Finlay and I never really knew each other growing up. Chamonix is a small place, so naturally, I’d heard of him. He’d be around for a few weeks here and there, over the summer and Christmas. But never as much as the friends of mine that lived in the valley full-time. It was only during COVID when I got to know him. He and I had both come back to our family homes to spend lockdown in the mountains. As the restrictions loosened, a group of friends would meet up to ride bikes up and down the valley. The bars were shut, the volleyball court was shut, house parties weren’t allowed. This riding group became one of the main ways to meet up with friends for a chat or a socially distanced coffee.
Finlay has become one of my best friends. We share ideas, concerns, opinions. Last week we went on a bike trip through the Flanders, to check out what is arguably one of the hotspots of modern day cycling.
Finlay took the train up from Chamonix via Paris. I took a train from London to Dover and then hopped on the ferry to Dunkirk. We met up in a roadside hotel late that Friday night and set off early with tired eyes, craving espresso and pastries. Needless to say, Dunkirk isn’t really the place for that. More of an 8am calvados and cigarette situation. But hey! We had our carbs and caffeine and set off.
I had planned a cobble heavy 450km loop from Dunkirk, through Ghent, Geraardsbergen and Lille.
The route took us along the channel, crossing into Belgium relatively quickly. I hadn’t seen Finlay in a while, so we had a bunch to catch up on. So much that our first pit stop came quicker than expected: Ostend.
Ostend was everything I could expect from a seaside Belgian town in September. Buildings on the coast looking out on a long flat beach, fast food stands selling chips with mayo and sand covered cycling paths.
Full of potato and chilli mayo, we pushed on across the Belgian countryside hopping from one cycle path to another all the way to Ghent. On the way we had to dip into Bruges, not to see the hordes of retired American tour groups but to taste the real thing. My impression of Belgian waffles shifted fast. Growing up, the only version I knew was the cold, waxy packet I’d grab after school; the fresh one finally made sense of those sugary crunchy bits I’d never really understood before.
Bruges was grab and go. We wanted to get to Ghent.
After nearly 160km of riding and a few torrential downpours, we checked into our place but we wasted no time. With only one night in Belgium we had to get on the local beers.
“OMG that one is 12%, lets gooo”
One. Two. Three. Kaput. We blamed the length of our ride, but the beers were doing the majority of the damage.
Hungover, the next day we set out slowly, hoping the cobbles would shake out the beers from the night before. The day was far from smooth. I had linked together as many Ronde climbs that I could without looping. The Ronde Den Vlaaderen is an iconing spring classic (big day race), notourious for slippery cobbles and agressive riding. With a bunch of these punchy climbs to choose from, we put our bikes and wrists to the test and went for the Paterberg, the Muur van Geraardsbergen, the Koppenberg, and the Oude Kwaremont. More than enough for our heavy legs.
The climbs were so steep and bumpy that you’d have to balance not going too fast to not burn out mid-18% climb, but also not go too slow to avoid tripping your front wheel on the odd lopsided cobble.
With 80km left on the day we quickly shook the lactic out of our legs and continued toward the French border.
A loop of the iconic Roubaix track and we slowly made it to Finlay’s friend’s place who was hosting us for the night. Saturdays in Lille call for one thing: beers. We couldn’t really say no, despite wanting the bed.
Back at 1 a.m., up at 8. We woke early, grabbed burnt coffee in a PMU bar that still smelled like it had been pouring Kronenbourg hours before, and then rode into a headwind, racing just to stay on schedule. The Nord-Pas-de-Calais delivered everything it’s known for: endless flatland, potato farms, and stubborn grey skies. Fatigue blurred the ride; conversation faded. We tried to catch a train at Hazebrouck to skip some distance, but French rail strikes and delays kept us in the saddle. We pushed harder, fighting wind and time, and finally rolled back into our original meeting spot from day one.
Given our respective rushes to catch our rides home, we unclipped, hugged and parted ways. Another great weekend adventure, paving (or cobbling) the way for many more to come.
If you’re interested in riding the route, check out these links.