Cycling Belgium

Once Upon a Time

As a just reward for graduating and surviving four and a half years at the University of Tulsa, we set out to conquer Europe as much as three 22 year olds can conquer a continent over a six and a half week period with a 60 liter backpack and a thick Lonely Planet Europe guidebook. Our mission was simple. Visit Italy, Austria, Czech Republic, Switzerland, France, and Spain, and as the manliest show of manhood, our goal was to obtain as many phone numbers and/or email address we could acquire from girls and how many of these girls we could kiss. To the winner, the spoils of competition and pride of having beat our buddies. I won. The others claim they won, but they have poor memories.

This trip back in 2000 consisted of five extraordinary young lads and one slightly above average individual. This group consisted of Pepper, Gonzo, Jeremy (Pepper’s nine-fingered twin brother), Scuba Steve, Steve Paulakitus (friend of Pepper’s from their study abroad in England), and myself.

At the end of our epic backpacking adventure across Europe, Gonzo had already returned to the United States, so Pepper and I found ourselves one of the last days seated at a random bar in Spain talking about our college adventures and experiences at TU and the Philip Neri Newman Center, girls, and the future awaiting us after Barcelona. It was a moment of camaraderie at this pivotal point in our lives, transitioning from idealistic college guys to young adults. One of us has yet to fully transition to adulthood. The conversation occurred over several mighty tasty and strong Chimay Bleu. Thus, there lies the role of Belgian beer in a friendship in 2017 and a trip on bicycle.

Modern Day

A lot has happened since that European bar seventeen years ago, as we’ve all had plenty of individual adventures and beers across the globe. Some of us have now found girls that will kiss us from time to time without having to ask for their phone numbers. Amongst us all, we’ve lived in Alaska, Peru, Cayman Islands, and Papua New Guinea, got even more edumacated, and traveled the world. Most importantly, at any given opportunity, we give the other guys shit and make fun of things as minuscule as their man parts.

In 2012, I decided to spend my 40th birthday doing some things that I love. Thus the idea of biking around Belgium to various Trappist monasteries drinking their delicious homemade brew was born. Pepper was soon on board. Soon he claimed it was his idea.

The Research

For a little more than a year, Pepper and I created and modified cycling routes, researched the best hotel options, and recruited friends and family to join in on the journey. And as a very organized fan of spreadsheets, Pepper made at least a thousand, and I made smartass jokes about each and every one. Joining Pepper and I are Scuba Steve and Jeremy from our first European vacation in 2000. My good teaching buddy Jason from the Cayman Islands, a recovering New York Yankee fan who has bettered his life by marrying a good ol’ Texas girl, will be coming with his other Yankee friend, Tom. We are an accepting group. Jeremy doesn’t have any friends, but at least his twin brother has a few he is willing to share with him.

Harry Pearson’s entertaining travelogue, “A Tall Man in a Low Land,” was one of the many resources we used in our research. His book provided cultural and historical insight to Belgium. He even took time from reporting on local English football/soccer results, to respond to a few of my inquiries on such important topics as beer and beer. We’ll follow his advice and conduct our own research on the ground.

The Route

The trip to Belgium starts with four of us boarding a transatlantic flight in Minnesota to Reykjavik, Iceland on the ever popular, Iceland Air, where we will pick up Jason and Tom and continue onto Brussels. Once on the ground, in typical Jeremy style, he will arrive last with everyone waiting for him. Here is the route:

Brussels – Bomal
Bomal – Achouffe
Achouffe – Bastogne
Bastogne – Rochefort
Rochefort – Chimay
Chimay – Brussels/Bruges

A Little History

Here is a little cultural and gastronomic background about Belgium. This country bordering the European giants of France and Germany produces many of its own unique homegrown products. The Belgians are quite renowned for waffles, chocolate, Audrey Hepburn, and most important to all of civilization, beer. After my own personal encounter with smooth Belgian ales in Spain by happenstance, it’s been my preferred beer among the multitude of various specimens offered. Pepper states that his pallet has become more refined over time as he now prefers IPAs, but I feel that this is simply a result of overexposure to spicy green chili that has burned off the majority of his taste buds and unfortunately, too many brain cells.

Belgian Beer

Let’s get back to the important business of Belgian beers. Beer is and has always been a cultural staple that bonds this multilingual region. The Trappist monks produced these beers for many reasons, but most of them for the noblest of intentions. The Trappist monks have used the production of beers to fund restoration of their monasteries or simply to heal . . . the masses. Yes, curing the sick and saving lives with the simple ingredients of barley, water, yeast, and lots of love. As the Black Plague swept through Europe, their beer had miraculous curative powers. By providing Belgians with an alternative drink to that dirty, plague infested water, a beverage that might well have left anyone drinking it in a state more dire than a curable hangover, they festively saved lives. Their delectable concoction prepared with boiled water and other life-giving attributes, resulted in healthier, happier, and living countrymen. It truly can only be described as a selfless act for the betterment of humanity. On behalf of humanity, I would like to personally thank you Trappist monks. I feel confident that this beer will protect me and my buddies from any illnesses we may encounter in Southern Belgium.

