A landslide? A closed railway barrier? A race cancellation? Questions and questions rush through my head as I slow down. A moment ago we were racing down a bumpy meadow path at full throttle, then we see a wildly gesticulating steward with a flag and whistle, and now we come to a halt with squealing disc brakes. And by "we" I mean all the riders around me, plus the 80 or so riders already in front of us. A large cluster forms in front of a wooded area. Everyone is raising their heads, what's going on? I push my bike a little to the side and see the cause: a singletrack trail. Exactly one rider can fit between a fence and a tree - and this creates a huge backlog.
Like there's no tomorrow: Gravel World Championship is one big hunt
As we wait for the race to continue, I feel my heart rate drop - for the first time in around an hour and a half. Up to this point, the Gravel World Championships have been a chase. We accelerate out of every bend, pushing the pedals with 600 to 700 watts just to hold the rear wheel. The short climbs are climbed with 400 watts and more. In short: we ride like there's no tomorrow. The first hour of racing reminds me of the cyclo-cross races I used to do: Always close to the limit. Only today we don't ride for an hour, but five to six. A race distance of 181 kilometres, 1500 metres in altitude, more than 60 percent of it on gravel, cobblestones and forest paths. The numbers alone are scary, and I'm not alone in this before the race. In the starting block, I look into tense faces, somewhere between nervous, focussed and highly motivated.
This morning, Joseph Possozplein in Halle, Belgium, is the epicentre of the international gravel scene. They stream onto the square from all the side streets, sometimes in Dutch orange, Italian blue, Danish red, German white, with American stars and stripes, but above all, of course, in Belgian baby blue. After two editions in Italy, the fledgling Gravel World Championship is coming to the country that loves cycling over hill and dale like no other. But the Belgians are no longer alone: 2613 starters from 49 nations have travelled to Halle - more than twice as many as last year (1268) and almost five times as many as two years ago (556). Gravel just keeps on booming.
Gravel World Championship: Facts & Figures
- Previous events: Vizenza/ Cittadella, Italy (2022), Treviso/Pieve di Soligo, Italy (2023), Halle/Leuven, Belgium (2024)
- Next event: Nice, France Date 4-5 October 2025
- Age groups: In addition to the elite classes for professionals, women and men compete in these classes: 19-34 years, 35-39, 40-44, 45-49, 50-54, 55-59, 60-64, 65-69, 70-74, 75-79, 80-84
- Qualification: The top 25 per cent of each age group in each race of the UCI World Gravel Series qualify for the World Championships. There were 25 qualifying races worldwide in 2024, and the aim is to have up to 35 in 2025. The German qualifying races so far are 3Rides in Aachen and the Hegau Gravel Race in Singen.
- Entry fee: 125 Euro
I realise that I've already lost the first race before the start: the battle for a good place in the starting block. I roll into the block on this cold October morning wrapped up in my winter jacket an hour and a half before the starting signal - and still have to queue at the back. The others were there even earlier. Like Justus Ossege. He is sitting on a camping chair in row one, with his porridge and a warm blanket next to him. "I was the first one here this morning," he says with a laugh, "I was there at 8 o'clock. It was about six degrees then." His father and his best mate are also there to support Justus, who comes from near Osnabrück, his wife and son are waiting for him at the finish line in Leuven, and other friends are on the way with bottles. And why so early into the block? "It's all about position here. We start directly onto a dirt track by the canal, so I want to be at the front. I'm here with ambitions."
Direct comparison with the pros
As ambitious as practically everyone else. Mathieu van der Poel rolls past us on his gleaming white bike on his way into the elite block, which starts first. The amateurs in their age groups follow at intervals of a few minutes. They all ride the same route, the same distance - there is no greater comparison with the pros. When it's my block's turn, the adrenalin immediately shoots through my bloodstream. After 400 metres, we speed down a narrow path to the canal, but contrary to my fears, none of us end up in the water. We race over cobblestones and dirt tracks, and I can see the leaders of my age group on the far horizon. After just a few kilometres, the peloton is extremely long and I'm way too far behind. The first gaps start to open up, sometimes because someone doesn't get round the bend, sometimes because the pace is simply too high. I sprint past, onto the next rear wheel and somehow further forwards. My pulse is already pounding at my temples, but my legs are good, so I keep going - until we all suddenly slip away on a meadow path.
