The Beast the Emperor and the Milkman Read online

  For Steve, Jimmy and

  Albert – kings of the roadside.

  Contents

  Some notes about language

  Prologue: Brick chimneys and iron men

  1 The Final 200 Kilometres

  2 A Motor for a Heart

  3 Donkeys and Cannibals

  4 A Wednesday in Hell

  5 Holey Socks and a Cool Head

  6 It’s a Family Affair

  7 Show Me the Money

  8 The Bulldog and the Red Guard

  9 The Devil and Meester Maertens

  10 D’ye Ken Tom Boonen?

  11 Pot Bellies and Barbra Streisand

  12 Staying Small

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  Picture credits

  Plates

  Some notes about language

  Belgium is a country with three official languages: Flemish (known to linguists as Belgian Dutch), French, and German (spoken in a small area to the north-east of Liège). This means that towns, cities and geographical features tend to have at least two names. In this book I have generally used the name by which the place is known to the majority of the local inhabitants (Kortrijk rather than Courtrai, Liège rather than Luik, Ronse rather than Renaix and so forth). The exceptions to this are when a city has an accepted and well-known anglicised form (for example, Antwerp for Antwerpen, Brussels for Bruxelles/Brussel) or, in the case of the Flemish cities of Brugge and Ieper, when the French names Bruges and Ypres are so well known to British readers that to alter them would be needlessly confusing.

  I have also tried to give Flemish riders the names by which they are known at home rather than the French versions they are commonly given in Britain – Odiel Defraeye rather than Odile Defraye, Sylveer rather than Sylvère Maes, and so forth. This may seem a little wilful, but I can’t help wondering how it would play in Wales if a cyclist from Swansea called Ieuan Hywel had won the Tour de France and found himself referred to in all the history books as John Hewill.

  Language pronunciation is a complicated business. I will confine myself to three pointers on Flemish that may help a little with some of the more common names in the coming pages: ‘ij’ is pronounced to rhyme with ‘hay’; ‘ie’ is sounded as in the English word ‘grief’; and ‘ae’ like the ‘ar’ in ‘smart’.

  PROLOGUE

  Brick chimneys and iron men

  ‘The smell of a freshly opened bottle of beer is the smell of my country,’ the great Liège-born writer Georges Simenon said. If the scent of Belgium is that of good ale, then the defining sound of the nation is the swish of bicycle tyres on wet roads, the whistling of wind through spokes, the juddering thrum of steel frames on cobblestones.

  Bike racing is madly popular all over Belgium, but in the northern, Dutch-speaking half of the country it goes far beyond that. It is part of the national identity, beloved by young and old, male and female. In terms of the number of fans football may be more popular, but when it comes to the consciousness of Flanders there’s little doubt that bikes are the thing. In small Flemish towns middle-aged ladies who lunch unfurl Lotto–Soudal brollies, toddlers wear beanie hats proclaiming their affection for Tom Boonen and teenage girls fashion capes from flags covered in photos of cyclocross genius Sven Nys, ‘the Cannibal from Baal’. Compared to this a few K.A.A. Gent scarves and the odd Club Brugge bumper sticker are nothing.

  You can no more imagine Flanders without bicycles than you can France without garlic, Germany without sausages. Even those rare Flemings who profess no interest in the sport will, when pushed, trip off the names of the heroic riders of the past – Buysse, Maes, Van Steenbergen, Schotte, Van Looy, Van Springel, De Vlaeminck, Godefroot, Maertens, Van Impe, Museeuw – with the ease of a Jesuit priest reciting the catechism. Cycling is in the psyche and in the blood. It is as unavoidable as the weather.

  There are only around five million Flemings spread across the northern Belgian provinces of East and West Flanders, Antwerp, Limburg and Flemish Brabant, yet their bike riders have been a dominant force in a global sport for well over a century, hoovering up one-day Classics and Grand Tours at a rate that would do credit to a nation ten or fifteen times the size. Flemish riders have won the three major stage races 18 times, Paris–Roubaix 46 times (no British or North American rider has ever won it), Milan–San Remo 11 times (French riders have won it only twice more, the Spanish six fewer), the Men’s Elite Road Race at the UCI World Championships on 20 occasions (one more than Italy, 12 more than France). With the exception of New Zealand in rugby union, it’s hard to think of anything comparable.

