Seeing The Light At The Tour Of Flanders (Part 2)
My health takes a turn for the better, and suddenly the Tour of Flanders is a go
I’ve always dreamed of riding the Tour of Flanders (aka the Ronde van Vlaanderen, or “de Ronde” to cycling fans). Since 1913, this 242km cycling race has etched its serpentine path across the cobbled fields between Bruge and Oudenaarde, Belgium, a bone-rattling “Monument” Spring classic that offers its winners a piece of immortality. Eddy Merckx, Lotte Kopecky, Tadej Pogačar…this is where the greats come to become greats. I was supposed to add my name to the list of finishers in 2025, but then…
….the EYE THING happened.
Sudden black spots and light flashes, two emergency surgeries, and many days blindfolded on the couch, all in a desperate attempt to stop a detached retina in my left eye from blinding me permanently (see Part 1). Riding Flanders would likely remain a dream, as would many life ambitions being swallowed by this growing darkness.
But in one doctor visit, everything changed.
We had arrived bright and early at the hospital Waiting Room, as we had multiple times in the last few weeks, unsure if the day would bring tests, examinations, or another round of laser surgery. Christi, my wife, patiently read her book, as I sat next to her with my eyes closed. Her warm hand in mine, fingers interlaced like roots clutching through dark earth, she often felt like my only tether to hope. I tried to relax, but the fear of the unknown gripped and pulled hard, like that moment the shivering takes hold in an ice bath. Hours went by. The silence was dreadful.
Then, with a “Herr Dunlap?”, the doctors called me in.
No surgery today. In fact, we are quite pleased with the results. We can never say 100% success, but it’s close, very close. The vision in your left eye will be at 50% for a while, but it will get better. If you feel up to it, we would like you to go back to cycling and running immediately to “see if it holds up or blows up”.
Certainly, I am not hearing this right. I made them repeat it twice to be sure.
Ja, ja, das is richtig (this is correct). It is good news, Herr Dunlap. Very good news.
Aghast, I literally floated back to the Waiting Room. What a feeling…aloft on angel wings, each breath as full of life as those of a newborn, an ember of sun defining a new horizon, burning against the dark until the dawn breaks…I want to hold onto it forever.
Christi’s eyes meet mine, and she registers my face with a soulmate’s clarity. What? How?!? She made me repeat it twice as well, finding confirmation in the nodding smiles of the white coats behind me. We hugged tightly, repeating oh my gods, laughing and sighing in disbelief. It hurt to cry, but I just couldn’t stop, her tears mixing with mine, running down our cheeks. “For better or for worse” took a turn for the better today, and this glorious and fragile life was bright once again.
“Wait…did the doctor say you need to ride again to see if it ‘blows up?’ Did he really say that?”. Once again, Austrian’s deliver the news straight, no chaser.
Ja, indeed. We ride again, doctors’ orders.
A week later, I found myself at the start of the We Ride Flanders Sportif, along with 14,000+ amateur cyclists on a chilly, sunny morning in Oudenaarde. The course was ours today, and tomorrow we would join the locals to cheer on current and future legends as the pro men and women show us how it’s done. This region is steeped in cycling culture, and the excitement for an unusually mud-free day was palpable. My gratitude level was at off the charts, and my choice of oversized eye shields (sunglasses) was 80’s-era awesomeness.
I was with the All Things Ride tour group, an eclectic team of two dozen UK/US cycling fanatics that regularly rides the Spring classics. Most of the riders had opted for the 158km distance, starting and ending in Oudenaarde to get all the cobbled sections, donning their choice of eBikes, mountain bikes, or road bikes (all are welcome). Packs of riders sprinted off with the bell at 7am, and it took some patience for me to not grab onto each breakaway. But I had to take it easy today, for good reason, and this was going to be my first foray on these historic cobbles and short, steep pitches. I just hoped my crash course on the cobbles wasn’t going to involve any actual crashing.
Watching the others, I found the three main techniques to tackle the cobbled stretches. First, if you had the quad strength like the pros, you could go hard in a tall gear and grip loosely, not picking any particular line. Second, you could try and find the flattest sections among the cobbles, but would run some risk of your tires sliding out as you veer from patch to shiny patch. Third, one can ride the smoother gutters on either side if you can hold your line on a 10cm wide strip of concrete. The gutters were an especially exciting gamble, as they would often end abruptly, or go into such a deep V that you couldn’t hop out of them. Gravel and mountain bikes had the climbing advantage with their soft wide tires (pros now riding 32-35mm on their road bikes, vs the 19mm of bygone eras), but would soon be passed on the smooth roads by the flyweight steeds. Every cobbled stretch required 100% focus, which became oddly addicting.
