For generations the European continent has been the place for aspiring bike racers to learn, test their fitness against the best, and be seen by teams and scouts. Belgium, where the butcher, baker and schoolteacher will know the names of the top professionals, is the epicentre of it all. In Flanders or the Ardennes, the racing is notoriously tough, due to the ruthless competition, the technical race courses that are often cobbled and accented with steep climbs, and the cold rain and fierce wind that blows in off the North Sea. 

Mike Barry Sr, on the right, lines up for a local Ontario race. Ian Brown is on the left and was the race official. Late 1960's.

Over 60 years ago, a family friend, Ian Brown, who was also a top cyclist in the UK before emigrating to Canada to open a bike shop in Ottawa, wrote the following story for The Leaguer, a British Magazine. In a time when few Brits made the trip to the continent to race, he was unique in his adventures and had success against some of the best on their terrain. Reading his story, reminded me of my time in Belgium in the 90’s and, it also parallels many of the stories I hear from the young kids who race over there now. In some ways, so many things in our sport have changed but in others remain the same: pushing the body and mind to the limits in pursuit of stardom and a dream, and the adventure of it all. Young kids heading overseas to race in Belgium will tell you their experience isn't much different as Ian’s. 

In Canada, Ian has contributed significantly to the cycling community as a shop owner, coach, commissaire,  and race organizer. Now in his 90's he's still out riding his bike almost daily.

Ian Brown (on the left, coached the National team in Europe. Jocelyn Lovell and Sam Watson were two athletes on the trip. 

(Ian’s son, Geoff was a long time professional team mechanic who worked with Motorola, US Postal, Discovery Channel, Astana, Garmin….He is now the head mechanic at Cycling Canada)

–Michael Barry. 

BAPTIZED IN BELGIUM 

Entirely unsupported, IAN BROWN invaded the Belgian Race Citadel and was soon ranked Third Best Amateur. Read his colourful account of his time on the continent: 

ARRIVING in a gale swept, cold and wet Brussels after leaving the sun-kissed Côte D’Azur at the Monte Carlo based Simplex training camp, I did not begin with a very cheerful or inviting prospect. Then the race in that same weather the following day, in the 130-kilometre Ghent-Staden together with over 80 other coureurs who were on the line for the season’s first amateur classic, my opinion of Belgium was not very high.

But the months passed and some thousands of kilometres and 62 road races later, my opinion had altered more than somewhat. The country of the Belgians, although as widely varied as Britain, with their notorious roads, contains what must be the most sports-minded people in the world.

Can you imagine over 400 professionals, 180 Independents and thousands of amateurs attempting to make a living at road racing—with a population only the equivalent of London?

Although ‘le coureur’ comes first, other sports are conducted with the same enthusiasm, and one begins to wonder how!

Belgium, the home of road racing, is the toughest school of all (that is not a personal opinion), and so I am determined to spend a year to attempt to learn their game. Racing every day, minimum prizes (£180 for a professional event. £90 Independent and £38 Amateur), no entry fees, only need for previous notification of entry to classics, and supporters galore constitute the Belgians’ lot.

The number of races per week varies little mid-season and a weekly bulletin is issued to cater for these. For example, for the week following the 14th August last year 11 professional events were promoted, 2 for independents, 63 for amateurs, 65 for debutants (junior—but with no age limits, single freewheel only being allowed), 4 for debutants under the age of 16, and 2 for tourists using Sturmey-Archer gears. A fairly full programme, you say, but by no means easy, and most riders race at least three times a week. I now know that it is impossible to do too much in Britain.

Rik van Steenbergen had a lay-off in the middle of the season because he was stale—a lay-off for 8 days, and that was considered a long time. Unless a Belgian is riding for a foreign sponsor he is considered very fortunate to receive more than a frame and jersey(even though professional!) and together with no trade bonus, one may begin to get an idea how hard it is to win.

Having dealt very briefly with my background, none of which I knew on arrival there in Brussels, I will try to remember a few more personal experiences.

Ian alongside Fausto Coppi on the Isle of Man in 1958. 

The first race seemed never ending, and even now I can almost feel the terrible pavé, the mud and water in which we were all drenched, and a gale blowing. To say that I did not know where we were going, how far, or how soon we would get to the finish is an understatement. On the start the organisers promised me beautiful roads—and so they were, if compared with a ploughed field. Eventually we arrived, every other rider sprinting off down the road when I was unaware of any finishing line, and so came 18th—“Not too bad,” a few newly-won supporters told me. “Hest Jos. Plankart” they said- the winner was one of few great Belgian professionals at the moment. My improvement was very rapid, slowly getting to know how to dodge pot-holes, ride on pavé and sprint at the same time, coming 6th then 2nd in my third race.

From then I struck up a fierce rivalry and yet friendship with the now reigning world champion Emile Van Cauter. Other riders called him crazy, but maybe we all are, and he certainly got results.

Until I changed ranks to the Independents we were fighting for top place in a points system for best amateur rider in Belgium. Emile ended the season on top and so won the complete furnishings (less wife) to a bedroom.