Arnold of the Abbey of Oudenburg near Bruges even insisted his parishioners drank beer instead of water, and became patron-saint of Belgian brewers as a result. – Harry Pearson

Trappist beers are highly regarded. There are eleven Trappist monasteries that have beers associated with their monastery. Not all of them still make their own brew in-house. Several have sold the rights to major conglomerates and receive a percentage of the profit. The Trappist monasteries are located mostly in Belgium with a handful in Germany, Netherlands, and recently in Austria, the United States, and Italy. BeerAdvocate.com, one of the prominent online beer critics consistently rates the Trappist beers highly. The recognized Trappist beers include Rochefort (the eldest from 1595), Westmalle, Chimay, Orval, Achel, La Trappe. But the western Belgian Westvleteren is king. It is often ranked one of the top three beers in the world. Not only is this Trappist beer excellent, the back story and the journey on how to actually acquire this unlabeled beer in brown bottles is just as enticing. Westvleteren is still produced by the monks, but in limited quantities. They produce just enough to cover the costs of running their abbey and regularly provide a list of their beers and dates that they will be made available to the general public. Yet in order to purchase your own little brown bottle of heaven, you must call their beer hotline two weeks in advance. Provide your license plate number and the exact date you intend to buy it (tough on a bike). Upon purchase, the buyer agrees not to resell it. The maximum amount allowed per person is one crate of 24 bottles. Westvleteren is considered the holy grail of beers.

The monk grinned benignly at the thought, then, perhaps sensing he might be talking the Order out of a couple of sales he added, “The other beers are good too, though. Although myself do not like the Abt. To me it is too sweet. Far, far too sweet. It is a woman’s drink!’ The Westvleteren Act was nearly 12 per cent alcohol by volume. The monk had obviously known some pretty rugged women in his time. – Harry Pearson

University Encounters

Back in 2011, I already had my sights on the revered Westy. While studying abroad in Besançon, France, my only goal, other than actually learning French, was to take an excursion by train to northwestern Belgium over a long weekend and finally acquire the sacred brew. As a result of various logistical and financial challenges and probably a few cognitive ones as well, I was unable to acquire it or even set foot in Belgium. I only made it as far as Luxembourg City, the European capital of large wrist watches.

My second encounter of a barley kind was at my graduation from the University of Nebraska-Omaha. Pepper so kindly gifted me four bottles of Westy. The topic of how he ascertained them is a bit murky and a minor one, and one honestly can’t be sure about many of things this guy does, but the Westys were tasty.

So the raison d’être for this journey is the pursuit of Belgian beer with friends and finally having a Westvleteren in drink in Belgium. As you may have noted in our itinerary above, this soon to be forty-year old young man will not actually travel to Westvleteren. Thus, my last full day in Belgium will be spent in Brussels following the sage advice of Harry Pearson (we’ll see how sage it is if I don’t find any) asking a few locales where one might successfully procure said Westy.

Cast of Characters

So who are the fools that agreed to cycle Belgium, here they are:

Pepper, a.k.a. Dr. Matthew Pepper, a.k.a. top-selling author of such top-selling educational crisis books as “Leading Schools During Crisis”. What other book topic would you expect from someone who grew up in the New Mexican public school system faced with daily conflicts (i.e. green chili shortage). After this trip, he might be able to write a book titled, “Leading Middle Aged Men During Cycling Crisis”.

Scuba Steve, another holdover from our 2000 trip, worked at the Newman Center and years later served as a volunteer in Papua New Guinea. Pepper and I went to visit him in 2013. During our time in Madang, I cut an acre of grass in the Equatorial midday sun with 100% humidity causing me to sweat more than a fat boy running a summer marathon under the Dubai sun. Actually, Scuba Steve may be the smartest guy or at least the punniest on this trip.

Jeremy is Pepper’s twin, but he attended the prestigious University of Missouri-Rolla. In college, I’ve never seen a guy so excited to see a female in my life. The running joke about Jeremy and UMR was that “there were tons of girls at UMR, not just many of them.” You can easily distinguish him from his brother, he only has nine fingers. To his credit, he married himself an Argentine girl and moved her and the family to Texas. Definitely smarter than his brother.

Suva, not originally from the island nation of Fiji, grew up in Oklahoma. Like all bright people, he soon found his way to the great state of Texas. As a patent attorney, he would happily support a bike patent that will carry his ass up any of many hills on our first day of cycling. Suva also speaks a foreign language. His own. He speaks referring to random events and people that he assumes were familiar with and I’ve never heard of. Now this guy may be the smartest.

Jason is a great guy despite being from back New York, but with his Yankee mentality, you never know if he might just shank you for the fun of it. He and I met while teaching in the Cayman Islands, and we all always met up to play sports, talk sports, and bet money on other athlete’s prowess (fantasy football). Now he lives with his Texas wife and son in Atlanta. He is quite envious of his son’s full head of hair. He and Suva may be the smartest for marrying Texans.

Joining Jason is his friend Tom, soon to be everyone’s friend and highly respected simply measured by the fact he thought at least one of my joke’s was funny.

So what do you get when you put two Texans, three New Mexicans, two Yankees, and one Okie together on bikes drinking beer around the south of Belgium? I’m not sure either, but it should be fun finding out. I’ll let you know.

