I knew that the Ramberg would be on my menu again today, this time for the men’s race.  It’s a short cobbled climb (0.2 km) with an average gradient of 11% … brutal.

Yesterday I stood at the top.  The road narrows for the last 50 metres – only room for two cyclists at a time.

Today I found the street that would take me to the bottom of the climb.  There were no police officers yet so I started walking up the slope.  Here’s the view looking down:

This is the wide part of the street.  You’re looking down but the photo doesn’t do it justice.  It was steep.

A perfect spot to see the racers zoom by, I thought.  The police disagreed.  An officer told me I had to leave.  Only street residents could stand and watch.

I smiled and pointed to a name plate on the building beside us.  It said “van Baarle”.

“I’m Mr. van Baarle!”  Sadly I slaughtered the pronunciation.  The officer smiled back and gently said “Move on.”  That was fun.

I crammed close to the barriers with hundreds of other cycling fans.  We cheered outrageously when the riders turned the corner and started up the climb.  Listen:

Some of the athletes were thrilled with our yells … like this guy:

So cool!  So loud.

The elite folks were doing three laps in the Leuven area – so they passed by my position three times.  The second go round, Mathieu van der Poel led about eight other cyclists up the Ramberg.  Wow … power and speed.

Myself, I wasn’t feeling too powerful.  I had been standing in one spot for probably two hours and my feet were dying a slow death.  So I said goodbye to my new spectating friends and stumbled down a slight slope.  My legs and feet were screaming, and I imagined a young kid saying to his mother “There’s an old man.”  I suppose he was right.

I found a bench with a long view up the hill.  My phone told me that Mathieu was now alone in the lead.  I waited patiently for his arrival:

You can see a glom of very fit climbers to the right of the church.  When it was Mathieu’s turn, he got out of the saddle … and sprinted!  My God.

***

Mathieu won

And so did I

On the train now, with Gent beckoning

The elite women rode their World Championship gravel race today – 135 kilometres.  I decided to take the train this morning from Leuven to the start in Halle.  An early beginning for me.

I’d heard that thousands of cycling fans would congregate today in Halle.  Would I see anything?  No matter, I’ll go anyway.

An hour of fields, homes and Brussels neighbourhoods eventually deposited me in Halle.  Off the train, I followed the crowd to Pozzosplein, a big square full of metal barriers, cyclists in their national colours, places to drink and eat … and countless fans of the sport.

My first stop was the race administration office.  A wonderfully kind man tried his best to trace out a route for me – train and bus – so I’d be able to cheer the riders halfway through the race, rather than just at the start and end.  He worked so hard for me!

Keeping in mind the approximate speed that the women would be doing, I’d have to leave Halle before the race started to catch them at the mid-point.  No thanks.  I decided to stay put.

I couldn’t get close to the start line so I wandered down the road.  And slowly the crowd thinned.  I picked a spot up against the barrier, at a place where the road curved.

Exactly at Noon, I saw fireworks explode where I thought the start line was.  The women were coming!

I wanted to take a photo from a good distance, enlarge it for this post, and then put the phone down in time to see Puck Pieterse swoop by.  (She’s my hero)

Here’s the pic.  Puck is the fourth orange (Netherlands) jersey from the left:

However by the time I lowered my phone, all I saw was the back of Puck’s head.  Oh well.

About fifteen minutes after the women set off, the next group to start was men age 50-54.  Getting near the start line was no problem this time.

Here’s what my neighbours looked like:

So fit!  Truly athletes.  I applauded them inside my hands.  The fellow next to me mentioned that he wasn’t all that fit.  I smiled.

Some of the guys chatted with their colleagues before the gun.  Some were intensely in their own world.  I loved them all.

I took the train back to Leuven, remembering a name from the World Championships website: the Ramberg.  It’s an extremely narrow cobbled climb in Leuven.  The riders would tackle it twice, the second time only about two kilometres from the finish line.

Could I make it in time to see the leading women climb the slope … twice?  Surely at least once.

I walked super fast from the Leuven train station, Google Maps jiggling in my hand.  But I was hungry – very!  Another estimated time of cyclists passing by was in my head but there was nothing in my stomach.  I kept looking for a bakery along the route – nope.

One block from where Google said the Ramberg was … sat a Carrefour Express – a grocery store.  Yes!

A warm spinach and cheese roll, a chocolate croissant and a Coke Zero made their way into my backpack.  I arrived at the top of the climb, where one of the police officers said “Stay back.  The riders are coming.”

It took twenty minutes, but he was right.  Here’s the evidence:

I stood in this spot for close to two hours, cheering everyone on two wheels.  (I saw Puck twice!) 

Allez!  Magnifique!  Well done!  Bravo!

