There was a time around the turn of the millennium when my father and I got into the routine of regularly going to watch the world road championships. We saw Oscar Camenzind win in the rain at Valkenburg, Oscar Freire sprint to glory in Verona and Tom Boonen bring joy to Belgian hearts with victory in Madrid. In the years that followed, family life took over and my father grew less keen to stand on a cold roadside somewhere in Europe—this was at a time when the worlds was practically the last race of the season. But we still share the memories.
Now when I go to bike races, I study the crowds for fathers and sons…and fathers and daughters. I’m interested in the way that sport can be shared across generations. In a fast-changing world, where technology seems to be pulling generations even farther apart, there is something reassuring about the way cycling does not change. In April, there are always the cobbled classics. That permanence can be shared between parents and children.
There is no epiphany, though. He is definitely not hooked. Not yet anyway. I’m going to keep working on it.
In early April in Flanders this year, I’m reminded of the 2005 worlds weekend in Madrid. I’m hanging over a barrier at the Waregem Hippologia, watching riders being presented for the women’s Dwars door Vlaanderen, when the DJ plays Tom Boonen’s euro-techno theme featuring the television commentary from the final moments of that race. My own son, Oscar, 12 years old and already as tall as me, stands by my side. It’s his first trip to a major bike race. He is not a fan of the sport, of any sport in fact, so we’re having a multifaceted midweek break. I get to watch the cycling, he gets to eat friets and waffles and chocolate. And we are combining these pleasures with something serious: visiting the World War I sites around Ypres for a school project.
My love for Belgium has become something of a joke in our house. I am delirious during April, while my Christmas is dominated by the cyclocross Kerstperiode. I drink rich Belgian beer, make Flemish beef stews on wintry afternoons and during major football tournaments I cheer (half-jokingly) for Belgium rather than England. My children have grown up thinking of Belgium as an exotic, exciting place. Which it is.
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