Killing Passion

By Stephane Vander Bruggen.

I was standing on the podium, holding the winner’s cup in both hands and looking up at the sky. This one is for you, Pépé (Grandpa).

I could not stop a tear from rolling down my cheek, my nose from sniffling, my legs from shaking, my blurry eyes from looking into the crowd for his shadow. I believed he was still with me, and when I was asked to do the winner’s speech, emotion, relief and sadness jumped out of my mouth with a squeaky sound that would make any passer-by believe that I had not yet gone through puberty. I was so proud of this one. It was not like I had won a world championship, but I had just won the local triathlon of NATO in Brussels. I always wanted to win this race; it was part of my training ground and today I won it for someone I loved dearly. He was with me the entire race, talking to me and helping me push into another gear to get to the next level. His burial site was only around the corner from here and I had ridden past it during the race. The trophy would sit in nicely amongst the white lilies my dad often dropped off in commemoration.

*

After losing Pépé last year, cycling did not feel the same anymore, and when my other grandpa, Bompa, nearly died on his bike this week too, I lost interest.

I made a hard call and told Dad, ‘Sorry, but I am done with cycling.’

‘What do you mean, Steph?’

‘I don’t want to ride anymore. I lost one grandpa and I nearly lost another one.’

‘What about triathlons?’

‘It is only a sport, Dad, and it is only a bike.’

‘What do you mean, it is only a bike?’

‘It is only a piece of metal junk, Dad.’

‘Really? That piece of junk brings us together as a family, as people, as a country. It is in our blood to ride. It is in our culture. It is also often our way of transport, a way to get together and have fun. Tell this to the thousands of Belgians who fill up the roads each weekend for bike races. Tell them it is only a piece of metal and see their reaction.’

‘I still love cycling, Dad, but I just won’t ride anymore.’

‘How will you get to school? How will you race triathlons? How will you discover the parts of the forest you have not seen yet?’ he asked me with sadness written all over his face.

‘I am sorry, Dad. I have made my decision.’

‘I will only accept your decision on one condition,’ he said. ‘If you go and talk to your grandpa. Deal?’

‘Okay, but he nearly died, so why would he ask me to keep going?’ I replied with an arrogant tone full of confidence.

I went to see my Bompa at Edith Cavell Hospital. He was in a bad way but, as always, he had a joke ready and a smile that would not leave his face. After I had asked him how he was going I delivered the punch line.

‘Bompa, I am stopping cycling.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because I lost Pépé and now I nearly lost you.’

‘That would be silly. You love cycling. We love cycling. It runs in our blood. Pépé would have wanted you to keep going. I want you to keep going. It is what we do. I will be okay. This was just a freak accident.’

Bompa sat up on his bed with a serious look on his face.

‘Listen, tomorrow jump on your bike and describe to me how you feel. Then we can talk. Deal?’

‘Okay Bompa. Deal,’ I said before kissing him goodbye.    

My grandpa was an emotional being just as I am and he always knew how to talk to me. I went home and explained our deal to Dad. The next day I was ready to jump on my bike. I mapped out my ride, took a deep breath, trying to relax as I picked up my Colnago.

Being on my bike was freedom on wheels. I felt the rush of adrenaline as I flew downhill. I loved the feeling of the wind in my hair, the sun reflecting off my body, the rush of hormones in my blood and the sweat bullets flying off my face and leaving my body at what felt like the speed of sound. Cycling had always put a smile on my face but now I grinned from ear to ear. I still loved it! I still had the passion for it, but fear remained in the back of my mind. I looked up to the sky as if I wanted an answer. Keep going or stop? What would you like me to do, grandpa? I want to live. I am only 16, and I have so many years in front of me. Will cycling take this away from me, Pépé?

The only response I got was the creaking and groaning noise of the majestic ash trees rubbing against each other, creating a sound that seemed in sync with the bike cranks and my breathing.

On my metal machine I swept through hairpin bends, brushed past trees at full speed, a cloud of leaves trailing in my wake.

When I climbed a hill, I felt as though I could almost touch the clouds. I danced on the pedals to reach mountain tops. The sky was mine. I soared downhill like an eagle and I soaked in the stillness of the countryside. I did not fear its silence. I felt free, invincible with the wind rushing under my wings. I feel you close to me, Pépé. I am a lone ranger with speed as my only law. I smiled.