For over three centuries the Trappists did indeed work and live together in total silence. Nor did they eat meat, or in some cases even cheese or fish. This was partly the justification for brewing her: the brothers needed the iron and vitamins (a slightly more spurious course of reading had it that beer was permissible since ‘it is only liquid bread’. Which is true up to a point, though I’ve yet to see anyone staggering about trying to punch a policeman as the result of too much toast). – Harry Pearson

Day #1 – Omaha, Nebraska – Minneapolis, Minnesota – Reykjavík, Iceland
Number of Miles Cycled – 0
Number of Miles Traveled – 3,333

Some men buy expensive sports cars. Others find a younger woman. I travel.

My midlife crisis consisted of reconnecting to my college years wearing really tight shorts.

Nadine and I landed in Dallas from Punta Cana, just long enough to catch a few hours of sleep, eat some of my Dad’s scrambled eggs sprinkled with jalapeño slices, and pick up our two youngest daughters. Waiting ahead of me was over 1,000 miles of road through the heart of the Midwest with a 32 hour window to complete it. I dropped Nadine and the kids off in Omaha, and then early the next morning, with a few hours of sleep under my belt, jumped in my gray Nissan Altima without a functioning air conditioner, and continued the journey north through the Iowa countryside and between the spattering of Minnesota lakes.

Five years in the making, I rolled up to the Pepper’s driveway. Waiting before us was a week of cycling, Belgian beer, friendship, and a bit more beer. Immediately in front of me, next to the “Slow Children Playing” sign, stood Pepper with a big grin on his face and Suva, the epitome of a big teddy bear. With excited anticipation in their voices, Pepper gleefully showed off his bike helmet that magically attached to the back of his red backpack while Suva informed us “it was 37 degrees in Reykjavík last night.”

“You wanna know how this helmet stays on?” asked Pepper not actually providing anyone time to answer. “This clip holds the helmet in place! You wish you had it don’t you?”

Crossing through the threshold of security at the Minneapolis International Airport, fortunately, and purely for future joke fodder, Pepper was held up for an extended amount of time and submitted to a more thorough vetting which provided an adequate number of valuable compromising photos for future benefit.

Scuba Steve soon met up for the Iceland Air flight to Reykjavík. Onboard, the movie Dumb & Dumber, a great moniker of our college friendship, was streaming. In a context similar to the movie, Pepper and I immediately streamed the video in unison from our personal plane consoles. At this point, the trip was off to a great start, just like our recollection of college memories that we would soon retell with the same fervor and fondness that we thought we lived them.

Iceland, despite its diminutive population, has played a major role in the world. The bank failures in Iceland were the first domino to fall that initiated the global economic crisis in 2007 that is still felt in various parts of the globe. Possibly in a push to diversify and spin a more positive view of the country south of the Arctic Circle, Iceland Air has aggressively provided some of the most enticing fares to Europe. The only caveat is that you have a layover in Reykjavík. Also, Iceland Air provides a free stopover which allows passengers two trips for the price of one. With the recent deluge of photos on social media of the Blue Lagoon, it appears to be working.

To overcome his short stature and birth in New Mexico Pepper shared his purported expert travel advice . . . unsolicited, a common occurrence.

“You shouldn’t sleep at all flying east overnight, it’ll ruin your first day in Belgium and sleep schedule.”

Due to the fact that I can’t sleep on long international flights because of my height, I felt it only fair that I force myself to sleep solely out of spite. And then, shortly after crossing the frozen northeastern Canada tundra past a setting full moon in the horizon, I fell asleep.

Day #2 – Reykjavík, Iceland – Brussels, Belgium – Liège – Bomal
Number of Miles Cycled – 0
Number of Miles Traveled – 4,718

Iceland Air – That Free Stopover

Waking up, our plane descended over a hot global topic, Greenland and their rapidly melting ice shelfs. From my perspective, the broken floating pieces of white on white puzzle pieces were playing hide and seek.

Upon our arrival at Reykjavík International Airport, Iceland Air and Wow jets surrounded a terminal experiencing labor pains. Due to an aggressive marketing tourism campaign, the airport hadn’t quite kept up with the real growth. The friendly Icelandic employees guided passengers around ongoing construction, but long lines at bathrooms and at the one airport food market are to be expected for the near future.

Waiting in the perpetual early morning pool of sunlight were Jason and his best friend Tom, heads bobbing up and down among the crowds. Jason and I taught together in the Cayman Islands for three years before we moved back to the U.S. with our families. Just as soon as we met up in the sea of people, we were whisked away in transit to our Brussels bound flight.

Good Morning Belgium

Touching down in continental Europe, we soon witnessed the challenges currently facing Europe with the surge of immigration from war-torn countries. As we organized our train tickets and phones for the week, an African man aggressively yelled “Va te faire foutre!” at an interracial family sitting with their two small kids. Not sure what started this conflict, but soon armed guards escorted the man away.

Initially all the armed military strolling around the airport surprised me, but considering the three coordinated suicide bombings carried out by ISIS at the Brussels airport and the Maalbeek train station in March 2016, it shouldn’t have been (3 days after I was in the Central Train Station heading back to the airport, there was another attempted bombing).

Brussels was the epicenter of diversity in Belgium, in addition to being the de facto capital of the European Union, but that’s not where we were lingering. Unlike France, Japan, or China, we boarded the slow to medium speed trains of Belgian Rail heading south towards Bomal via Liège. We suffered from the effects of jet lag and warm trains.

