciding to focus on the start in Liege, and then head toward the jumbotron and the sprint finish.

Sunday. Race day. Beautiful day. Jane, Tim, and I grabbed breakfast at the hostel (breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and when it's free it becomes...um...well the mostest important meal of the day). We set off to Saint Lambert, where the pros were already out. Not the riders, but the people who know where exqctly to stand, and have no qualms about being there at all hours of a Sunday morning. Big change from Spain. But the sun was out, the wind was calm, and the street was packed with fans and officials and police.

Jane, Tim, and I watched the team buses pull in. Discovery Channel was first to arrive and pulled into the corner away from everyone else to warm up by themselves. And then from dowjn the street, with reggae blasting and swag cars trailing, the course car pulled to the start with team bus after team bus following. They filled the plaza, they filled the bus station, 25 teams taking over central Liege. All 250 riders were then announced again; in case we forgot that it was a bike race.

We didn't.

But whatever.

Then it was time to race. In cycling this means almost time to stop walking around like we're the greatest ever. But first, the pretend start. Or, the ceremonial start, as they prefer. Where the riders leisurely start (or leisurely catch up, if they missed the start), and pedal until they get out of town.

And then...foot to the pedal and pedal to the metal.

Which we actually didn't see. A bike race is impossible to watch in real life; it's not like cros-country where you can run to different stages of the race to cheer riders on. Instead you go eat a bunch of fried food and drink beer, and hope there are some riders left when you make your way for the finish that will occur six hours later. So first we headed to the Sunday Liege market; two kilometers of crepes, waffles, frites, random junk, and the biggest rabbit ever seen. Also a gigantic chicken. The three of us people watched, grabbed some lunch, and ate along the river before taking off on the next adventure.

Which was leaving the Thanksgiving rabbit to its own devices and jumping on a bus to the town of Ans to watch the finish. We staked our claim on the starboard side of the race right under the 100 meter sign. The captains of swag raised their yellow flag with the red chicken, and hung their free grocery store hats from the sign and watched the race on the jumbotron. We were joined by Sandi and Chris, a couple from St. Louis that we met that morning, and proceeded to wait.

And wait some more.

The riders pass in about a second, but it takes a while to get to that second. So you wait and watch them on the screen. Time goes by, and the crowd grows. Time goes by and more flags (of actual countries (except the basques (and the flemish))) appear. Time goes on and all of a sudden, the course car blasting its horn and reggae music comes by with the sponsor cars and more swag. Time keeps going and you have more cars...cops, organizers, team cars, each car that comes is going faster and faster and you know the racers are approaching. Motorcycles come...more cops, TV cameras, race officials. And then...overhead, you hear the thumping of the helecoptor. Not just any helocoptor. The helecoptor. The one that is showing that race you usually watch on your couch.

Then, 15 guys going 50 kilometers an hour after 261.8 miles zoom around the corner and give it all till the finish. And it's the Liberty Seguros guy...no it's Rabobbank...no CSC.....AAAAAH! The finish!

And then you run to the presentation area so you can a) see the ceremony, and b) figure out who actually won. More trophies, more congratulations to all, and then the race is over, and already almost broken down by the time we say our goodbyes to Sandi and Chris and head back for the bus...but not without a couple more pens and some signs. Swag for swag's sake. Fitting ending to an awesome weekend.

Watching a cycling race takes extreme patience and appreciation of anticipation for the moment. Because it really is a lot of time invested for only one moment. A lot of pressure on that moment.

"So what's the appeal?" asks the American sports fan.

The appeal is that is ridiculously fun when you have great company to share it with.