What a thrill to see the cyclists blasting by me – both the elite women and the age group riders that started after them

I talked to my spectating companions in English or broken Dutch.  And finally I was all cheered out.

Tired but happy

I made it work

And I’ll do it again tomorrow … for the men

Probably not the train to Halle but definitely the Ramberg

KU Leuven is a Catholic university founded in 1425, making it the oldest university in Belgium.  I went walking through the halls of the school’s library today.  Here’s the reading room:

Just a few diehard studying humans on a Friday afternoon but the audio guide voice said the place is packed when exams are closing in.  I thought of the thousands of students who have sat in those chairs and climbed the stairs to the books of the second and third levels.

The library was on another street in 1914 when German soldiers burned it to the ground, with the loss of 230,000 books.  It was rebuilt on the site where I stood, only to burn again in 1940.  The sadness of war.

A plaque hangs outside the reading room:

This gentleman was head librarian from 1921 till 1961.  He supervised the restoration of the library only to see it destroyed again.  And one more time he led the renewal.  No doubt he loved reading the treasures within those pages.  Is there sorrow in the face?

Today was my day to explore Leuven before the Gravel World Championships of cycling on Saturday and Sunday.  I knew, however, that accumulating touristic attractions wasn’t real life.

So at breakfast I talked to the Thai owner of Rosetta while savouring the mysteries of avocado, egg, cheese and soft bread.  She’s happy in Leuven, and no doubt her smile contributes her rating of 4.9 out of 5 on Google Maps.

Although in general I live in the moment rather than questioning tomorrow, I spent an hour on a bench, trying to figure out how I’ll see the women cyclists in the middle of the race, not just at the start and finish.  And sadly I couldn’t find a public transportation solution.

Tomorrow morning I’ll take the train to Halle, where the riders start.  I’m praying that race officials there can help me in my quest.  Eventually I’ll take a train back to Leuven for the finish.  Whatever happens, I’ll be immersed in the gravel cycling world.

I saw marvelous sights at the university.  Here are a few photos:

A Buddha created about 1800 in Burma (now Myanmar)

Another hour of my non-touristic time was devoted to conversation about life with Lieze, the barista at Izy Coffee in Leuven centrum.  Happily there were very few customers so I got to float in her wisdom.  I said a few cool things too.

Dinner on the Oude Markt:

There’s a gentle slope just in front of the guy in the red pants.  I loved watching cyclists swoop down.  Actually I loved finding the eyes of countless diners, strollers and pedallers … though very few of those eyes noticed mine.  That’s okay.

An hour ago, as I was stumbling towards my bus, I came upon rhythm – loud, infectious smile-creating rhythm:

Thanks, guys and gals

And now my bed, please

(Not quite … it’s only 7:24)

I don’t know what I was thinking yesterday morning.  The temperature was 7 Celsius when I set off for breakfast.  “I’ll need my toque and mitts,” I reasoned.  So I stuffed them into my coat pockets.

At some point in the day, I got tired of bulky unneeded pockets, so I put the things into my backpack.  I saw no need to remember when that was.

Hours later, after four stops, I returned home and reached inside for my extra clothes.  I pulled out the red toque.  And then the mitts.  They felt light … I guess one mitt will do that to a fellow.

Arghh!  Where’s the other one?

I love my mitts.  They were my partners for many Canadian winters.  I call them friends.

And then there was one:

I searched the pack some more, then the floor, my coat.  Mittless.

One thing I’ve learned: When there’s a problem – act.  Don’t let it fester overnight.

“Okay, Bruce.  Retrace your steps.”  And off I went into the world.  I began with Stop #4 – the Press Shop on the Langemunt.  I’d picked up two books that arrived in the mail.  Paul and I searched.  Nothing.

Stop #3 was Izy Coffee, also on the Langemunt.  I’d sat there for an hour, writing a blog post.  No extra objects on the couch, on the floor, or in lost-and-found.  (The sighs started)

On to Stop #2, my Music Theory class in room A101 at the Poel music school on Poel.  I knocked on the door and was welcomed by a piano teacher and her young students.  No mitt.  Downstairs in the office, Frank rummaged through his pile of clothing odds and ends > same result.

One more chance, appropriately named Stop #1.  I had breakfast at The Cobbler in the Post Hotel on the Graslei.  Surely this was where I did the transfer deed from pocket to pack.  Except it wasn’t.  Everywhere was clean and devoid of finger warming objects.

Did I mention?

Sigh

And then the question that every person on Earth has asked at some point …

Now what?

I knew that I’d be travelling today to Leuven for three days of exploring.  And that the low on Friday will be 4 Celsius.  Plus my hands get cold fast.

“Bite the bullet, Bruce.  Buy new mitts!”