Chez Tante Alice

As our last platform appeared at the Bomal train station, the jovial Belgian owner of our B&B, Marie-France, welcomed us in her German BMW station wagon. Between questions about our flight and how long we planned to cycle, she zipped around corners at speeds unimaginable on mountain bikes, or at least inadvisable. Staggering onto her converted farm, spread out before us was cold Belgian beer replete with chalices. We graciously accepted and opened the bottles of Orval and the previously unknown Bressenne (Marie-France mentioned brewers had just recently started its production), our fatigue melted away just as quickly as we drank. We had arrived.

Marie-France furnished advice about cycling, beer, and chocolate in Belgian at which point, in a moment of weakness mixed with genuine hospitality, as could best be read on her face, she shared a single piece of chocolate from her personal stash. We rambled around the Chez Tante Alice garden playing pétanque, talking as if we were now officially experts on anything Belgium having been in the country for less than 12 hours, wistfully staring at the creek running behind the property, contemplating our first day of cycling . . . once the bikes arrived.

As the exuberance of Marie-France’s reception wore off, dinner beckoned. Grill L’Etable’s introduction to quality Belgian food included open fire prepared steak filled with blue cheese, bread, salad, house red wine before setting out the next day to Achouffe, home of the famed La Chouffe. After a pitcher of water was dutifully poured onto my crotch by a very immature participant on our trip, we returned to Chez Tante Alice for the night.

Lying before us, the first day of cycling with a plethora of vertical climbs combined with unforeseen detours.

Day #3 – Bomal – Soy – Achouffe – Mont
Number of Miles Cycled – 31.6
Number of Miles Traveled – 4,750

Waiting For a Ride

As quickly as we touched down in Bomal, extolling the qualities of Bressene and Orval, time and distance mandated we cycle.

Morning preparations indicated we needed to collect mountain bikes, our main mode of transport over the next week, lunch for the day, and one Jeremy Pepper and his super cheap airfare that left him stranded in Boston, merely arriving to Bomal one hour before our departure towards Achouffe.

The world moves at different speeds depending on where you find yourself that day. The American perspective of time is much different from that of Peru or Papua New Guinea or Belgium. My correspondence with Rent A Bike leading up to this day was much like that girlfriend in college, bouts of fervent passion and intense communication, followed by long, dry spells without hearing a word. Unless you’re Pepper of course, like a New Mexican summer, it was constant dry spells. Considering my present company, I was expecting a small revolt if the bikes didn’t arrive at exactly 9:00. Much to my surprise, Rent a Bike dropped seven identical, bright orange VTTs, sized S M, L, to Chez Tante Alice right at our prearranged time.

We’ve Got a Bum Wheel

Seven colorful bikes, seven riders, one trailer full of food and water, and a couple of years of touch and go planning, we took our mandatory “before” group photo, mounted our bikes, and set off. Suva led the pack with his modern navigation system mounted to his handlebars leading the rest of us fools blindly around the same curves Marie-France cornered quickly in her BMW the day before.

The months leading up to this moment, Suva’s only major concern was the first day’s major elevation gains in the Ardennes, and just as quickly as Google directed Suva to turn left minutes into our ride, the Belgian geography introduced us to our first hill . . . at a 14% grade. My bike immediately groaned at the stress of carrying me and 100 extra pounds of trailer at this exaggerated angle and immediately decided to drop some weight. The trailer pulled the rear axle out of the frame. Scuba Steve and I spent more time fixing and rigging the trailer than riding them. With that, I dutifully pushed my bike 150 yards up the hill.

We Met a Ghost

The accordion that was our riding group experienced some initial growing pains without clear communication, and as life has taught us, clear, honest communication is the key. The seven miles to Soy required two plus hours of riding over country gravel roads, replete with postal drivers passing us at speeds unsafe for plowed fields, paved paths, and town streets. We approached the town protected by unusually muscular cows (steroid injections anyone?), we entered Soy later than expected, but as the act of travel often does, our delay presented an unexpected surprise.

Shortly before coming to Belgium, and this is one point I will give Pepper and his Eagle Scout personality complete credit for, he read about a small brewery along our route, Fantôme Brasserie. This was our first major stop for the day. Scheduled to open at noon, this time serving solely as a suggestion, it was still closed at 12:50.

The Fantôme Brasserie (honestly no bigger than an old school-house) gave no impressions of being a highly productive brewery. The windows were shuttered as worn out crates held up the walls of the brick exterior. Circling the structure was a young couple, possibly intimately or professionally, perplexed by the fact it wasn’t open. The North Carolina couple greeted us in rudimentary French, appearing thirsty for companionship from someone other than the other half of the traveling couple. These brewers were studying, this area wasn’t officially offered at TU during my undergrad years, Belgian beers and the unique process of cultivating them.

At the top of the hour, a disheveled man rolled up in an old red convertible with white wispy hair. He happily smiled and greeted the crowd of nine foreigners lurking around the shadowy entrance to his small tap house. The popularity of Fantôme morphed the size of the puny tavern with only two single taps. On tap this day were the perennial Fantôme and the seasonal “Pissenlit” (dandelion) with a spattering of glasses against the cluttered back wall that hid the inner workings of his beers (the North Carolina couple eagerly requested an impromptu tour of the belly of the ghost).

Outside, we sat on a decrepit picnic table and benches enjoying two phenomenal beers with an equally well-balanced lunch of baguettes, Nutella, fruit, chips, and beer.