  That it came to be this way is down to the personality of the Flemish. Flemings are northerners. They like ale and chips and complaining (I’m a Yorkshireman, so don’t bother writing in). They live indoors, hidden behind net curtains, nurturing strange passions for cacti and chicory and songbirds and pigeons. Like all northerners they nurse a sense of grievance against the south, which may stem from an ingrained, though never acknowledged, sense of inferiority. In his wonderful documentary Magnetic North the English writer and broadcaster Jonathan Meades observes that northerners have the superiority of the warm south fed to them in the womb. The Mediterranean lifestyle, the art, architecture, food, sex is all so much tastier and more beautiful than anything we can manage. And so northerners come to love the north with the same fierce defensiveness that a mother loves an ugly child. As the great Jacques Brel (from Schaarbeek, a suburb of Brussels) sang in his hymn to northernness, ‘La Bière’: ‘It’s full of horizons/that drive you mad/But alcohol is blond/The Devil is ours/And hopeless people/Need both of them.’ In Flanders they needed cycling too, but perhaps even Jacques Brel couldn’t find a rhyme for that.

  Every nation uses sport to reveal the character traits it most admires. Cycling is a brutal test of endurance. It is about suffering, pain and hardship. Like farming – which for centuries was the cornerstone of the Flemish economy – it is shaped by the landscape, prey to the vagaries of the climate. It is no use whining at the gnashing wind, the spit-thick rain, the sucking, bitter soil, the icy air that makes your joints swell, cobbles that jar your body until your nose bleeds – you just get out and get on with it. The Flemish like toughness, obduracy and fortitude; guts, nuts and phlegm. Their biggest bike races – Omloop Het Nieuwsblad, Dwars door Vlaanderen, E3 Harelbeke, Ghent–Wevelgem, Ronde van Vlaanderen (the Tour of Flanders) and Scheldeprijs – are held between the end of February and the beginning of April. They could have organised them in the late summer when, historically, the great Tours were over, the weather is warm and balmy, the cobbles dry and almost benign and there are no great puddles concealing potholes deep enough to trap a wild pig in. But what would be the fun in that?

  The relationship between the Flemish and bike racing is a grand romance, but like all great love affairs this one had to begin with an introduction.

  Karel Van Wijnendaele was born Carolus Steyaert in 1882 in a village between Torhout and Lichtervelde in West Flanders. The name of his birthplace was Bakvoorde, which was almost a pun on popular preconceptions about Flemish life among Francophones. The fifth of 15 children, Van Wijnendaele never knew his birth father, a flax worker who died when Carolus was 18 months old. His mother quickly remarried, to a local farmer named Richard Defreyne, and she moved with her five children to his house in Torhout. Nearby stood the castle of Wijnendaele, from which Carolus would eventually take his pen name.

  These days Torhout is a typically sleepy Flemish small town, the sort of place where the old ladies place cushions on the ledges of upstairs windows and lean out over the street, watching the comings and goings of their neighbours, every once in a while earnestly
adjusting their bosoms. Torhout has its own special, fiery mustard – the Flemish like hot mustard – and the walk from the station to the centre of town takes you past the Smoking Cue Billiard Hall, the Zwarte Leeuw Café (advertising itself as the local of Torhout 1992 football club supporters) and the Criterium Bar, which has windows decorated with cartoons of Peter Van Petegem, ‘the Zwarte van Brakel’ (loosely ‘the Black-haired one from Brakel’), double winner of the Ronde van Vlaanderen. The plaque commemorating the town’s association with the man who invented that race is on a nondescript apartment block next to a chemist’s with a window display of constipation medicine.

