Never Ending Ninove.

The Omloop of life.

I went to watch Omloop Nieuwsblad (as it is now to be known) today. This is something I have been meaning to do for years. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to get around to it.

I had ulterior motives, which I will come to. But, this always feels like a significant day in the calendar, though it is far from clear who first coined the phrase “Opening Weekend”, a rather annoyingly self-important title, given that the men’s peloton has been in pretty much constant motion for well over a month already.

Before my Eurostar had glided to a halt at Brussels’ Gare du Midi, my WhatApp group with David Millar and Pete Kennaugh was alive with messages. Pete had to take his youngest to a swimming gala, and had come prepared. Whereas David was going to a tennis club with his kids and was also making plans as to how he’d follow the action after they got back.

I love it when a race brings us together like this, one fan and two ex-pros who are also “simply” fans these days. This sport never leaves you.

But for me, over and above the itch to see Mathieu van der Poel and Demi Vollering (spoilers) in full flight, there was the equal draw of another return trip to my adopted Flemish home town of Ninove.

Over a decade ago the Ronde van Vlaanderen rejected this modest town as its finish line, close to the historical centre of the Belgian match-making industry, at one point knocking out many billions of safety matches every year from a vast factory on the banks of the river Dender.

But, the good services of a local estate agent called Willy Verlé, the organiser of the local committee, the town has gained instead an association with the Omloop, a race dreamt up by the left-leaning Het Volk newspaper in direct opposition to the very right wing Het Nieuwsblad; a point of political difference which was greatly confused when the two papers merged. And yet, the Omloop has a vague spirit of insurgent underdog in respect of its more celebrated cousin, the Ronde.

Willy Verlé, the man responsible for fostering Ninove’s relationships with both these prestigious races, died during the pandemic, in 2021. I was in middle of writing 1923, when his memorial service was held in Ninove’s elegant Abdijkerk, and followed it online. Only a few months earlier, I had been in touch via email with Verlé, believing (erroneously as it happened) that he had actually known Théophile Beeckman, the anonymous hero of my tale, and a cycling son of Ninove.

And it was Théo’s memory which had brought me back to Ninove again today, parking a hire car just behind the church whose roof I had stared at for 10 long wintry days, stuck in covid self-isolation, in 2021, finishing off my story.

For those of you yet to read 1923, or perhaps those who have no intention of doing so, Théo Beeckman was a Belgian rider of the 1920s, who just happened to be caught on film by the Pathé cameras on stage 4 of the 1923 Tour de France. Most footage of that era has been lost or destroyed, but a partial reel of film somehow survived and fell into my possession in autumn of 2020.

That in turn sparked off a long and rich journey of discovery about this man’s mostly forgotten career. Among many other connections, I managed to track down his living descendants, who had next to no knowledge of Théo’s exceptional achievements. I have stayed in touch with Thérèse, his only surviving grandchild, her husband Wim and a whole family of younger female great, and great great grandchildren. Often I came to Ninove to visit them. They, in turn have visited the road in France that Thérèse’s grandfather raced. When the book was finally published, Wim sent me a wonderful message which I will forever treasure.