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Written by: Colin Batchelor

So you dream of racing your bike in France? You long for the day when you can line up on the start line in Belgium? you can’t wait for the flag to drop in Italy?

Take my advice – stay at home. It’s safer, it really is.

I’ve made regular trips to the European mainland to ‘Live the Dream’. Sadly my dreams mostly involve waking up in the small hours screaming, just as the crazy axe murder starts to swing. But being chased by an axe wielding maniac is often preferable to racing in Belgium. I’ve a friend who was in a break in Belgium race, he was determined to give it everything, as were 9 other riders, sadly there was one guy who was intent on sitting in. As the break established a good lead other riders kept speaking to the passenger, at first politely asking him to work and then as time passed shouting abuse at him in a vain attempt to get him to do something. Eventually one of the workers went alongside him and as they passed a field simply pushed him into a drainage ditch. At this point my friend basically rode for his life, in an attempt to avoid a similar fate. The break stayed away and our hero survived to come last in the sprint, but had the honor of being congratulated by the chief commisare for working so hard in the break. That his performance was clearly driven by fear was never commented upon.

I finally gave up racing in France after riding a 90 minute nocturne in a small French town. The course perhaps 2 or 3 kilometres long, but only the finishing straight of 500 meters was lit, the rest seemed to be through an industrial estate where there was a dim street light every 300meters. From the start I was sprinting like crazy just to stay in contact, we swung round parked cars, bounced over pot holes and cobbles and every few minutes would hear a voice over the loud speaker urging us to greater feats of stupidity. I had no idea where I was, I could have been in the winning break or off the back, all I knew was that there was a wheel in front of me that I was fighting to stay on. At some point the wheel in front of me stopped and so did I, were we lapped? Was it the sprint for the podium? Were we disqualified? To this day I have no idea, the only thought I had was ENOUGH. It took me several hours to regain the power of speech and several days before I could ride the bike without screaming.

But if finishing in the peloton is bad, try winning. Well I say winning, all I ever won in France was the odd prime and never has the word odd been so accurately applied. Racing in a country where you have a limited understanding of the local language presents a problem, the problem is that you’re never quite sure what the heck is going on. I normally apply one simple rule: If the guy next to you starts going like crazy so do you. Now this is a great idea, until the commentator announces a prime on the next lap and you quite understand what the prime is for. Still it’s a prime eh? That’s gotta mean cash right? OK, here we go, all out effort, full gas, put the hammer down. However you describe it the result is the same you win the prime, whooo, hang on there, wasn’t that a bit too easy? Maybe they’re being generous? Maybe you’re actually pretty good at this bike racing lark? Maybe you should learn the language so that when the commentator announces ‘Prime next lap, the prize is generously donated by by the local farmers merchants you don’t kill yourself sprinting for a tray of tomato plants.
Oh yes in my time I won some of the great primes in the history of bike racing, An empty bird cage (local pet supplier), A salami (the butcher), a years free subscription to the local paper and what on one occasion appeared to be the contents of a kitchen drawer, two knives, two forks, one spoon and a egg cup (the only cup I ever won). Still I was better off than my Belgium racing mate, he once won a prime sponsored by the local women’s outfitters, a pair of high heels!

Still suffering and crap prizes aside one thing does stand out from any racing trip to the European mainland is the crowds. Turn up at a small local race and the whole village is out to watch the event and often you’ll be the star attraction. You see the assumption is that the only ‘foreigners’ who come to race bikes are pretty good and on their way to a pro contract. The reality is that it’s a bike race and like any bike race at home any half trained, ill equipped idiot can sign on. So shake hands, smile and sign the occasional autograph, live the dream, but whatever you do don’t talk to anyone. I’ve seen crowds fall about laughing as people mangle and distort their language. I’ve seem respectable riders have their confidence and any chance of victory destroyed by mispronunciation, in one case someone intended to announce ‘Je suis un champion’ (I’m a champion) but got tongue tied and said ‘Je suis un champignon’ (I’m a mushroom). Result an entire French village laughing at you and a race during which just about every rider comes alongside and says ‘bonjour Monsieur le champignon’ (Hello Mr mushroom).

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