I slumped down to A.S. Adventure on the Zonnestraat.  I knew they had good outdoor clothing.  A lovely young saleswoman was determined to find the right mitts for me.  We wandered from one spot to the next, and then to the next.

Et voilà:

They’re thermal.  They’re water repellent. They’re soft on my skin

And there are two of them!

***

Closure

Bittersweet happiness

Bring on the chill, Leuven

I like those two words.  I never know if this moment could be the last time … I am with a person I love … I do an activity I love … I’m in a place I love.

Last night was a last time.

I love our Evolutionary Collective meetings online.  Five years ago, I took on the task of being a Zoom host once a week.  I struggled to learn.  Sometimes my mind is wide open.  As a Zoomie, I had to focus, a skill that’s been elusive for much of my life.

Anywhere from 10 to 50 human beings have depended on my technical skills so that the meeting is what it’s meant to be: a time for spiritual connection with another human being, and with the whole group.

I have served our community well as a Zoom host.  Despite my many mistakes, I have been committed to the people who show up onscreen in their little rectangles.

Guess what my biggest stress has been on these calls.

…

Okay, here it is: the Internet.  So many times when I turn on my laptop forty minutes before a call, the little “world” symbol shows up on the taskbar – no connection.  I’ve coped well  with the sudden surges in heartbeat.  However …

About two months ago, the world obligation showed up on my lips.  Not a good sign.

After two weeks of feeling into a future decision, the future became the present:

I don’t want to do this anymore

And so last night’s session was my last as a Zoom host.

I felt the nostalgia (and the happiness) as my fingers did all the prep before the folks started showing up.  Carolyne, the teacher for the evening, came on early.  I thanked her and she thanked me for our service to each other, and to the EC members.

The Zoom host welcomes the participants at the top of the hour.  Last time for those sweet words.  Last time to pair people up for the Mutual Awakening practice.  Last time to send out messages so the members know when to switch into a new phase of the practice.

There’s a period of sharing in the large group as the meeting flows towards its close.  I looked at all those rectangles and loved each soul within.

Then it was time for me to unmute everyone so we could say goodbye.  I smiled for the journey it’s been, and for all my companions.

***

And so it ends

A chapter closes

I bet there’ll be some cool plot twists in the next one

When I think of the human body, I think of the surface – skin smooth or wrinkled, dark or light.  And the infinite variety of clothes we humans adorn ourselves with.

But what of the interior?  I know there’s a lot of stuff in there!  And thank God there is … so I can continue being vertical.

I’m starting to get it: Beauty is not just in the contours of the skin.  There’s a sweet universe inside.

Take the blood vessels, for instance.  The arteries take blood away from the heart, the veins return it, and the tiny capillaries exchange good stuff between the blood and tissues.

Here’s the stunner: We have 100,000 kilometres of blood vessels, enough to travel around the world twice!

So, in some twist of logic …

We Are The World

There comes a time
When we heed a certain call
When the world must come together as one

…

We are the world
We are the children
We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving

…

Oh, send them your heart
So they know that someone cares
And their lives will be stronger and free

***

I just asked myself a question.  “Were you successful in tying together artery length and a song for world unity?” 

And the answer … “Probably not!”

To be followed closely by “Who cares?”

I’m smiling in my body and in the wide world of other bodies

My friend Lyrinda Sheppard posted this poem by Jeannette Encinias on July 7.  Today is September 30.

My internal response was “Later.  I don’t have time now to explore these words.”

But what if I had died on August 12, untouched by Jeannette’s soaring thoughts?

Places to go, people to meet.   Yes, of course, but also verse to be lifted by.

Listen to the poet:

Beneath The Sweater And The Skin

How many years of beauty do I have left?
she asks me

How many more do you want?
Here.  Here is 34.  Here is 50

When you are 80 years old
and your beauty rises in ways
your cells cannot even imagine now
and your wild bones grow luminous and
ripe, having carried the weight
of a passionate life

When your hair is aflame with winter
and you have decades of
learning and leaving and loving
sewn into the corners of your eyes
and your children come home
to find their own history
in your face

When you know what it feels like to fail
ferociously
and have gained the capacity
to rise and rise and rise again

When you can make your tea
on a quiet and ridiculously lonely afternoon
and still have a song in your heart
Queen owl wings beating
beneath the cotton of your sweater

Because your beauty began there
beneath the sweater and the skin,
remember?

This is when I will take you
into my arms and coo
YOU BRAVE AND GLORIOUS THING
you’ve come so far

I see you
Your beauty is breathtaking

***

And what of the future?

