Part of me knew that I should be humble and
should fear this iconic climb. But a combination
of hubris, the f lattening visual effect of camera
angles, and my confidence in modern-day equip-
ment made me think it didn’t look that bad. I
considered the numbers: At 600 meters long,
the Koppenberg has an average gradient of 11.6
percent, with a max of 22 percent. Having climbed
the famed Monte Zoncolan in Italy (10km at a 12
percent average grade, with a 22 percent max), I
thought the climb would be doable if approached
with the right gear and at the right pace.
The Koppenberg had different plans.
I AM ON THE HARDEST PART OF THE CLIMB.
The road seems to get narrower. I start to zigzag
left and right to slalom around riders, overtak-
ing a few. My legs ask other parts of my body for
help in pushing. My shoulders respond and start
to move left and right, attempting to put more
weight on the pedals. My computer says my heart
rate is almost at 180 bpm. But I am determined
to stay on my bike.
The repetitive impact of the sharp cobbles
makes my muscles feel like they are detaching
from my bones. The person in front of me cuts
left. I have no other choice—I swerve left as well. I
was already at my limit, crawling, and I don’t have
enough strength to sprint around him. Suddenly,
both wheels are in the mud. To keep from tipping
over, I put my right foot down.
It’s over.
I unclip my other shoe and get off. I feel drained,
disappointed, and embarrassed. Voices whisper
in my head as I imagine friends asking about the
ride: “How was the Koppenberg?” “What? You
didn’t make it?” “Did you put your foot down?”
“He went all the way out to Belgium and walked
up the Koppenberg!” I try to get back on my bike,
but the road is too crowded and slippery. Within
two pedal strokes, I am off again.
Walking uphill is probably trickier than riding.
The sound of carbon soles scrabbling against the
slick cobbles mocks us, and a dark cloud of dismay
descends over me. I feel stupid and defeated.
At the top, we pull over and regroup. “Who actu-
ally made it?” asks Michel. What he really means:
Who rode it the whole way? I shake my head.
“I had to walk for a bit, and then got back on the
bike after,” says Andrea.
The only breath Mateus musters is invested in
a loud curse.
We all laugh.
Since the beginning of the day, a silly Brazil-
ian samba song has been stuck in our heads (“E
Samba” by Junior Jack). As we roll off, I start to
sing it out loud, though I don’t know the lyrics, so
my version sounds like gibberish. We laugh again.
The jingle gives us some spirit with which to fight
the Flemish roads.
A gray mantle of mist decorates the green hills
of Oudenaarde. The air starts to get crisp—it is
almost 4 p.m. in late March—and it is getting
dark. The last 32km turns into a silent procession.
We hit the Oude Kwaremont (2.2km of rolling,
bone-rattling cobblestones), then the road turns
to smoother asphalt. An event marshal appears,waving for us to slow down. I look to my right and
see the other cobbled climb we’ve been anticipat-
ing: the Paterberg.
The Paterberg is a little less steep than the Kop-
penberg and the surface is in better condition. Once
more, people are walking. And again, I find myself
struggling up the cobbles. The voices in my head
begin whispering again.
As I grind up the steepest section, a guy in front
of me starts to lose his balance. He manages to stay
upright but swerves toward me. I forget about being
polite and yell, “Your left!” Remarkably, he actually
swerves left again, squeezing me into a narrow
stretch of road between him and the mud off to the
side. I suck it all in, yell again—and squeeze through.
I make it to the top on my bike. It feels like
redemption.
Before I signed up for the sportive, a friend had
suggested riding one of the shorter options instead,
because the first 100km of long course was, as he
described it, “f lat and not interesting.” Maybe
without all those kilometers in my legs already,
I would have been able to ride the Koppenberg.
But after battling all 229km of the long course, I
think the real meaning of Flanders is to ride those
cobbles with the legs smashed.
Some pros, I later learn, will also walk it the next
day. I’d rather walk the Koppenberg on a 229km
day than ride it on an easier route. To walk is to
meet your cycling limit. There’s pride in pushing
to that point.
We cross the finish with nine hours in the saddle.
After a bus ride back to the town where we’re
staying, a short ride through the dark to find our
Airbnb, and long-awaited showers, it’s 10 p.m. by
the time we finally sit down and sift through the
emotions of the day. But with eight pizzas and 20
beers in front of us, it doesn’t take long for us to
start looking ahead.
“So,” Michel says. “Next year Roubaix?”“what
the
f*ck is
that?”
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3,700 feetISSUE 1|2020 • BICYCLING.COM 77