  In a nearby café, where the radio played a Dutch-language version of the country and western hit ‘Blanket on the Ground’, I ordered a coffee with cream. The waiter was in his early twenties, wearing a black Motörhead t-shirt. I mentioned to him that I was British and interested in bike racing. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there was a guy from round here who won that crazy course you used to have over there.’ It turned out he meant Eddy Vanhaerens, who in 1978 became the only non-British rider ever to win London to Holyhead – at 427 kilometres the longest unpaced one-day race on earth. The waiter said he wasn’t really interested in cycling. It was just he had this uncle that was always going on about it. ‘I’d prefer to talk about rock ’n’ roll, you know, but here it’s as if Tom Boonen is lead singer in the Foo Fighters, or something,’ he said. It was true that Boonen was a dominant figure in the Flemish cultural and sporting landscape. His popularity was so great I sometimes thought the only way it could ever be matched in England was if Olly Murs scored the winning goal in the World Cup Final and dedicated it to the memory of Princess Diana while saving a kitten from drowning. I asked the waiter if he thought Boonen could win the Ronde van Vlaanderen again this year, an unprecedented fourth victory. It was a question everyone in Flanders asked, as normal as enquiring of an Englishman if he thinks it will rain later. The waiter who wasn’t interested in cycling shrugged. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘To win the Ronde you need a kind of . . .’ he banged his right fist into the palm of his left hand three or four times. ‘You know, like a big piston. But he is too old for that these days. Maybe Paris–Roubaix, though.’

  Van Wijnendaele left school in Torhout at 14 (relatively old for Flanders, where most boys were working from the age of 12) and after a brief period on the farm found work as an errand boy at a chemist’s shop, as a baker’s delivery boy, a washer-up, a programme seller and finally as a lawyer’s clerk. It was a visit to the Ostend cycle track in 1897 that changed his life. Seeing the world champion Robert Protin – who came from the southern, French-speaking half of Belgium, Wallonia – in action inspired him to become a pro rider himself. He bought a bike, adopted the racing name of Marc Bolle and spent the next three years trying and failing to win races. If he couldn’t ride in professional bike races, Marc Bolle at least found that he could write about them. He’d begun earning extra cash by filing stories for various regional Flemish newspapers and soon was reporting on cycling for them too, as Karel Van Wijnendaele.

  At that point cycling was something of a fringe sport in Flanders, lagging far behind football in popularity. All that was changed by the Tour de France. The great race had first been run in 1903 and the Flemish had been there – Julien Lootens from Wevelgem and Marcel Kerff from the Voeren in the far east of Limburg both completing the 2,428-kilometre course. For a few years the most successful Belgian rider was Aloïs Catteau, a French-speaker from just north of Roubaix, and it wasn’t until 1909 that the Flemish really began to show themselves. In that year’s race the first stage was from Paris to Roubaix across the cobbles of northern France. The Flemish contingent attacked throughout the day, despite or possibly inspired by the appallingly bumpy roads, and claimed their first stage win through Cyrille Van Hauwaert. A native of Moorslede in West Flanders, whose finely curled moustache and immaculately arched eyebrows suggested that he might have ridden in spats, Van Hauwaert had already won Paris–Bordeaux, Milan–San Remo and Paris–Roubaix and would finish fourth in the 1910 Tour, giving him a strong claim to being the first of the great Flemish riders.

  However, it was the arrival on the scene of Odiel Defraeye in 1912 that produced the first sparks in the Flemish love affair with bike racing. Defraeye came from Rumbeke on the edge of Roeselare. He worked in a brush factory delivering messages and parcels by bike, sometimes covering 200 kilometres a day. As an amateur he hoovered up prizes in a manner that might later have been described as Merckxian. After his military service Defraeye went south and joined the prestigious French Alcyon team, who rode in jerseys of the kingfisher blue that gave the firm’s bikes their name. Defraeye had a hard time of it at first. Like many Flemings he barely spoke French, and Alcyon did not regard Belgium as an important market and therefore saw little benefit in selecting him for the Grand Tours. Nor was he a model professional – after winning Milan–San Remo he gambled away all his prize money the following night. One thing was certain, though: Defraeye could ride a bike.

  The Flemish dominated the 1912 Tour. Weather conditions were appalling, in the Alps the roads were more like mountain streams, but Defraeye, whom Alcyon had called up only at the last minute, hammered along them at record speeds, crushing his rivals like beetles. He arrived in Paris in heavy rain well ahead of his nearest rival, Eugène Christophe, and was greeted by hundreds of jubilant Belgian fans who put down their umbrellas and waved the national flag in his honour. Other Flemish riders also impressed. Marcel Buysse was fourth, emerging talent Philippe Thys was sixth and Jules Masselis, an amateur from Ledegem, won the stage into Dunkirk.

