Het Volk—the people. Bike racing is their blood sport. Their cyclists are gladiators—big, brawny men who will fight to the end in the mud. All of Flanders is their arena. Every knoll has its name. Every cobbled lane is remembered as the site of a famous attack.

Before the first big classics of the year, Omloop Het Nieuwsblad and Kuurne-Brussels-Kuurne, the Flemish people hope for gale-force winds and rain. The next chapters in their national mythology will be written on their soil; their lust for heroism might be fulfilled.

The mornings before the races, the air is filled with frites fumes, cigarette smoke, diesel, and liniment. Old racers prognosticate on television. It seems as if the air might explode.

Then, it does. 

The starting shot is fired. Soon, the peloton is rattling over cobblestones, sprinting into every corner, fighting for position in pouring rain.

Normally civilised people crowd into mucky fields to drink beer and holler at them.

The cycling season proper has begun.