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There is just one thought in my mind as I shower and kit up:

Tomorrow’s behind, Today lies ahead

Actually there’s possibly an extra thought – “don’t fall getting the bike down those steep stairs“.

I need to add a note here on the nature of this entry. The views expressed in the account of parcours #1 are purely my own. They are authentic to my experiences at the time, but it must be understood these reflect as much on my mental and physical state as they do the actual route. I know some riders at the tail shared similar feelings but I’m sure many other riders did not, and enjoyed the challenge of the parcours. I do comment on the nature of the parcours in terms of how I felt as I rode it. But none of what is written here is intended as a criticism towards the organizers of TCR No. 8 in any way.

Once again, I’m dead to the world when the alarms go off. Hauling myself out of the bed I survey the untidy mess of gear across the room. Getting ready today is going to be a two stage affair with the bike down in the garage. First I have to get myself kitted up, for which the hotel has kindly provided me a conventionally easy-to-operate kettle and tea to lubricate the process. Second is lugging bags down to the basement and loading up the bike, passing reception along the way to collect my packed breakfast – which turns out to be an entire paper bag’s worth of goodies. Some of the contents get scoffed whilst I potter around with the bike. The rest gets stuffed in my feed bag and back pockets

Bollocks!

A chorus of alarms drags me out of the depths of sleep, both my watch and phone nagging me to get up. I can’t recall any long distance ride where I’ve fallen asleep so quickly, and slept so soundly – there were some pretty lurid dreams too which I remember mentioning to Yoli, but for which the details have now gone. As I potter around the room repacking my gear and attempting to make tea nothing is overly sore either. My bum is rarely a problem area anyway, but my hands and feet were worryingly painful last night and both now feel like they can handle another round in the blender. The only black spot on the morning is that tea. I totally stuff up the unfamiliar brewing contraption, covering myself and the furniture in near boiling water in the process. If I wasn’t a stubborn Brit I’d probably have given up, but tea has a near mythical property for me in the morning and on a second, more careful, inspection I figure my mistake and manage a half decent cuppa to go with a couple of muesli bars. The few minutes delay is more than worth the calm bliss this brings.

0km – the start – 22:00 24 July 2022

The atmosphere at the start alone would bring me back to TCR every year. The plug of riders compresses together as we funnel under the Start banner, and then fans out again into the slightly wider channel beyond, flanked either side by a cacophony of cheering supporters, clanging bells, and the wafting heat of those torches. I’m already mounted up and pedalling slowly as we pass under the banner. As soon as the space opens in front of me I stamp on the pedals – the rough cobbles are every bit as steep as I remember and I spin like mad to get up and over them with some semblence of balance. It’s a frenetic, somewhat chaotic start but it’s done in seconds and I’m cresting the rise onto brand new smooth tarmac (did they lay this just for us?). I barely have to back pedal before Nico is alongside. The road is closed and we have space all around us as we begin the cruise back down into town. We’re not racing yet – this part is to be enjoyed. We exchange banter about keeping an eye out for dangerous kerbs (a reference to my near mishap in 2017). Other riders slide past us, and we do the same as the throng jostles and settles into position. Once we are around the town, the gloves will come off and we’ll be racing for space on the narrow ramps of the Muur.

Friday 22 July 2022

I guess I have some explaining to do. I mean how does one get from the previous blog post where I questioned my desire for more long distance riding, to sitting on the tarmac at Heathrow watching baggage handlers load my bike box into a plane bound for Brussels and another TCR. I can’t even blame it on hallucinations – the lurid blue smurfs decorating the inside and outside of the plane are actually there (apparently the national animal of Belgium). The answer starts in the middle of an unusually mild British Winter.