We didn’t arrive completely unscathed. Jason’s neon yellow jacket attracted every insect across the country, Suva’s rear tire groaned with each pedal stroke and bent spokes, and Jeremy had to cycle with only nine fingers.

If our first stop was any indication, this was setting up to be a superb trip chasing superb beer. This scenic town housed the best beer I would taste the entire week. Honestly, I would have been content to amble away the rest of the day over beer and stories, but we had only covered a quarter of that day’s terrain.

Rallying Around a Detour

From Soy, we set out uphill of course, on our predetermined route to Achouffe. As we crested the first residential hill, signs claimed limited access further ahead. We bypassed interesting road blocks to continue undeterred further uphill as a few spectators lining the road. At the top of the second hill, standing feet away from the black, charred stains on the road, was a fireman and police officer. A car rally was taking place. Just moments before, a rally car had crashed,rolled before catching fire for added effect. For some reason, the police officer wouldn’t allow us to pass. He deemed rally cars taking blind turns at high speeds would be dangerous to seven orange bikes and one bright neon yellow jacket. In a mix of French and English, he suggested a safer route, which morphed into major roads, crossing over one Ardennes mountain range. The route out of Érezée morphed into a grueling climb, as recent spectators of the road rally, intoxicated from both the adrenaline, fumes, and booze, showcased their own car handling skills on the steep, curvy roads, as they shot past us like bullets from a gun.

Safely on the other side of the pass, we found ourselves exhausted next to an old World War II German tank. We considered our next step, still miles away from Achouffe, at which point a father/son duo, from Germany of all places, pulled up in their red compact car. After a display of diplomacy and a show of kindness, they graciously crammed a lanky Scuba Steve and bike into the back seat of their car and hauled him to Mont.

By this point and nearly out of water, everyone was decimated and ready for Achouffe. Fortunately, Pepper approached a random house in the middle of rural Belgium, the local country lingerie store, and requested water. After heading uphill all day, the final six miles were downhill shadowed by a castle offering silent encouragement. We cruised into Achouffe drained, yet feeling a sense of accomplishment with a challenging ride two days removed from transcontinental travel. To celebrate, we saddled up to Taverne de la Chouffe at the feet of the famed Brasserie de la Chouffe, and indulged on the fruits of their labor.

After a strenuous day of cycling Belgium and hauling a heavy trailer up and over hills, the least of my worries would be the beautiful night of sleep awaiting me in my Vedette themed room at La Vieille Forge.

Day #4 – Mont – Houffalize – Bastogne – Wiltz, Luxembourg – Bastogne, Belgium
Number of Miles Cycled Today – 17.9
Number of Total Miles Cycled – 49.5
Number of Miles Traveled – 4,794

Navigating Sleepless Nights and Borders in Bastogne

Even the best laid plans change. Ours did.

The previous day, our first of six cycling days and on paper, the most strenuous with a bountiful number of miles of elevation gain, or at least the trailer made me believe so. By the time we tasted La Chouffe at the source and reached our place of rest at La Vielle Forge in Mont, we were exhausted. Honestly, not tired enough to revel in our first journey day with a few unpleasant cans of Vidette beer, the same beer that somehow adorned our room in posters, mirrors, and furniture.

The sleeping arrangement placed the Pepper twins, Jason, not a twin but equally as short, and I in a double room separated by an equally stunted wall. Once you have the pleasure of meeting the Pepper twins, one of the characteristics that protrudes is their larger than life personalities as well as their gargantuan noses. This first evening in Mont caused me real concern . . . for their wives. Over the next eight restful or restless hours, depending on your point of view, Pepper and Jeremy competed to see who could snore the loudest. They just didn’t know it. Those walls proved no match to the sound arising from their nasal cavities. Jason and I can happily verify that both won and we lost. Neither one of us earned much sleep. So welcome to day #2 on our epic trip and good morning Belgium.

That morning our group prepped for the day. Breakfast included an unhealthy amount of Nutella on toast and a conversation along side a German family driving back that day to the motherland. Suva and I tried to fix our ailing bikes in advance of our shortest cycling day. Jason decided to skip cycling from sleep deprivation. Scuba Steve researched a rental car to serve as a chase car. Pepper and Jeremy were in the most jovial moods.

Contradictory to the previous mountainous day, our route this day was perfectly flat on the protected path on the Ravel Route. Our attempts at fixing a bent rear bicycle rim and successfully securing a bent rear axle proved futile. Suva’s bike still groaned with each revolution and mine lamented another day pulling a big ass trailer.

Our troop of cyclists neared the town of Bastogne, one of the strategic and turning points for the Allied Forces during World War II, we took time to recognize the efforts of American soldiers at Jack’s Wood, miles from the edge of Bastogne close to the town of Foy. It was here that the E Company of the U.S. helped halt the German advance to cut off the U.S. supply route in freezing temperatures. The 101 First Airborne division of the U.S. Army dug foxholes in Jack’s Woods (Bois Jacques) as part of the defense of the town of Bastogne without much support. The German offensive started on December 24th. Their fight was partly immortalized a century later in the show Band of Brothers.

Interestingly enough, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Tom Hanks from California sponsored a small monument leading towards Jack’s Woods. That name sounded strangely familiar.

