Brussels-Lille-Nordzee: Impressions de voyage

Sometimes we need to get up our asses and dive in the cold water to court the Muse of Creativity. We need to seek that controlled and lucid state of craziness, thinking, " I don' t see a reason anyone in his right mind would  do this, but why not? It's going to be fun!"

C'était avec de telles pensées dans la tête, que je pédalais le longue du canal du Sud de Bruxelles bien avant la levée du soleil en un froid mercredi de fin novembre. Je venais de partir et je me sentait magiquement relaxé- ma respiration déjà en phase avec mes pédales (c'est ça le secret...). Les seules rencontres: les oiseaux du canal et des autre cyclistes (dans le sens contraire) qui se rendaient au travail dans la capitale.

It was going to be a long day: a race against the clock, which could only be won by a massive morning mileage and by doing the right choices. After some time following the maps on my phone, I realized that there was already a well-marked longterm cycle route (LT6) which was going roughly in the right direction, following scenic side roads and doing sometimes ample detours. Following it seemed a good bet, provided I allowed myself to take a few shortcuts if my instinct (well advised by my phone) saw fit. A generous apple tree offered me unlimited breakfast and plenty of supplies for later on. The road continued alternating fields, villages,heaps of beethroots, mild hills and some muddy paths in the middle of nowhere. After a few kilometres of pure pain pushing fast and straight on the side of a national road, I dived back onto the LT6 route right were it swerves into a majestic forest in the heart of the flemish Ardennes. Time to get properly muddy...yay... and to do a last sprint until I scouted the perfect lunch point on top of the hill. As usual, lunch was royal- avocado,onion, cheese, almond sandwiches cut and assembled freshly on the spot. The growing awareness that my forced march to France would be sucessful was the best dressing for such a somptuous meal. But,alas, the chilly weather reminded me that the biker never really stops, and I started my way down to the civilized and irrigated plains. It was shortly after leaving the forest, that I found myself facing a dangerous snake more than 6 meters long waiting for his next meal right in the middle of the road. The epic fight thqt ensued was soon won thanks to my quick maneouvre, running over the ugly face of the reptile with my loaded 2-wheeler. He was dead on the spot. When picking up the spoils of the defeated I realized its outer skin was nothing less than an high performance rope (at least if we judge it by its weight..), which I decided to roll on my steering wheel as a spoil of war. It will be useful in the future to climb some rocks, cross stormy rivers, or towing exausted cyclists!

The road was now going down -with open views all the way to what I believe was France and soon I was following the river Escaut, which would lead me straight to my destination. The river was followed by the Roubaix canal - a lovely stretch of water with regular rows of poplars on the side - whose now long and weary shades were giving a sooting sense of peace to the frozen bike traveller. The woolen hat I just got from Oxfam revealed to be an authentic blessing! Border crossing was so unepic as something I did not even realize... my next break was spent sitting on a small wooden pier  in the unsettling uncertainty on which country my ass was sitting!

Et puis...la France! Le premier contact avec la terre de Napoleon a été choquant: perdu sur les routes de l'abominable Roubaix, métropole sans âme mais avec trop de voitures. Plus que de parcours urbain jusqu'à Lille.  Plus que de pollution, de conducteurs enragés, de feux rouges très défavorables pour les cyclistes.... Rien à signaler jusqu'à mon arrivée à l'hostel - un bar assez branché, ouvert aux clients de extérieur, mais presque sans âme. Tous le résidents que je rencontrais semblaient plus concentrés sur ses smartphones qu’intéressés à rencontrer d'autres voyageurs (et quels voyageurs! :)). De tout façon, temps de se promener un peu dans la ville, déjà plongée dans l’atmosphère insupportable du Noël, de conclure qu'elle est un ville de snobs et de se renfermer dans la cuisine pour un bonne repas à base de nourriture récupérée.

The second day started even earlier and was fraught with instinctual decisions. I got properly offtrack when re-entering Belgium, and instead of retracing my route for about 10 km (the reasonable but dullest way) I decided to zigzag my way trough unbeaten territory. The roads were getting smaller and smaller, and nicer and  steeper (who said Flander were flat???) and the annoying head wind which would have kept me company all day appeared for the first time. Snack on a remote cemetery wall, lunch in a field in front of a guard dog that begged for my food for the whole time, then down into the planes thru a few very standard/spotless/soulless/flemish villages... until the road turns into a massive lake. I am surrounded by flood water incapable of moving forward. Trying to cycling thru with or without boots reveals a challenge. I just cannot see the road anymore until the point it re-emerges some 200m later. The water level is now to my calves and keeps increasing. How deep will it go? The question is to remain unanswered. This time there was no other option than to bow my head in front of the scale at which nature likes to play and to circumnavigate the floodland via a different route. How bitter the carrots found in a field nearby and washed in the flood water!! The only satisfaction was now to stay barefoot for a good hour in order to dry my feet and procure myself a semi-paralysis. Enough water? you may ask... well no: my next brave detour consisting in following again a river and its floodlands till Dixmude, for a breathtaking stretch of marshland. The headwind was now a solid brickwall and only the energy of the landscape kept me going slowly and steadily.

I had now no idea of were I was going and just moving on the principle: let's do a bit more and see.

La chance m'a alors donnée une soi-disant autoroute pour vélo toute droite jusqu'à la ville côtière de Niewpoort. C'est là que je me suis lancé dans une douleureuse bataille contre moi-même (et le vent) en essayant de pousser sans cesse sur les pédaux pour une quinzaine de km. tout autour:les plaines; toute en face:la poussière d'une sable noire de la route; dans mon ésprit: la préoccupation de trouver un réfuge pour la nuit.

Et fut comme ça que je arrivais a la mer du Nord au coucher du soleil. Le mer était en train de se retirer pour la nuit, en laissant des centaines de mètres de plage à la merci du voyageur. Un vent éffraiant balayait la plage et les dunes. Des serpents de sable dançante rampaient bruyamment toute au long de la côte. Une réfléxion strategique me permit de conclure que le vent était désormais mon allié et que je pouvait oser tenter la route vers De Panne (la station de trains la plus proche) pendant la nuit. En fait j'avais beacoup de temps avant le dernier convoi. Temps en companie du ciel étoilé, des vagues puissantes, des sifflements de la sable, des erbes sauvages qui croient sur les dunes, des lumières lointaines des navires, du phare de Dunkerque, des hombre furtives de quelque passant courageux sur la plage...La tentation de m'envelopper dans mon sac et de fermer mes yeux jusqu'à l'aube...

The ride to De Panne was amazing. Some roller coasting on the dunes on roads forbidden to cyclists and under scarce visibility conditions was exilarating. Being a lone point disappearing in the darkness can turn into a strong feeling of freedom.  I was there in a wink. Absolutely battered by fatigue and the elements.My right knee complaining almost as much as the squeeky chain of my bike. I asked a train to take me away from there. Fell asleep as soon as I touched the warmth of the seat and dreamt that a train could ever take me home...