There’s something magnetic about Europe in the spring. Maybe it’s the legendary climbs and ancient roads, the intoxicating blend of grit and grandeur. Maybe it’s the echo of generations of cyclists who’ve bled and battled their way across cobbled lanes and brutal gradients. Whatever it is, we went looking for it on the border between Belgium and France—and we found it.
Our Spring Classics 2025 Cycling Camp was the first of its kind for us. Eleven days. Two countries. Two iconic sportives—Flanders and Roubaix—bookending a whirlwind of riding, exploring, and laughing until our faces hurt. What unfolded was more than just a training camp. It was a full-on pilgrimage into the heart of European cycling culture.
Belgian Squares, French Triangles, and One Falcon
From the moment we landed, the adventure began. Our base sat right on the border between Belgium and France, where you could tell what country you were in just by looking at the rooftops. Belgian houses are stoic and square; French houses lean into elegant, angular lines. Our days began with chaos—bike boxes, group texts, shuttles, and a driver named Josh who was so eager he was practically riding before unpacking.
Logistics aside, we rolled deep with vans full of bikes, gear, and the human Swiss army knife that is Ralph, buried somewhere under it all. On our way to the Chunnel, we spotted the hilariously named “Smurfit Kappa” and encountered Europe’s eco-friendly method of bird control: falcons at passport control. You just can’t make this stuff up.
The Flanders Ride: Beer, Bands, and Brutality
With less than 12 hours to spare, we hustled over to Flanders to register for the sportive. Belgian hospitality did not disappoint—check-in came complete with local beer and a band full of fellow riders belting out tunes in full kits. We chose the orange route, a collection of classic climbs, ditching the “extra” 100 km of flat just to match the men’s pro race. It was the right call.
The next morning, all 16,000 of us lined up, pom-poms on helmets to help us spot each other in the crowd. The climbs came fast and hard. Old Quaremont, the Paterberg, and the brutally deceptive Kreuzberg tested every ounce of strength and balance we had. These aren’t just climbs—they’re legacies. Chiseled into the DNA of cycling itself.
Aid stations were a festival of carbs and chaos, complete with more music and more beer. And yes, Tom did the pom-pom. Peer pressure is alive and well in Belgium.
Roubaix Recon: Hell of the North, Up Close
Midweek, we shifted gears to recon the cobbles of Roubaix. The terrain changed, but the suffering didn’t. We rolled through the infamous Arenberg Forest, walked the Carrefour de l’Arbre, and rode into the iconic Roubaix velodrome. Most tourists come here for a photo. We came to ride it.
The cobbles were no joke. They tore up hands and wheels and made 30mm tires feel like slicks on sandpaper. You quickly learn there are only two lines that don’t punish you: smack dab in the middle or deep in the gutter. Everything else? Carnage.
But the payoff was in the details. Riding through WWI pillboxes hidden in the woods. Visiting the Menin Gate Memorial and its haunting ceremony. Drinking sour beer under Gothic arches. Hanging bib shorts on trees when the van ran out of drying room.
Watching the Pros: Front Row at War
We weren’t just riding the classics—we were watching them, too. We staked out prime spots on Quaremont and Arenberg, elbow to elbow with fans wielding flags and beer, yelling our lungs out as the pros flew by just inches away.
We watched Pogacar make his move. We saw Pedersen hit the infamous rock and flat out. We witnessed the chaos, the glory, and everything in between. Being that close gives you a whole new respect for the power and precision of these athletes. It’s one thing to ride the course. It’s another to watch someone destroy it.
Final Rides and Takeaways
As the week wound down, we soaked in every last pedal stroke. More recon, more riding, more laughter. We explored cobbled side streets and quiet canals. We argued over the aesthetics of triangle vs. square houses. We made new friends and cemented old bonds.
If there’s one takeaway from Spring Classics 2025, it’s this: cycling in Europe is more than sport—it’s culture. It’s beer at registration. It’s cobbles that rattle your fillings. It’s locals who don’t flinch at grown adults in neon lycra. And it’s the powerful reminder that adventure doesn’t just live in the Alps or the Dolomites—it lives in every turn, every climb, every story we share around the dinner table at the end of the day.
And yes, we’ll absolutely be back.