As we toured through the farmlands on the outskirts of the town, the orange sunrise cast long shadows across the grassy fields. The country calm was drowned in the sound of turning cranks, rolling wheels, and occasional snot rockets. It was cycling heaven!
There is a smoothness to riding in a group that feels so elegant…we snake through the turns, cheat the wind in packs, all in rhythm like a watch of nightingales. On this cultural tarmac, the motion sang like a hymn, echoing the generations of those before us.
As we arrived at the first few climbs, the sounds of bike crashes caught our attention, and soon became constant. With 20%+ pitches, one only needed a slight miscalculation on the cobbles to fall over. If a rider fell on the narrow paths, they would likely take down a few more in the process. Timing was everything, and “track stand” pausing skills proved essential. If you heard that unique sound of rubber spinning on dry cobbles, get out of the way fast!
The course weaved through towns stitched with flags of the Lions of Flanders, proud symbols of grit, identity, and defiance against all odds. I took a break at 66km (2 hours), chatting with happy Flandriens who helped me load up enough water and fuel to finish the course in one big push to stay ahead of the crowds. The countryside was gorgeous, with Spring coming to life in the farmer fields, and cows, sheep, and goats munching lemon-sweet grass at every corner.
The Koppenberg and Oude Kwaremont, two of the bigger cobbled climbs, were absolute out-of-the-saddle-red-line efforts. They rose like cathedrals of pain, each pedal stroke a liturgy in the church of suffering. Lines of walking cyclists crowded the already constrained paths, so best to stay low and focused, and grind out your teeth-gritted prayers to the wattage gods. The emergency crews were also busy on course with fallen riders, and as we would find later, were unsuccessful with two riders who would die in these climbs today. Sad, but at the same time, what a warrior way to sign off this spinning globe.
In the final smoother stretches, I was feeling strong, so I took some pulls on the front to help with the headwinds, returning the favors of so many riders who navigated my semi-blind self through the more difficult sections. In the Tour of Flanders, there are no shortcuts to greatness – only the long, crooked road of resolve and reverence that we conquer together.
Crossing the finish line (6 hours), I was blissfully exhausted in a sea of fellow smiles and exuberant hurrahs. This race that almost didn’t happen, and was so beautiful to see (and I could SEE IT!), is now done. I felt victorious on physical and meta-physical levels too difficult to explain, but divine to embrace. Quite simply, we are alive today as alive can be.
Every finisher was greeted with a joyous revelry. We hoisted Belgian beers, gorged on thick, hot fries drenched in mayo, cheering in our comrades. The next day, we would head to the Koppenberg to scream the pros to the top, drinking ourselves silly to extend the euphoria every possible second. This kinship, bonded in passion lived, and forged in the crucible of cobbles and bergs, is strong enough stop time. Knights and jesters, this weekend is ours!
I leave Belgium content, appreciative, and humbled. Also, with a reckless and irresponsible love of cobbled climbs, brown sour beer, and fries with mayo. To watch Tadej Pogačar and Lotte Kopecky both take wins in their reigning world champion rainbow kits, is to know I have witnessed the greatest cyclists of our generation, perhaps of all time, on one of the greatest stages. To have shared in the suffering makes it technicolor real.
I am grateful that fate (and the blessed hands of some gifted Austrian doctors) gave me a chance to experience this incredible event. My vision is blurred, but I can see clearly that Flanders is more than a race - it is history, a dream fulfilled, and proof of a life well lived. No other event so ruthlessly combines poetry and punishment, testing not only the legs, but the soul’s grip on glory. I shall hold onto this memory in my heart like a prayer.
My eyes are wide open now, looking to the Boston Marathon this weekend. If you will be there, or even if not, I look forward to seeing you…TRULY seeing you…and sharing a moment of gratitude. We are the fortunate souls, so let’s not waste a single day!
This is the closure I needed. Chapeau.
Shoot me an email and let's talk about this as I've had commentary about eyesight . The eyes are one of the Canaries in the coal mine of early warning on cardiovascular health.