  When Defraeye returned to Roeselare, 10,000 people lined the streets to greet him. For the first time in the modern era a Fleming had shown that he could take on the French and beat them. With his winnings he built a house and a café with a bike racing track attached to it. The brush-factory delivery boy was aged just 20. His victory and the riches it brought him would make cycling popular in Flanders, as a means to escape poverty and an expression of national identity.

  For the budding cycling journalist and committed Flemish patriot Karel Van Wijnendaele, Odiel Defraeye’s triumph could not have been better timed. Cycling boomed in Belgium, the number of licensed riders rising from a few hundred to 4,000. Tracks sprang up all over the country. Observing this, a publisher from Brussels, August De Maeght, decided there was sufficient market for a specialist newspaper on sport for Dutch speakers. He called it Sportwereld and one of the writers he hired to work on his new venture was Karel Van Wijnendaele, who had proved far better at writing about bikes than he had at riding them.

  Sportwereld was an immediate success and quickly went from being a twice-weekly to a daily publication. Within four months the indefatigable and energetic Van Wijnendaele had risen to the position of editor. Right from the start the newspaper was about more than just sport. In its first editorial it promised to bring ‘a world of thought’ to the readership and to educate and inform them. The paper was written in more colloquial Flemish than most of its rivals, its reports – often pompous in the style of the time – peppered with West Flemish dialect. In those days practically every public institution in Belgium carried out its business primarily or even exclusively in French. The same applied to Belgium’s national cycling federation. Sportwereld set out to change that once and for all. It was quite a battle, but after a ten-year campaign the authorities in Brussels finally caved in and the national cycling federation became bilingual. Not content with that, Van Wijnendaele and Sportwereld also campaigned for classes at Ghent University to be taught in Dutch rather than French, and introduced a literature page to discuss and promote the latest Flemish novels, poetry and plays – hardly the usual domain of a sports paper, where gear ratios and knee injuries tend to take precedence over neo-romantic verse.

  But then Van Wijnendaele didn’t see sport as simply a game, but as a means of effecting political change. Language was the key. George Bernard Shaw famous
ly said that every time an Englishman opens his mouth he makes another Englishman despise him. Similarly, any commentary on the subject of Flemish will excite opposition from one corner or another. So when I say that the people of Flanders speak Vlaams, a dialectic form of Dutch descended from Frankish, I know that it will make some Flemings annoyed. ‘We speak Dutch,’ they will say angrily. ‘They only say it is a dialect to make us feel smaller.’ ‘They’ are the French speakers.

  This may sound a little paranoid, but the Flemish have plenty of reason to feel persecuted. Belgium became an independent nation only in 1831, following a rebellion in Brussels against the Dutch. (Despite sharing a common language the relationship between Flanders and the Netherlands is not an easy one. Flanders is devoutly Catholic and conservative, the Netherlands liberal and Protestant/agnostic. The Dutch traditionally regard the Flemish as vulgar dimwits while the Flemings look on their northern neighbours as buttoned-up, smug tightwads.) The Dutch had – somewhat against their will – been handed Flanders and Wallonia as part of the readjustment of national boundaries following the end of the Napoleonic Wars during which France had annexed them from Austria, who had taken them over from the Spanish . . . At first the Flemish refused to take orders from the new government in Brussels but eventually they were forced to do so with the help of the French army. The new country (‘created by the British to annoy the French’ as Charles de Gaulle summarised it) consisted of two linguistic groups: the Flemish and the Walloons. (After World War One a third linguistic group, the German speakers of the area around Eupen in the far north-east, would be added to the mix, but they don’t seem to be much interested in bicycles.) It’s a common misconception that the Walloons spoke French. In fact around 70 per cent of them spoke their own language, Walloon, which was grounded in the Latin-based Lingua Romana of the Holy Roman Empire. In order to resolve the problem posed by a country made up of two sets of people whose speech was incomprehensible to each other, the new Belgian government and the king, Leopold (who, to confuse things even further, was German), decided to make all of them speak a third language, French. French, with its roots in the warm Mediterranean, was still viewed across most of Europe as the language of culture. Most educated Belgians already spoke it and, since they made up the ruling class, it seemed an obvious choice, to them at least. French became the official tongue of the nation. It was the language of the government, the civil service, the local authorities, the armed forces and all secondary and higher education.