The majority of the time, working as a cycling guide is a dream job. But when your task for the next few days is to shepherd a mixed-ability group of riders around the cobbles and bergs of Flanders and the cold/damp is so bad that you forever after use it as your benchmark, then you definitely have to earn your pay. Jo Burt digs deep into his box of memories to try and forget for his latest tale of life away-from-the-road.

"I’ve been to Belgium in the summer and it’s absolutely lovely, although the cobbles and farm tracks are still not easy, just less slippery. "

Cycling in Belgium has the reputation of being tough. Its romanticised rugged image is one of grey skies, bitter winds, rain and grit, breeding generations of hard-as-nails riders who enjoy putting the hurt down when the going gets shitty. A stereotype born of the Spring Classic races, where riders and weather are equal rivals as bikes bounce and thump mercilessly over cobbles and across mud-slewed farm roads. It’s a perception carved from a few short weeks in the year because I’ve been to Belgium in the summer and it’s absolutely lovely, although the cobbles and farm tracks are still not easy, just less slippery. 

"It was a long weekend billed as a cliché of everything that a cyclist would want from a weekend in Belgium"

But today was being true to type with concrete clouds and just a little bit miserable, not necessarily cold but that 10º with a lazy sharp wind that cuts straight to your quick. I’m in the land of Merckx, Boonen, Gilbert and Vos (feel free to insert your favourite here) to do The Tour of Flanders Sportive and not just to ride it, but shepherd half a dozen other riders around as a bike guide for a cycling holiday company. It was a long weekend billed as a cliché of everything that a cyclist would want from a weekend in Belgium; cobbles, beer and frites, some punchy bergs, a bit more beer, cobbles, stew and frites, coffees, ride an infamous sportive, more cobbles, maybe some waffles, watch the Pros on some of the roads we’d ridden the day before but going much faster, more beer, cobbles, noisy Belgian fans, lions rampant on yellow flags, the full tick list. What’s not to like? It was going to be a fun trip away, sign up now. All of that happened, apart from the fun bit. 

I’m here to be a loyal domestique for Olly who works for the cycling holiday company and we’ve planned what we think is a great itinerary for the weekend. We’ve both been to Belgium a few times, done the sportive and watched the racing from various verges so know enough to handhold a newcomer through the event to ensure they have a great time. We’ve also extensively researched coffee shops, bars and restaurants to make sure that time spent off the bike is just as rewarding. It’s been an exhausting job. So, we’re in a car park somewhere in London loading a large van with half a dozen bikes and riders and Eurotunnelling over to Belgium to base ourselves in Ghent which is close enough to the race action and more importantly a great city to spend a few days in, cycling or not. We’re staying in a well posh hotel right in the middle of the city which makes wandering around and soaking up a bit of culture easy, if it wasn’t like trooping a group of surly teenagers around, as our constant attempts to drum up some level of enthusiasm from our group of cyclists who have paid for the pleasure are met with unappreciative apathy. 

"There are some rare times that it’s a treacle-wading struggle and you absolutely earn your wage. "

I’ve been a bike guide for quite a few trips over the years and chaperoned a lot of people over many many miles and while most of the time it’s a pleasure that can’t really be called work and seeing people enjoying themselves on their bikes is an unpaid bonus of the job, there are some rare times that it’s a treacle-wading struggle and you absolutely earn your wage. This trip was one of those. Our group of riders has been chucked together out of those who thought this might be a great weekend away and while there’s always an initial awkwardness with a cobbled-together peloton of strangers, the combined interests of riding bikes, shared experiences of the road and the friendly banter that emerges from this usually gels everyone together, but unfortunately not this time. It wasn’t the fault of any individual because everyone was perfectly lovely and good enough company, but the group as a whole was a personification of paint drying. Magnolia paint. Anyone who’s ridden in a group will know that sometimes the dynamic just flows and everyone plays well together and other times it’s a disjointed unwieldy mess and it doesn’t take much for that shift in vibe to happen. This weekend the easy, flowing dynamic decided to stay at home and while a lot of bike guiding can be like herding cats, this was more trying to get a sleeping cat off the bed and no amount of shooing was going to get it to go anywhere. 