I started my downhill like a man possessed, like a warrior descending on his enemy. Pépé used to be my cycling companion, so his accident stole many such moments I could share with him. Cycling and I now had a pact. I wouldn’t lose my life and it would bring me a great lifestyle, maybe a job, and daily rewards of pure joy.

I found myself thinking, life is like a bike. To find balance you need to keep moving. No hierarchies exist when on your bike, no rich and poor, no social classes, no discrimination. Only sweat, stamina, tears and survival of the fittest matter. As long as you have a bike and you move it forward, you are part of this egalitarian clan.

At the profundity of these thoughts I became emotional. I felt like a knight panting away his sorrow. I was too fast for loneliness to ever catch me when I jumped on my metal two-wheeled steed. My armour was made of lycra, aero helmet and carbon technology. No heavy shield for this knight! I squashed the enemy with speed. I stomped the pedals rhythmically as a metronome. I bunny-hopped any obstacle put in front of me like a bike ninja.

I had the cadence plus the power of a locomotive, the iron will of a man on a quest nothing could hinder, not even the steepest mountains. I no longer felt the need for any competition. I revelled in its simplicity: me, the elements and my favourite cyclist who I was about to leave behind. I got down on the drops, chewed on the handlebar, looked back at him as I accelerated. He grimaced. His eyes were begging me to slow down as he was on the rivet. But he was panting so hard he could no longer speak. If he could, he would surely have begged me to hold back and soft-pedal.

‘Some days it feels like I have lead in the legs, but today was diamonds, Pépé,’ I told him with pride.

Without pity for my admirable competitor, I dropped him like the drink bottles I just ditch on the roadside to save weight. Bonking is for amateurs, I told myself. I reached the top of the hill and threw both arms in the air. Can you see this, Grandpa? I have beaten them all and just became world champion.

Now there was only me and my embrace of speed left when I attacked the steep and sinuous downhill, heading homeward without fear.

I didn’t corner—I flew above the curves. I shifted gear to the big cog. Granny gears are for the weak. I felt no resistance, only lightness, freedom and rebirth.

It was soon time to slow down and embrace nature as I re-entered the forest. The greenery was so bright it looked to be emanating from within the tree trunks. I brushed past the branches and entered the mystery of the woods. Leaves were drifting to the forest floor. Squirrels were stocking up on food for winter. The wind caressed my body with its warmth and musky scent. I must be getting close to home.

*

A few days after my win at the NATO race I went to the cemetery. I find lilies macabre and plain, so I planted a colourful daisy in my trophy and placed it at my grandpa’s gravesite. ‘It is now yours forever, Pépé,’ I said with pride.

Daisies are bright and so was my grandpa and they suited him more than white lilies. I sat down at his grave for a while, looking at the trophy, pondering the meaning of it all. The daisy’s strong stem made me think about each hard workout I put together to create a strong foundation, and the bright yellow centre reminded me of my heart bursting like a ray of sunshine during the effort. The petals stood for each drop of sweat that flew from my face and into the air and the light. ‘Thanks, Pépé. I finally won my bucket list race,’ I smiled.

A wind gust propelled a few petals away from where I stood. They looked like perfumed rockets, caught in a rising whirlpool heading straight to heaven.

The fragrance of the delicate petals streamed forth to tantalise my senses, tease my skin and open my airways. The daisy’s petals rushed into the sky and the lilies were brushed away by the whispering gust. The daisy petals rose in synchronicity with the flapping wings of birds, their calls as sad and gloomy as the upcoming weather the wind suddenly pushed upon us. ‘Is it you, Pépé?’ I whispered. ‘Thanks again for your help and support on Sunday,’ I said. ‘I nearly stopped it all, and that would have been a pity, don’t you think, Pépé?’ The wind whispered in my ear, the only reply I would ever get and I was pleased. Time to go home and train for my next race. Goodbye Pépé. I have many more dreams to achieve and many more races to win. Adieu.

About the author

I have always written blogs, poems and articles but late 2021, I started a crazy project – writing a memoir. At first it was just therapy, but then I realised I had a good story to tell and it became a new challenge. I laid down 30 chapters to finish my story, I started entering competitions and attended multiple writing courses. I joined Geelong Writers and two of the book chapters got published.

Being halfway through my book, I looked back at it and I thought, yes, it has a strong message, and I reckon I can help people if I release it so let’s do this!