A mud hole has formed in the shade of the maize fields, which hardly anyone drives through. Click off, run, jump back on, continue. Over gravel paths, pothole tracks, concrete slabs, forest tracks and, of course, rough Belgian cobblestones. Passing bollards with razor-sharp precision, along the edge of concrete gutters, through puddles, bunny-hopping over huge gravel stones. Always full throttle, always on the last groove.
It's been like this for an hour and a half now and I'm starting to feel the first signs of wear and tear: My lower back is aching from the bumps, my legs and lungs are burning from the pedalling. So the aforementioned traffic jam before the singletrail comes in handy. When we finally get going again, I notice from the start numbers how colourful our group has become; we have already caught up with many of the groups that started before us. Nobody knows where they are in the race. So there is a constant battle for positions in the Brabant woods, much to the delight of the cycling enthusiasts on the sidelines. The organisers count more than 150,000 spectators along the route. Some say more than a week earlier at the Road World Championships in Zurich. We are whipped up the climbs with lots of shouting, wild cheering, even waves of la-ola and loud party music - it couldn't have been much louder at the front with the pros.
The atmosphere is like a Belgian spring classic and it tempts me to push even harder. As we chase through the finish town of Leuven for the first time, I get goose bumps. Cheers and loud banging on the advertising boards accompany our chase through the historic centre before we race along a spiral cycle path and then through the train station. I look in vain for my friends in the refreshment zone immediately afterwards, just as I did in the zone before.
Now I have a problem: my bottle is empty and the second one has been catapulted out of its holder by a pothole. As we accelerate out of a picturesque park, the inevitable happens: My legs start to cramp. Too little to drink, the fuel gauge is red.
So I have to change my strategy: stay seated, stay in the slipstream, save energy. And keep an eye out for bottles. "Bidon please", I shout at the next feed zone and a Dutch support rider actually gives me a bottle - thanks je wel! Shortly afterwards, however, it flies straight out of the holder on a bumpy descent and I curse loudly. I look round at my group and see their faces, everyone is flat. So am I, but there are still a good 50 kilometres to the finish - if I make it. I lose a few positions on the next climb, my legs have become heavy. Luckily, shortly afterwards my friends Kathi and Moritz hand me two bottles, my salvation.
Sticky gel & tough finale - then: fries with beer
As we pass Leuven again, the smell of Belgian fries wafts into my nose. I briefly imagine how delicious they would taste now - and instead force myself to eat the next sticky gel. The last lap is tough, some of my muck riders are knocked out and refuse to lead. The water bottles give me new energy and when someone attacks from our group, I go with them. We shoot over a steep cobbled path towards a bend at high speed and out of nowhere I'm on the ground. Some sand in the bend costs me my grip and some skin. "Do you want to continue?" a friendly steward asks me in German and holds my bike out to me. What a question.
I sit down in the saddle with a cramping calf and try to get going again. The gears are aching, my elbows and knees are bleeding and aching. Not important. The next climb awaits. And then we finally reach Leuven: we pedal up the steep, narrow Ramberg one last time, all panting. And we're already in the middle of the finish sprint. One last push on the pedals with all the strength I have left in my legs - then it's done. I cross the finish line in 45th place in my age group. Exhausted, I click off and take a deep breath.
A Belgian from the VIP area holds out his beer glass to me, laughing and probably a little pitifully, and I accept it gratefully. It's empty in one go. When my mate Marius hands me a bag of fragrant golden fries shortly afterwards, I'm beaming. You can't have more Belgium in one day.
