Liège–Bastogne–Liège 2014 – more Eddie from Iron Maiden than Eddy Merckx
Journalists, what do they know? The May edition of CycleSport describes the 2014 Liège–Bastogne–Liège as the worst ever. But that’s patently, empirically untrue as in reality it was the best ever? Why? Because I was there, that’s why. Any more questions? No? Good.
Liège–Bastogne–Liège, first run in 1892, is the oldest of the five Monuments of cycling and consequently is often referred to as la doyenne. Held in the Ardennes region of Belgium, when it isn’t la doyenne, it’s the climbers classic. In many ways L-B-L lacks the drama or majesty of Flanders or Roubaix although Bernard Hinault winning in 1980 by 10 minutes in thick snow – some called it 'Neige-Bastogne-Neige' – gives it considerable anti-glamour (Hinault was one of the few to finish and apparently to this day has restricted feeling in his fingers). Since 2010 when I rode Paris-Roubaix, I’ve had a vague plan to ride all five Monuments. De Ronde was ticked off in 2012 and 2013 and 2014 was destined to be “three down and two to go” with L-B-L. But things are never quite that straightforward, are they?
First discussion about going to Liège started last summer with my friend Boffin Dave (appropriately named as he works at the National Physics Laboratory and, for a weekend of cycling and beer, bought along a copy of New Scientist as his solitary reading matter). Boffin Dave had a new bike, L-B-L was around his 45th birthday and he resolutely refused to contemplate any of the cobbled classics. We recruited Di2 Dave into the mix and that was it, we were committed.
Obviously I’ll focus on myself as basically I am Bernard Sumner and Peter Hook rolled into one and Boffin Dave and Di2 Dave are Stephen Morris and Gillian Gilbert (I’ll let them squabble about who is who but it’s clear in my mind). Despite knowing that L-B-L is the climbers classic I didn’t really think through the implications and just got some steady miles in over the winter although four times over Gospel Pass between January and mid February suggests that I must have had some sort of focus even if I shied away from the 20%+ gradients that we’d experience in the Ardennes. Naturally, preparation wasn’t as I’d have liked – I could blame flooding outside the house to ‘top of chainring’ for three weeks but that would be crass – and coming into the final weeks I was feeling as undercooked as JV’s Mayhem barbecues. I was also wrestling with a moral dilemma of considerable depth – modern (in February I’d gotten myself a 2006 Merlin) or ‘keeping it real’ with a more fitting early 90s machine, standard chainset and all. The fact that I kept riding the Merlin suggested that I already knew what I was going to plump for, even if I was not going to admit it.
At Easter, and with a week to go before departure, I got together with The Other Two for a final ‘ this will be reassuring or dispiriting’ ride. The plan was simple. Double down (or up if you will) over Gospel Pass, the highest road pass in Wales, figuring that although it wouldn’t have the gradients it would likely have the same 8,000ft height gain as L-B-L. I’d taken the precaution of riding Gospel Pass three days earlier and although going over it once I had dragged my sorry ass home with less vim than I had hoped. Clearly adjustments to the bike would help so, the day before, I fitted a -17 degree stem (i.e. negative rise) to ensure my neck and shoulders would take as much strain as possible.
Arriving in Hay-on-Wye, having covered the shallower side from Pandy, I was pretty weary but looking forward to some flapjack and pastries at a local bakery. Sadly it had gone out of business so I went for the obvious alternative and a half pound pork pie from the Nisa across the road (I also slipped an emergency cheese and ham pasty into my back pocket as insurance). The pork pie was everything it could be for £1 so, feeling bilious after eating so my grey ‘meat’ and greasy, tasteless pastry, I headed with Di2 Dave back to the steeper side of the Pass (Boffin Dave had sloped off back to Hereford, chastened and chastised). What followed was fairly uneventful although I was gladdened to get back home with some energy left, hitting 28mph as we came over Mordiford Bridge (I reckon the secret was the 99 at the top of the Pass plus the emergency pasty which was everything it could be for 69p). The stats? 80 miles and 8,000ft. L-B-L wasn’t in the bag but it looked within range.
Sensibly wanting to split the journey to Liège, Di2 Dave had booked some very competitively priced accommodation in Folkestone, a couple of miles from the Tunnel. As we dropped to the coast, the horizon was dominated by a hulking building – surely this couldn’t be the Grand Bustran Hotel? It was. We checked in and took the ‘express lift’ to the 7th floor (was I the only one concerned to hear “this lift is out of order” when the doors shut before the ascent started with a shudder?). The hotel had clearly seen better days, although as we were staying on C Wing we rather suspected it had been as a prison. Never mind, it was cheap (the hotel also advertised all inclusive weddings for £999 so I know where I am going next time) and for one night so we went in search of food. At 10.01 p.m. our only option was a kebab shop. Di2 Dave apparently decided that he was already in Belgium and ordered the unholy combination of chips, doner meat and mayonnaise. It was worse, much worse, than it sounds.
Wanting to somehow rid our mouths of the cloying film of grease, we headed for a nightcap in the Grand Ballroom of the hotel. I do not exaggerate to say that the scene that greeted us as we fought past the zimmer frames and motability scooters was like something from Phoenix Nights – I swear there was no one else under 70 although that didn’t stop us from singing lustily along to ‘New York, New York’.
Thankfully we were soon leaving Folkestone and we arrived at the Ibis Budget in Liège with little drama (apart from missing out Tunnel crossing, naturally). The receptionist was ridiculously foxy – I did the talking as Di2 Dave declared that he couldn’t speak Belgian – and I’m convinced she implied that she was included as part of the room deal. This seemed very hospitable – I do like how they do things on the continent and believe that this sort of approach should give those tempted to vote UKIP reason to pause – but we thought we’d see the room first, where we were told we could keep our bikes. The accommodation was very well appointed but absolutely tiny even though a toilet and shower were included. Sleeping arrangements consisted of a double bed with a bunk above. As designated driver, Di2 Dave grabbed the bunk with Boffin Dave and I scheduled to snuggle below. This didn’t seem ideal preparation but we thought it would suffice and headed off to get some food before turning in early.
I’m not sure how to put this, and apologies to any proud Belgians, but Liège is an absolute hole. There was a burnt out car just outside the hotel, the roads were littered with broken glass and dead cats. Can you picture the destroyed Detroit in Paul Verhoeven’s Robocop? You can? Ok, that’s Liège. Still, it couldn’t be difficult to find food at 7 p.m. on a Friday night. Actually, it could, and after a fruitless search we settled on McDonalds which had me longing for the taste and nutritional sensation of a £1 Nisa pork pie. With this great preparation, we retired early even if we had to park £4k of carbon Cervelo in the shower.
The next morning a black propoganda war started. Apparently, I snored. I find this implausible as my myriad of past sleeping partners have never mentioned it. Eventually I was broken by the weight and strength of the accusation – “Vinia is a saint” – although I struggle to accept that I drowned out Iron Maiden at full volume. Mentally fragile, I headed for the start. Which wasn’t signposted. There were a suspicious lack of other cyclists around despite the hotel being fully booked and the carpark filled with vehicles with roof racks. After cycling round a deserted Liège – do you have the opening scene of 28 Days Later in mind? Good – we realized that we were properly lost. I failed to convince that this was a sound warm up but, after 10 miles of wrong turns and fruitless pointing, we finally got to the start. Great, although only opting for the 100 mile medium route (which disappointingly did not go to Bastogne), we’d added a significant bit of extra.
Finally starting (there seemed to be no official start but, being British, we dutifully queued anyway), we rolled through Liège in a fairly large group. The riding was distinctly unscenic and I particularly disliked the unnecessary plunge down a steep cobbled street although my spirits were lifted by a frank exchange of views with a corpulent gentleman driving a white van (I think cupping my ear as if I couldn’t hear him was, perhaps, unwise).
Finally, after 14km of uninspiring riding, we hit the first climb. At last, we could enjoy it. Apart from the fact that there were 7 named climbs on our route and this wasn’t one of them. It went on. And on, indeed if it had been the UK this would have been ‘the big climb’ in the ride. Except it clearly wasn’t. Boffin Dave was instantly shelled and we didn’t seem him again for another 8 hours.
The weather was very pleasant – sunny but with a gentle, cooling breeze – and we rolled along promptly enough although I was increasingly concerned by the amount of climbing none of which apparently counted as, glancing down at the top tube sticker I’d been given at sign on, the first named climb was after the food stop at 48km. Realising that it would be a long day, I stopped to pee and was reassured on remounting that I’d filled my shorts with just enough urine to guarantee a decent amount of nappy rash with 50km to go.
Finally, we were at the first food stop. I stocked up on waffles and small, dry cereal bars and headed out to the first named climb. It started through a town square on cobbles and then we turned a corner to see smooth tarmac. But the tarmac seemed to be vertical, like Paris folding in on itself in Inception. Dear Lord. I winched to the top. 1 down, 6 to go. Plus all the other bastard climbs that didn’t count. With over 100k to go, it was survival mode early doors.
Di2 Dave and I stayed fairly well together and there were frequent plaintive cries of “they have got to be taking the piss” as we headed up another long but uncredited climb. The descents were a bit hairy but I was, if not holding my own, not totally disgraced although I did have a distinctly buttock clenching moment when I headed into a hairpin ‘hot’, had speed wobble and narrowly got round via some frantic unclipping and leg waggling. The upside of the descents was that the kilometers ticked by quite steadily.
I was in survival mode like a lycra clad Bear Grylls but also trying to keep my powder dryish for the 22% of the Cote de la Redoute. But guess where they had the food stop? Yep, right at the base although as this was the feature climb as far as I was concerned I didn’t really mind. The route was camper van lined at this point and the smell of frying meat, beer and sweat (not my own) wasn’t what I really wanted but certainly added to the spectacle. Many were walking, several toppled to the ground still clipped in but we made the summit, seated all the way. At this point I thought I might actually finish although there were still numerous named (and unnamed) climbs to go.
Finally, after what seemed an age, we reached the Côte de Saint Nicolas, the last climb of any note and surely where the action would unfold the next day. At ‘only’ 17% it was knocked off with no particular drama. We decided to wait for Boffin Dave and soon enough he hoved into view, having apparently trailed us by no more than 10-15 minutes for about 8 hours. We continued to the finish together although the organisers had helpfully thrown in one final vicious, cobbled descent (although to be honest I was thankful we didn’t have to climb it.
And then, we were at the finish after 110 miles (including out daft 10 mile warm up). Weary, we decided to roll back to the Hotel Abyss with the commitment to stop at any bar on the way. Except all the bars were shut and we had no idea where the hotel was. Finally we accepted that we were lost when we entered an even more dodgy part of town (was that possible?) and Boffin Dave crunched across the broken glass to ask directions in, appropriately, broken French. At last we arrived home and toasted our 120 mile day with some warm Jupiler.
The next day, despite sleeping on the floor, I awoke to more protestation regarding snoring. Honestly, some people are so self-centred. After a bit more of a rest, we set off to find somewhere to watch the pros. We decided the Côte de Saint Nicolas would be a prime spot and then managed to get completely lost. For reasons unclear, I was driving Di2 Dave’s car even though the exact insurance arrangements were a bit ambiguous. Stopping outside a church, we asked some teenage single mothers were the race was and, despite being only 400m away, they had no idea – and they say Belgium is cycling mad!
Wandering aimlessly – we’d abandoned the car by this point although the odds of returning to a burnt out shell were 2 to 1 on – we stumbled on some chaps putting out barriers and there it was, the Côte de Saint Nicolas. Heading into a beer tent below some community housing (it looked more authentic than the one opposite which was serving sparkling wine) we decided to channel our inner Belgian and have 3 more beers than strictly necessary. We were also interviewed by a German journalist; he could clearly see that our game was tight although he seemed less impressed by our efforts the previous day as he’d ridden the long route (as before though, what do journalists know?).
All of a sudden, the pros sped past, lean as horses and effortlessly spinning in the big ring on 17% and after 270km. Unfeasible. They were going so quickly it was difficult to recognize anyone but there certainly appeared to be no Sky riders in the large group or indeed later. We rushed down the hill to hear that Dan Martin had slid off a few hundred metres from the finish and that Simon Gerrans had won what was clearly the best L-B-L ever.
And that was it really apart from some frites and half a jar of full fat Hellmann’s. Three Monuments down, two to go.
Postscript – although ridden over a fortnight ago, this has taken a while to type due to breaking my wrist nine days ago. Moral of the story is that Belgian cobbles and the Dave’s are less hazardous than Ruddock and a slow moving dog combo.
Journalists, what do they know? The May edition of CycleSport describes the 2014 Liège–Bastogne–Liège as the worst ever. But that’s patently, empirically untrue as in reality it was the best ever? Why? Because I was there, that’s why. Any more questions? No? Good.
Liège–Bastogne–Liège, first run in 1892, is the oldest of the five Monuments of cycling and consequently is often referred to as la doyenne. Held in the Ardennes region of Belgium, when it isn’t la doyenne, it’s the climbers classic. In many ways L-B-L lacks the drama or majesty of Flanders or Roubaix although Bernard Hinault winning in 1980 by 10 minutes in thick snow – some called it 'Neige-Bastogne-Neige' – gives it considerable anti-glamour (Hinault was one of the few to finish and apparently to this day has restricted feeling in his fingers). Since 2010 when I rode Paris-Roubaix, I’ve had a vague plan to ride all five Monuments. De Ronde was ticked off in 2012 and 2013 and 2014 was destined to be “three down and two to go” with L-B-L. But things are never quite that straightforward, are they?
First discussion about going to Liège started last summer with my friend Boffin Dave (appropriately named as he works at the National Physics Laboratory and, for a weekend of cycling and beer, bought along a copy of New Scientist as his solitary reading matter). Boffin Dave had a new bike, L-B-L was around his 45th birthday and he resolutely refused to contemplate any of the cobbled classics. We recruited Di2 Dave into the mix and that was it, we were committed.
Obviously I’ll focus on myself as basically I am Bernard Sumner and Peter Hook rolled into one and Boffin Dave and Di2 Dave are Stephen Morris and Gillian Gilbert (I’ll let them squabble about who is who but it’s clear in my mind). Despite knowing that L-B-L is the climbers classic I didn’t really think through the implications and just got some steady miles in over the winter although four times over Gospel Pass between January and mid February suggests that I must have had some sort of focus even if I shied away from the 20%+ gradients that we’d experience in the Ardennes. Naturally, preparation wasn’t as I’d have liked – I could blame flooding outside the house to ‘top of chainring’ for three weeks but that would be crass – and coming into the final weeks I was feeling as undercooked as JV’s Mayhem barbecues. I was also wrestling with a moral dilemma of considerable depth – modern (in February I’d gotten myself a 2006 Merlin) or ‘keeping it real’ with a more fitting early 90s machine, standard chainset and all. The fact that I kept riding the Merlin suggested that I already knew what I was going to plump for, even if I was not going to admit it.
At Easter, and with a week to go before departure, I got together with The Other Two for a final ‘ this will be reassuring or dispiriting’ ride. The plan was simple. Double down (or up if you will) over Gospel Pass, the highest road pass in Wales, figuring that although it wouldn’t have the gradients it would likely have the same 8,000ft height gain as L-B-L. I’d taken the precaution of riding Gospel Pass three days earlier and although going over it once I had dragged my sorry ass home with less vim than I had hoped. Clearly adjustments to the bike would help so, the day before, I fitted a -17 degree stem (i.e. negative rise) to ensure my neck and shoulders would take as much strain as possible.
Arriving in Hay-on-Wye, having covered the shallower side from Pandy, I was pretty weary but looking forward to some flapjack and pastries at a local bakery. Sadly it had gone out of business so I went for the obvious alternative and a half pound pork pie from the Nisa across the road (I also slipped an emergency cheese and ham pasty into my back pocket as insurance). The pork pie was everything it could be for £1 so, feeling bilious after eating so my grey ‘meat’ and greasy, tasteless pastry, I headed with Di2 Dave back to the steeper side of the Pass (Boffin Dave had sloped off back to Hereford, chastened and chastised). What followed was fairly uneventful although I was gladdened to get back home with some energy left, hitting 28mph as we came over Mordiford Bridge (I reckon the secret was the 99 at the top of the Pass plus the emergency pasty which was everything it could be for 69p). The stats? 80 miles and 8,000ft. L-B-L wasn’t in the bag but it looked within range.
Sensibly wanting to split the journey to Liège, Di2 Dave had booked some very competitively priced accommodation in Folkestone, a couple of miles from the Tunnel. As we dropped to the coast, the horizon was dominated by a hulking building – surely this couldn’t be the Grand Bustran Hotel? It was. We checked in and took the ‘express lift’ to the 7th floor (was I the only one concerned to hear “this lift is out of order” when the doors shut before the ascent started with a shudder?). The hotel had clearly seen better days, although as we were staying on C Wing we rather suspected it had been as a prison. Never mind, it was cheap (the hotel also advertised all inclusive weddings for £999 so I know where I am going next time) and for one night so we went in search of food. At 10.01 p.m. our only option was a kebab shop. Di2 Dave apparently decided that he was already in Belgium and ordered the unholy combination of chips, doner meat and mayonnaise. It was worse, much worse, than it sounds.
Wanting to somehow rid our mouths of the cloying film of grease, we headed for a nightcap in the Grand Ballroom of the hotel. I do not exaggerate to say that the scene that greeted us as we fought past the zimmer frames and motability scooters was like something from Phoenix Nights – I swear there was no one else under 70 although that didn’t stop us from singing lustily along to ‘New York, New York’.
Thankfully we were soon leaving Folkestone and we arrived at the Ibis Budget in Liège with little drama (apart from missing out Tunnel crossing, naturally). The receptionist was ridiculously foxy – I did the talking as Di2 Dave declared that he couldn’t speak Belgian – and I’m convinced she implied that she was included as part of the room deal. This seemed very hospitable – I do like how they do things on the continent and believe that this sort of approach should give those tempted to vote UKIP reason to pause – but we thought we’d see the room first, where we were told we could keep our bikes. The accommodation was very well appointed but absolutely tiny even though a toilet and shower were included. Sleeping arrangements consisted of a double bed with a bunk above. As designated driver, Di2 Dave grabbed the bunk with Boffin Dave and I scheduled to snuggle below. This didn’t seem ideal preparation but we thought it would suffice and headed off to get some food before turning in early.
I’m not sure how to put this, and apologies to any proud Belgians, but Liège is an absolute hole. There was a burnt out car just outside the hotel, the roads were littered with broken glass and dead cats. Can you picture the destroyed Detroit in Paul Verhoeven’s Robocop? You can? Ok, that’s Liège. Still, it couldn’t be difficult to find food at 7 p.m. on a Friday night. Actually, it could, and after a fruitless search we settled on McDonalds which had me longing for the taste and nutritional sensation of a £1 Nisa pork pie. With this great preparation, we retired early even if we had to park £4k of carbon Cervelo in the shower.
The next morning a black propoganda war started. Apparently, I snored. I find this implausible as my myriad of past sleeping partners have never mentioned it. Eventually I was broken by the weight and strength of the accusation – “Vinia is a saint” – although I struggle to accept that I drowned out Iron Maiden at full volume. Mentally fragile, I headed for the start. Which wasn’t signposted. There were a suspicious lack of other cyclists around despite the hotel being fully booked and the carpark filled with vehicles with roof racks. After cycling round a deserted Liège – do you have the opening scene of 28 Days Later in mind? Good – we realized that we were properly lost. I failed to convince that this was a sound warm up but, after 10 miles of wrong turns and fruitless pointing, we finally got to the start. Great, although only opting for the 100 mile medium route (which disappointingly did not go to Bastogne), we’d added a significant bit of extra.
Finally starting (there seemed to be no official start but, being British, we dutifully queued anyway), we rolled through Liège in a fairly large group. The riding was distinctly unscenic and I particularly disliked the unnecessary plunge down a steep cobbled street although my spirits were lifted by a frank exchange of views with a corpulent gentleman driving a white van (I think cupping my ear as if I couldn’t hear him was, perhaps, unwise).
Finally, after 14km of uninspiring riding, we hit the first climb. At last, we could enjoy it. Apart from the fact that there were 7 named climbs on our route and this wasn’t one of them. It went on. And on, indeed if it had been the UK this would have been ‘the big climb’ in the ride. Except it clearly wasn’t. Boffin Dave was instantly shelled and we didn’t seem him again for another 8 hours.
The weather was very pleasant – sunny but with a gentle, cooling breeze – and we rolled along promptly enough although I was increasingly concerned by the amount of climbing none of which apparently counted as, glancing down at the top tube sticker I’d been given at sign on, the first named climb was after the food stop at 48km. Realising that it would be a long day, I stopped to pee and was reassured on remounting that I’d filled my shorts with just enough urine to guarantee a decent amount of nappy rash with 50km to go.
Finally, we were at the first food stop. I stocked up on waffles and small, dry cereal bars and headed out to the first named climb. It started through a town square on cobbles and then we turned a corner to see smooth tarmac. But the tarmac seemed to be vertical, like Paris folding in on itself in Inception. Dear Lord. I winched to the top. 1 down, 6 to go. Plus all the other bastard climbs that didn’t count. With over 100k to go, it was survival mode early doors.
Di2 Dave and I stayed fairly well together and there were frequent plaintive cries of “they have got to be taking the piss” as we headed up another long but uncredited climb. The descents were a bit hairy but I was, if not holding my own, not totally disgraced although I did have a distinctly buttock clenching moment when I headed into a hairpin ‘hot’, had speed wobble and narrowly got round via some frantic unclipping and leg waggling. The upside of the descents was that the kilometers ticked by quite steadily.
I was in survival mode like a lycra clad Bear Grylls but also trying to keep my powder dryish for the 22% of the Cote de la Redoute. But guess where they had the food stop? Yep, right at the base although as this was the feature climb as far as I was concerned I didn’t really mind. The route was camper van lined at this point and the smell of frying meat, beer and sweat (not my own) wasn’t what I really wanted but certainly added to the spectacle. Many were walking, several toppled to the ground still clipped in but we made the summit, seated all the way. At this point I thought I might actually finish although there were still numerous named (and unnamed) climbs to go.
Finally, after what seemed an age, we reached the Côte de Saint Nicolas, the last climb of any note and surely where the action would unfold the next day. At ‘only’ 17% it was knocked off with no particular drama. We decided to wait for Boffin Dave and soon enough he hoved into view, having apparently trailed us by no more than 10-15 minutes for about 8 hours. We continued to the finish together although the organisers had helpfully thrown in one final vicious, cobbled descent (although to be honest I was thankful we didn’t have to climb it.
And then, we were at the finish after 110 miles (including out daft 10 mile warm up). Weary, we decided to roll back to the Hotel Abyss with the commitment to stop at any bar on the way. Except all the bars were shut and we had no idea where the hotel was. Finally we accepted that we were lost when we entered an even more dodgy part of town (was that possible?) and Boffin Dave crunched across the broken glass to ask directions in, appropriately, broken French. At last we arrived home and toasted our 120 mile day with some warm Jupiler.
The next day, despite sleeping on the floor, I awoke to more protestation regarding snoring. Honestly, some people are so self-centred. After a bit more of a rest, we set off to find somewhere to watch the pros. We decided the Côte de Saint Nicolas would be a prime spot and then managed to get completely lost. For reasons unclear, I was driving Di2 Dave’s car even though the exact insurance arrangements were a bit ambiguous. Stopping outside a church, we asked some teenage single mothers were the race was and, despite being only 400m away, they had no idea – and they say Belgium is cycling mad!
Wandering aimlessly – we’d abandoned the car by this point although the odds of returning to a burnt out shell were 2 to 1 on – we stumbled on some chaps putting out barriers and there it was, the Côte de Saint Nicolas. Heading into a beer tent below some community housing (it looked more authentic than the one opposite which was serving sparkling wine) we decided to channel our inner Belgian and have 3 more beers than strictly necessary. We were also interviewed by a German journalist; he could clearly see that our game was tight although he seemed less impressed by our efforts the previous day as he’d ridden the long route (as before though, what do journalists know?).
All of a sudden, the pros sped past, lean as horses and effortlessly spinning in the big ring on 17% and after 270km. Unfeasible. They were going so quickly it was difficult to recognize anyone but there certainly appeared to be no Sky riders in the large group or indeed later. We rushed down the hill to hear that Dan Martin had slid off a few hundred metres from the finish and that Simon Gerrans had won what was clearly the best L-B-L ever.
And that was it really apart from some frites and half a jar of full fat Hellmann’s. Three Monuments down, two to go.
Postscript – although ridden over a fortnight ago, this has taken a while to type due to breaking my wrist nine days ago. Moral of the story is that Belgian cobbles and the Dave’s are less hazardous than Ruddock and a slow moving dog combo.