The best ride I did, though not my best position, whilst with the amateurs was my last in that category. Although I had ridden plenty of pavé by then I always chose events where there was a possibility of a few kilometres of good roads. At a nearby village called Meetbrock, which is where the great Brussels airport is situated, an event was promoted and together with persuasion from supporters and attractive prizes, I was at last riding a race with not one stretch of decent road. The pace was very fast and soon I was amongst a very efficient break of a dozen riders.

Kilometre after kilometre we went on, occasionally sprinting for a prime or losing a rider. Getting ready for another prime my leading rider switched amid good British cursing onto my front wheel. Down I went across a gravel path and into a ditch (fortunately empty!). Blood and skin seemed to be all over me, but as tradition has taught me, I picked my velo up, got a spectator to straighten the bars, swore a few more times and was away.

Two minutes pulled back in 15 kilometres and I was with the break again, only to puncture another 5 kilometres later! In the hurry to fix another tubular on, I jammed my C.O₂ pump, but fortunately I had left my hand pump on—a thing I rarely did. It was another three minutes behind the leaders before I was away. The break was disintegrating and I passed one by one the shedded riders, all puzzling out what queer language I was calling them, when they refused to work and I managed to leave them. The finish eventually arrived and I was surprised to find only two riders had finished in front of me—by a matter of half a minute. My next race was a different tale.

After a three-week break I returned to Belgium as an “Inde” (an independent racer without sponsor) and immediately learnt that I had to relearn the game. By this time I was interested in where the best prizes lay and I took note of a very valuable “King of the Mountains” prize. I then proceeded to pick up prime points (much to my regret later), and I thought all was going well until the race proper started after about 80 of the 170 kilometres.

It is enough to say that I finished 6 minutes down and for the first and last time out of the prize list, although I did pick up a few prime francs.

Competition was much more severe, the distances greater, and much bigger fields. In fact tougher than the professional races (not counting the classics, of course). It was another two weeks before I did a reasonably good ride, in the ‘Championat du Hanant’, second greatest of the Belgium Independent classics. The field of over 100 riders was what I thought maybe too much, but the only way was to learn that way. I can remember the speed was terrific for the whole of the 200 kilometres—the last 20 of which I thought I would never make it.

I had been with all the good breaks and was with eight others with less than a minute lead over a bunch of 15 for the last 80 kilometres. It was almost heartbreaking when a train slowed us to the finish in Charteris to be caught by the larger group within sight of the line. Somehow I caught a wheel and came 6th and so firmly dug into the Independent ranks.

My improvement was not short-lived and as I learnt how, gradually became better. One curious thing about the Belgians, they can hurtle at a terrific rate over their narrow grit sandy paths, working, taking their turn at the front and dropping back with maybe less than an inch to keep off the pavé, and yet cannot descend fast at all.

The Independent “Tour of Belgium” is claimed to be the next toughest race in the world to the Tour de France, and I certainly am not arguing! For three stages we rode in a blistering sun over pavé and dust paths—at an average speed of over 27’s. Then later we hit the mountains—one climb of which only 8 of the 80 odd riders left in the race! The last stages were accompanied by an overdose of rain and gales, and the 1954 “Tour of Belgium” was described as the toughest ever.

Perhaps some readers might think I am “shooting a line,” but if they had read “Les Sports,” ridden or actually seen the event they would change their attitude. My story is not a very happy one, for three punctures on the second stage, and another three on the third did not put me in a very strong position. I admit I never recovered properly from regaining the break three times the third day, for I lost 10 minutes in the last 40 kilometres. This, together with an outsize abscess at the top of my calf put me in rather a state.

I have never suffered so much as in that event, but eventually was one of the 45 to finish out of 120 starters and actually came 30th. Even though I did not do as hoped for in that event, my fitness and form certainly benefited, for I immediately started getting position after position.

Referring back to the results of the “Tour,” the final result was very surprising. The “Gitane” team held 1st and 3rd place on the General Classification up to the last day and had a very strong supporting team. Then in the last 10 kilometres the reigning Independent Champion, Willy Tinge, sprinted away intent on winning the stage and taking with him Tour of Britain rider Maurice Baele, who was lying second on Gen. Class. These two worked together so efficiently that they were not caught again and Maurice took over on general classification with only two seconds in hand.

The most amusing incident of the journey was on the third day. Nearing the finish in the blistering heat, with everyone in a bunch of approximately 20 riders nearly dead, some coureur called “Biere.” I have never seen a bunch of riders come to life so quickly. A wagon loaded with crates of bottled beer stood by the roadside. I have often wondered what the brewery said to the wagon driver minus over 100 bottles of beer unpaid for!

Nearing the end of the season I rode with professionals, although the practice of independents and pros riding together is not really allowed. What I think was my biggest fall of bad luck occurred in my first race with the big boys. Four of us had gained a half a minute lead with only 20 kilometres to the finish when I punctured. J. Schills leading this trio was never caught, and I actually just caught and passed the last man on the line.

Bad luck seemed to haunt me to the finish of the season for I punctured in six races in succession and you can imagine what it felt like to be on top form within sight of victory four times running only to puncture–and on new tubulars! 

Now a new season awaits me and I look forward, with great ambitions and hope, knowing that I have a lot to learn but also knowing that the British can hold their own against the Continentals.