But it’s our job to make sure everyone has a good time despite their best efforts, so for our first day we’ve devised a Flanders and cobbles 50km taster route to get our little ensemble used to what the sportive would bring, because if you’ve never been on cobbles before they can be a bit of a shock. We could offer tips and encouragement and more importantly assess the capabilities of our raggle-taggle collection of riders before the big day. Starting in Oudenaarde, where both the pro race and our sportive finish, we’d visit the Centrum Ronde Van Vlaanderen, the Tour Of Flanders museum, to get a flavour of the history of the event and pick up some Flanders-related souvenirs from the gift shop before cruising out on easy rolling bike lanes and then hitting the fabled and fearsome Kwarmeont, Paterburg, Koppenberg and the flatter but lengthy Maarkedal cobbled sections with the incentive of a glass of Kwarmeont beer in the hamlet halfway up the climb to keep everyone enthused and on Belgian brand.

"The conversation was rippling as freely as if it was a couples therapy group who had come to ride the Ronde Van Vlaanderen to rekindle some connection."

I have, to be fair, blanked out most of this, or put it in a locked drawer somewhere back in the damp recesses of my mind, never to be rummaged through again, but I do remember spending that evening sat in Ghent having hot chocolates with warming blankets over our knees with conversation rippling as freely as if it was a couples therapy group who had come to ride the Ronde Van Vlaanderen to rekindle some connection. Still, the next day promised camaraderie as we all helped each other round the sportive, and guaranteed bonding as we snidely remarked on the interesting lycra fashion choices populous European rides always serve up. 

Well, none of that happened. Navigating your way safely through a sportive can be hard enough on your own, surviving the distance, avoiding any mechanicals, dealing with any weather, eating and hydrating enough to make it to the finish and dodging any questionable cycling etiquette can make it tough enough, especially when you throw in disruptive Belgian cobbles. Add looking after several riders to that and it makes for a demanding day out. It’s a ride of perpetual sheepdogging, constant headcounts, slowing down or waiting for everyone to regroup at the top of climbs, remembering who might be ahead and who’s languishing behind and checking on everyone’s pedalling for signs of tiredness and possible imminent bonk meaning you might have to delve into your back pockets bulging with snacks and motivational words. 

"You never actually get your engine up to a sufficient operating temperature for the entire day."

And you get cold. Self-preservation and just high tailing for home isn’t an option when you’re the mother hen to half a dozen other riders and riding at other people’s pace means that you don’t generate enough internal heat and never actually get your engine up to a sufficient operating temperature for the entire day, which gets fatiguing on an already nippy day. Even readying yourself by fighting on another thermal layer at the start still isn’t enough. We get through the day somehow, trudge up the logjam of the Koppenberg, enjoy feedstop waffles and at the finish I think I’ve done an okay job in getting everyone over the line in one piece but I’m cold, cold enough to be a benchmark for future wintery rides when I wonder if I’m as cold as that time in Belgium. I never am. My bones are raw brittle and my blood is slushy sticky as I drop the riders off at the van only to turn back around to find the lost rider that has gone missing out the back somewhere. 

With expert timing the sky darkens and not-quite-hail rain drops heavy from the sky to make already very cold into critically freezing as my heart sinks further than I think it could. This… is… miserable. I weave against the salmon flow of sportive riders scanning each and every one for a recognisable face and thankfully our wayward sheep appears soon enough and we wheel back to the van where bikes are unceremoniously chucked in the back and the heating is smacked onto full while everyone huddles and tries to warm their hands on the gasping vents and passes round the post-ride snacks. 

"It’s hardly the celebratory finish to the ride it should have been and yet it’s quite the Belgian experience everyone had signed up for."

It’s hardly the celebratory finish to the ride it should have been and yet it’s quite the Belgian experience everyone had signed up for. It’s clearly enough of an experience of the low country for everyone though. We offer the choice of the evening meal up to the riders, hoping they’ll pick something from the gastronomic delights that Ghent has to offer as a reward for their efforts and while I’ll admit that Belgium isn’t necessarily renowned for its cuisine there’s satisfying post-ride food to be found and some hearty stew and frites with an extensive beer menu would have been fitting. Tick those boxes. The consensus is instead that we go and have a curry and I remember the internal slightly disappointed sigh as we politely allow our riders in first for a chatter-free meal. 

Cycling in Belgium is hard, sometimes just not in the way you’d expect.