The big race was finally here. Not really that big though. Almost average for a SoCal race actually, but it did cost spectators 3.5 Euros to get into the park--so we were happy to have 3.5 Clinkspoors to cheer us on and help with any language issues (which there weren't for the most part).
The Bailey Boys, Bart, and his son Rene--Stybar's biggest fan.
Pretty much business as usual as a typical travel race. We got there early enough to scope out some of the lines and see how they were developing in the sand. Registration was no problem and very efficient. Bart had hooked us up with trainers so we could warm up; this time we actually got going with our warm up on schedule, a solid hour before our race. We warmed up for 45 minutes, changed into our outfits and headed to the start area. We were a bit tentative, and thus, a bit early. We were hot warming up, but it was 2 or 3 °C and we had a solid 15-20 minutes until our start, which comes out to about 18 minutes metric. The callup is completely random except for any previous year's champion; was called up pretty far back, and Bailey in the row behind me--I don't know about fifth row, but the Euros totally pack in so we were completely crammed and elbowing while standing at the line. So by this time we were freezing, and I could not feel my hands for three or four laps.
I had a good start and clip-in, but otherwise it was total chaos. We were both dismounting before we even hit the first sand section--the section that we were clearing the entire stretch in practice. But here, for the both of us, was our key mistake for the entire race: once we hit the hard packed sand at the water's edge, we both tried remounting and riding; but basically, everyone else is as well, and going slow; so you're just waiting in line to go slow. In hindsight I should have simply jogged casually through the deep sand--we would have ran past 10+ guys. Had we sprinted . . .
Bailey through the sand:
After the chaos of the entire first lap, Bailey and I were pretty close to each other for the first half of the race. About half way, we hit the long road section with two or three other guys and Bailey got a gap off the front of this group. I rolled up next to them to show that I was wearing the same kit, so they'd better get to pulling my ass up this road. Bailey started catching guys, and I eventually rode off from the chasers. In the end Bailey was 22nd and I came in 28th. Neither of us really fired full on and found the course a bit tight and single-tracky without too much in the way of speed sections. The grooves and the sand were definitely a blast; and our 45 minute race required enough power through the various sand sections to make us sore the next day.
Now, after four-and-a-half months, the season was finally over, Godverdomme. When your season ends in Belgium, at least our season, you celebrate with mousel en frieten. With the rest or our Belgie family, we packed up Mr. Clinckspoor's Buick and headed to Overmeer, er somewhere, and we each these gigantic bowls of mussels, mine steamed with white wine--and of course all-you-can-eat frites. After mussels, Bart took us to Den . . . Den . . . Den Scrambled Eggs (I can't spell the name) for a nightcap. Then it was finally dessert time--to the Frituur! I had curry catsup, Bailey had Samari Sauce, and Bart did "pickles", which seems to be pickles in an orange colored mayonnaise.
Dessert:
