I found in Cycle Sport America, a wonderfully-written British magazine, this article on the The Berg of the Tour of Flanders, the Muur.
Every year, on the first Sunday in April, 92 meters separate one man from history. Ninety-two meters. That's all the height that the second-to-last climb in the Tour of Flanders gains. 92 meters that select the winner of the most charismatic of races in front of the sport's most fanatical fans.
Wielervolk they call them - the bike fans of Flanders. They love the sport of cycling, warts and all. Some love it to distraction, and to join them on the Muur is to worship inside their cathedral. The atmosphere builds for hours as they wait, like electricity building before a storm. When the first riders thunder past, the fans are red-lining with hysteria.
The lightening flash of color passes so quickly and the Muur breathes again, relaxing into a 364-day torpor as just another quiet road over a hill. Sanity is restored. Fans, who moments before were baying like hounds, become fathers and mothers again, sons and daughters. The moment has passed, until next year.
There's no doubt that this is where I wanted to be on race day. I have decided that I've used enough superlatives in describing this weekend. So instead of more words, here are video clips I put together. The first is of the hum before the hysteria of the race. And the second...well, let's just say I join in with the baying of the hounds. As a result, I have probably lost all remaining dignity, but that's ok...
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