May my passionate life continue

May others find themselves in my face

May I fail some more

May the song be in my heart and on my lips

May I hug myself

And may the beauty linger

I bet you know what it’s like: You read about someone and immediately fall in love.  Not romance … companionship.

So it is with me and the American author Kurt Vonnegut.  He died in 2007 but he’s very much alive in me right now.

In fact, I’ve ordered his novel Slaughterhouse Five.  My new regime of reading rolls on …

Here’s what the Internet showed me this morning:

Kurt Vonnegut tells his wife he’s going out to buy an envelope:

“Oh”, she says.  “Well, you’re not a poor man.  You know, why don’t you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet?”

And so I pretend not to hear her.  And go out to get an envelope because I’m going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope.

I meet a lot of people.  And see some great-looking babies.  And a fire engine goes by.  And I give them the thumbs up.  And I’ll ask a woman what kind of dog that is.  And, and I don’t know.  The moral of the story is – we’re here on Earth to fart around.

And, of course, the computers will do us out of that.  And what the computer people don’t realize, or they don’t care, is we’re dancing animals.  You know, we love to move around.  And it’s like we’re not supposed to dance at all anymore.

Let’s all get up and move around a bit right now … or at least dance.

***

Thank you, Kurt

Bring on the great-looking babies!

I’m not blood-related to any of them but you know what I mean.  My friend Cara visited me in Canada two years ago.  We had fun.  Last night also included her mom Petra, her dad Pascal, her boyfriend Simon, her sister Tessi and Tessi’s boyfriend Bas.

As we sat in a lovely restaurant called Takes Thyme on the Ottogracht, I reflected on what a fortunate human being I am.  Friends, old and new, flowing in the conversation … without jagged edges.  Six folks who were kind enough to speak in English, so I would feel included.  Flavours from the hands and heart of the chef Federica, who was so happy that we were sitting in her home.

I had pesto pasta (spaghetti actually) with pine nuts and amazing olive oil – my absolute favourite meal in the whole wide world.

I forgot to take a photo of us but you’ll get the idea.  I thought of Googling “seven people having dinner” but the result would have been false.

Here are some highlights:

1.  Cara and Simon just returned from a vacation in Tunisia.  She talked about a kind old woman who taught her how to spin wool, which would soon be transformed into a blanket.  Last night Cara and Simon held hands a lot.

2. Tessi told me of her passion for art history, especially the colours of expressionist paintings.  Bas’ passion is the theatre.  I told him that everyone at the table had to give a five-minute speech.  Instead of backing away, he leaned forward.  As he was about to begin, I smiled and told him it was a joke.  Tessi and Bas held hands a lot.

3.  Petra sat next to her hubby Pascal.  I didn’t see any handholding … but there was an easy love.  And a sweet satisfaction that their family was together.  When someone lapsed into discussion in Dutch, Petra gently reminded them to speak English.  Pascal smiled throughout the evening.  I asked him how old he was  >  “57”  >  “Wow, you’re old!” (I’m 75)  >  (Belly laugh from the old guy)

We went back to my apartment after dinner and talked about this, that and everything else.  I wanted them to experience a stunning YouTube video – Jacob Collier singing Somebody To Love.  So I turned on the TV.  During the song, there was silence on our lips.  At the end, Tessi burst into applause.  Jacob is a magician with his audience.

***

It’s morning

Last night lingers

I’m smiling

How’s this for a painting?  It’s called “Hopscotch” – created by Richard Sargent.

I figure Richard got it right.  Middle-aged man being a kid, with actual kids.  And them enjoying his jumps.  None of “I’m too old to …” and similar nonsense.

We each are so particular, a unique flavour in the ice cream shop – one that’s never been tasted before.  Let’s get a spoon and sample each tub of goodness.

I see a world where all of us go towards rather than back away from.  Where we see someone approaching on the street and start waving.  Maybe we don’t know them but we know them.

There’s more waving, this time from behind windows, greeting us as we pass by.  And it’s so natural to return the hello.

Nobody walks anymore.  That’s too measured, too tied to the Earth.  Instead we dance through our days … and continue till we fall down dead.

Paragraphs no longer escape our lips.  It’s all poetry.  And who cares if it doesn’t rhyme?

Pastel colours massage our souls.  And there are no border lines.  A master artist takes her or his tissue and blends green into blue.

The fences have all fallen down.  We the horses of the world run free – fast, sweating, happy.

I’m curious about your life, and you about mine.  We learn from each other.  We taste other languages, skin colours, ages, clothing, sexual orientations, joy, sorrows …

The word of the day, and every day, is “Yes”.  Love lives in the moment. 

The mouth forgets how to frown.  But it does remember how to curl upwards.  And to borrow a thought from Stephen King, “Our smiles reach our eyes.”

Then … when all is said and done

We stop talking

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