We solemnly mounted our bikes, finished the brief ride into Bastogne and our hotel. Just as soon as we stashed our orange joy rides in the dingy underbelly hotel storage. This contained every item the Giorgi hotel had ever displayed and would never see the light of day again. We saddled up to Il Canto, a nearby Italian restaurant for nourishment and more importantly, a sampling of more Belgium beer. Lunch consisted of Rochefort 8, La Corne, a previously unknown beer served in a horn-shaped chalice, a bit more Rochefort 8, and a few slices of pizza. Enough sustenance to get us around town.

We sauntered under the cover of multicolored umbrellas magically hovering over Rue du Sablon and abandoned tanks through downtown Bastogne on our way to the Bastogne War Museum. Housed inside was an insightful portrayal of the events that led to World War II and breakdown of the Allied forces efforts to ultimately push the pendulum in favor of the Allied forces in Europe.

And if I’m being completely honest, my understanding of major historical conflicts across the globe is inadequate, as my American and World History AP scores in high school support, but the visit to the Bastogne War Museum was illuminating and made me want to better understand this world-changing war.

As a self-proclaimed country visiting floozy, once our tour of the Bastogne War Museum concluded, the last direct bus across the border over to Luxembourg was scheduled to leave in 15 short minutes. The Pepper twins and I tore off running back under the same umbrellas to the bus station located opposite downtown. Our short trip across the border would soon bring to light the grandeur Belgium has over its neighbor.

Physically crossing a border from one country into another tends to highlight the New Mexican qualities of a place, as to say, the worst possible attributes. However, the creation of the European Union has created borderless countries. Borders have become imaginary lines on a Google map that don’t actually equate to the traditional border crossing. There aren’t guards, guns, suspicious characters, sly glances, and passport stamps nor the excitement of being bombarded by money changers and offers to take part in illegal activities.

Our bus from Bastogne to Wiltz, Luxembourg was a seamless 20 minute bus ride through well manicured shopping centers and countryside. Previously when I studied in Besançon, France in 2009, even when I wanted to travel to Westveltern, I only made it as far as Luxembourg. In country, I traveled to Vianden and their vaulted castles, but on my way back to catch a bus back to my hostel in Luxembourg City, one of the best ever I might add, a unique opportunity presented itself. Over to the left stood the town of Roth an der Our, just sitting there with no one to visit it. I paused long enough to physically walk across the bridge into Germany where it welcomed me with typical German pomp and indifference. No one was around. The dogs weren’t even interested in a solo backpacker. I took some photos as evidence and returned back silently back to Luxembourg. Back in the familiar confines of Luxembourg, a small convenience store satiated my need for community as I bought a Dr. Pepper in this little convenience store in rural Luxembourg.

The nondenominational bus leisurely rolled up to a vacant Luxembourg bus stop devoid of people this Monday afternoon. With no real goals and interesting sites to back up our jaunt to Wiltz, we strolled to the only logical place that may contain a spattering of Luxembourgers, a grocery store with two cars parked out front. We entered the desolate supermarket with two friendly employees concluding their daily duties. The store closed in five minutes. Not all was grim, bottles of Rochefort sold for two euros a bottle, a fraction of the cost for the same bottle in the United States. It’s the small victories in life.

In our search for the true Wiltz, Luxembourg, we ambled outside into the fading afternoon sun in search of culture, excitement, proof that life did indeed exist here. We walked to a locked church, passed over roads and buildings devoid of humanity, a modern ghost town. Possibly the residents hid in some secret nook from these Ausländer. We finally found a hotel room sized bar. Inside, the 1960’s decor of a tan, faded yellow, and brown colored ceramic floor led up to the worn out bar.

I offered the owner merrily, “pouvons-nous prendre un pot?”

“Wir sprechen nur Deutsch hier in Luxemburg!” served as his tort response.

Not exactly true as French is one of their three official languages, but who was I to argue in a language I knew six words of. With that ringing linguaphobic endorsement, these three Americans felt right at home. With that, I mimed that we wanted three Luxembourg beers. Comparable to the stale chips we snacked on, the beer was flat, tasteless, and out of date much like the clothing of my two bar mates. Undoubtedly, this would be the worst beer and atmosphere the entire week.

This elder bartender probably sat at home every weekday reminiscing of the times when he only served white, purely German-speaking patrons devoid of personality and questions, (maybe a bit generous to our own personalities) he seemed just a bit put off having to actually serve clientele in this shitter of a bar on a Monday. I’m positive he would be the first in town to propose and sign a bill that would put up an individual wall around his bar to keep out all foreigners. You just never know, maybe he had a bad weekend, because he certainly did NOT sell all his beer. Maybe he had focused more time on ways to spruce up the place.

Highly unimpressed with the excitement in Wiltz (we are quite needy travelers honestly), we back pedaled with the same enthusiasm we had run to the bus stop earlier in the day, crossed that invisible political boundary back to what seemed like the overflowing flavor and character of Belgium. Physically only miles apart, but thousands of miles apart in charisma and temperament, Bastogne was obviously the fun girl you wanted to hang out with on a Monday night, not that boring twit of a sister Wiltz.

Back in Bastogne, one of the longest days of riding (warm up ride for a Tour de France cyclist) awaited us to Rochefort, home to some one of the tastiest and globally identifiable beers of Belgium.

Day #5 – Bastogne – Nassogne, France – Mochamps, Belgium – Rochefort
Number of Miles Cycled Today – 33.2
Number of Total Miles Cycled – 82.7
Number of Miles Traveled – 4,827

The first night, two massive nasal cavities prevent your sleep; then they sleep in a far away room, secluded and separated from the rest of the group. You bunk with Suva and have a great night of sleep. The next morning, you feel like yourself.

New Surroundings

Day number five cycling southern Belgium would provide my ying to the yang. You could probably imagine our surprise as the omniscient Google mysteriously directed us off paved roads immediately outside of Bastogne. Our route gradually rolled downhill from paved roads into dirt paths through hidden farms. This would be the antithesis of the first day from Bomal to La Chouffe, this was easy. No need to dodge cars while hauling a trailer uphill, intermittently stopping to reattach your rear back tire to the ever important bike frame.

Now this is the beauty of travel, some days it kicks your ass and you doubt your choices. Other points of the journey, you ponder why you’re not always roaming freely like this. Then you realize you’re not independently wealthy as a teacher, and you can’t afford to do this year round.

Horsing Around

Highlight of day. As the group rounded a corner out of the forest into an open field, a team of 15 plus horses dined lazily on hay and grass. We must have been the most excitement they had seen all day. As soon as we darted out of the foliage, they burst into a sprint and the race was on. They scampered alongside the fence line for 300 plus yards before a fence halted their progress, and we happily declared ourselves the victors. Their brays protested the untimely impasse. Plus, the added perk was that Pepper was ahead of us and didn’t see any of it.

Soon after we crossed the only major thoroughfare of the day. Scuba Steve met us in Mochamps with a newly rented van. Scuba Steve graciously volunteered to head back to Liège and rent the van and drive it the first day. The van would serve as the stead/carrier of extra shit to lighten the load of us overburdened, novice cyclists. Due to the fact that I am stick shift challenged, I rode my bike every day on the trip.

The Allure of Rochefort

We finally approached our place of rest in Rochefort, La Martinette. We spotted a random, solitary building from the street, but on closer inspection, what initially appeared like the setting for a horror film was simply an affordable bed and breakfast on the environs of town that proved to be just as eccentric as its owner, Frédéric. This holiday cottage from the 1800’s stood over Rochefort providing panoramic views of city center with the sounds of the Rochefort Abbey bells ringing over the horizon. Half the group relaxed at the B&B, but the other half rode off in search of the hiking trail that left us at the feet of the fabled Rochefort abbey.

The Trappist Abbey of Notre Dame de Saint-Rémy in Rochefort produces one of my favorite Belgium beers and as our bikes approached, the bells of the abbey grew stronger. The orderly abbey appeared abandoned. We cycled around the abbey ready to plunder their delectable beer, but returned via a busy road to downtown Rochefort to stroll around Notre Dame de la Visitation before settling down to conversation and “degustation” of the Rochefort 6, 8, and 10 beers with cheese and meats less than a mile from its origin. The combination of the atmosphere of cycling across Belgium, enjoying the potent Rochefort beer, and buzzed conversation about life, college, and kids made even the worst Pepper joke seem remotely funny. The only obstacle of living in that moment would have been to leave that moment. With that, Pepper became worried about the other grown men relaxing back at the castle and made his own personal executive decision to return. With Jeremy’s prospect of being stuck with only my company, we rode back to La Martinette, collected the team and returned to enjoy a two-hour carbo loading dinner of pizza and more beer at La Diva (if you actually click on the link, the first scene of the video is where we all sat). After La Diva, we tried to renew the earlier magic of La Gourmandise by returning there and trying another round of Rochefort 6, 8, and 10. We purely helped the local economy.

At this moment, life was not just good, it was remarkable. The plans we had made years ago had come to fruition and it was satisfying. Next stop, Dinant.

Day #6 – Rochefort – Falmignoul – Dinant
Number of Miles Cycled Today – 27.5
Number of Total Miles Cycled – 110.2
Number of Miles Traveled – 4,855

Brasserie Caracole and Vending Machines

Adolphe Sax, the error-prone inventor of the saxophone and other musical instruments, was from Dinant. We headed there from Rochefort. Before our arrival to the fortified city that overlooks the Meuse River and located only 14 miles from the French border, we made a detour. It lead us to the 18th century Brasserie Caracole in the town of Falmignoul. We parked our bikes across the street from the brewery and we strolled up to its entrance in the early afternoon sun. It was similar to many of the Belgian breweries we had encountered on this trip. From my American background, where buildings are new with modern architecture, the Belgian breweries in general looked tired and worn out, as if they had been closed for decades, but faithfully produced a great product.

I ambled up to the green wooden door under the same bright green Brasserie Caracole sign. It was locked. It was 2:00 in the afternoon. Around the corner I found a young guy working hard unloading bags of flour, or some other integral beer ingredient, into a rotating sifter making clockwise revolutions. I asked in French if we could explore the interior of the brewery interestingly named after a snail. He graciously allowed us inside the hazy and venerable bar. This bar opened in 1765. Remnants of the wood fire oven, used to brew their classic beers like Nostradamus, floated inside the bar. Next to the dimly lit bar stood an original wooden beer barrel from 1766. I checked, there wasn’t any beer left in it.

After a few Saxo beers under a tree, we found some substance before finishing our ride into Dinant. We found the empty Moulin du Falmignoul café replete with warm baked goods. We ordered our fair share of sandwiches, croissants, and pan au chocolat. Interestingly enough after lunch, we sauntered outside to find a bread vending machine. I’ve seen Coke machines and candy machines, but I’ve never seen, or even thought about the need for a bread vending machine. I can only assume the French have their own baguette vending machine. Honestly, I guess there wouldn’t be a bread vending machine if folks in Falmignoul didn’t need their warm bread at all times of day. “Zut alors Charles, this bread is 14 hours old! Get your ass to the café and get us a fresh loaf of bread!”

It’s Westvleteren Time!

Highlighting any visit to Dinant is a visit to the sax museum honoring Adolphe Sax, Notre Dame de Dinant, not to be confused with that famous Parisian one, and the Citadelle de Dinant hovering over the town. Yet as we strolled down Rue Grande, the main downtown thoroughfare, I noticed an unusual concentration of bottle shops. We passed A c’t’heure dînant and I curiously poked my head in while the rest of the group marched on. It was here that I slowly admired the present atmosphere and my current situation that I found myself along with a wide array of Belgian beers sitting against one wall, wine on the opposite, and tea on another. Considering the reason for this trip, my attention gravitated towards the beer. A steady flow of patrons continued in and out of the shop. I studied each bottle with the same discriminating detail an archeologist looking for the secret path to unearthed Egyptian antiquity, except I didn’t know what the hell I was trying to decipher. The shop finally cleared out and I approached the counter to explain my quest to a cheerful Guillaume. With unaltered gusto and pride, I described my expedition to bike across southern Belgium tasting the finest beers Belgium had to offer. His reaction differed. He was excited. I also explained how unfortunately our group wasn’t actually going to visit Westvleteren in western Belgium, home of the beloved Abbey of Saint Sixtus of Westvleteren, brewers of the Westvleteren 8, 10, and 12.

He retorted in perfect English, a common skill among multilingual Europeans, “Oh, I just got some in today. It’s really hard to get, even for me here in Belgium. This beer has become one of the most sought after beers in Belgium. It has a cult following.”

For the next hour, we discussed Belgian beers, life in Dinant (this particular interaction had probably been his most exciting to date), the necessity to learn English and other languages, and living and traveling abroad. Finally, I broached the subject that had weighed on my mind since I entered the shop, is there any chance I could buy a bottle of Westy? Like a timid freshman asking out his senior crush to prom, I stammered, “You think that maybe, if you’re alright with it and your parents don’t mind, could I buy a bottle or two of your Westys?”

“Sure, I don’t have many to sell, as you know, the monks only allow people to buy two cases at a time every six months.”

Half expecting him to offer a maximum of two bottles at 25 euros a piece, “Sure, no problem! Whatever you’re willing to sell, I’ll buy them.”

“I’ll be back. I keep the really good stuff down here.” As he walked around back behind the white wall hiding the stairs to his cellar.

Three minutes later, he exited with a cardboard box full of brown bottles identifiable with yellow and blue caps and no labels, a renowned sign of a Westy. The blue cap topped the Westy 8 and the Westy 12 had the yellow cap. Westy 10s were absent.

“Didn’t get any Westy 10s this time. So, what do you want?” He asked me happily.

Not really thinking he would sell me all of them in the cardboard box, I eagerly responded, “What are you willing to sell?”

“Anything in the box.”

I tried to be civil and hide my juvenile excitement at this moment. This was the stage where I ultimately acquired the Holy Grail of beers in its homeland. Practicalities briefly returned to my senses. “How much are you selling them for?” Knowing full well that he could easily gauge me on the price. He had the upper hand. He knew I purchased a plane ticket and crossed the Atlantic Ocean to get this particular beer, and he was the first one who actually had it up to this point.

“9 euros a bottle.” Two days later I would find out that this would be a great price.

Huh?!?! That’s it? Trying to act cooler than I actually am, I calmly responded, “Hmmmm, sounds good to me. I’ll take three of the 8s and three of the 12s. I’ll try a few of these new ones as well. (For the author’s safety, the accurate number of bottles purchased has been changed to safeguard the state of his marriage. If my wife is still reading this, I only bought two bottles and savored each swig.)

I left A c’t’heure dînant an hour later with a silly grin on my face, my blue backpack strapped tight to my back, and two hands transporting a cardboard box full of highly coveted clattering brown Westvleteren glass bottles down along Rue Grande back to my IBIS hotel 15 blocks away. My arms burned, my wallet was lighter, but I didn’t mind one bit.

Like a kid at Christmas time and without pause, I enthusiastically shared the story and my newfound spoils to the crew. With great care and respect, I opened the first bottle of Westy 8 like a bottle of 1999 Rene Engel Clos Vougeot (I dare you to look up the price of that bottle of wine). Like wine, Westvleteren is actually supposed to age. That might explain the fizzy, juvenile maturation and flavor of it, like one of Pepper’s jokes. We followed the Westy 8 with the acclaimed Westy 12. The Westy 12 had a fuller, more robust flavor. And just like that, I drank Westvleteren in Belgium. The remaining beer would travel back with me to the American midwest in the classiest of Igloo coolers and duct tape.

Unexpectedly, Dinant marked our sixth day of this adventure and my real introduction to Westy. Tomorrow consisted of, shocker, cycling Belgium and to Chimay, home of the beer that indirectly championed this trip back in Spain in 2000.

Day #7 – Dinant – Givet, France – Mariembourg, Belgium – Chimay
Number of Miles Cycled Today – 45.5
Number of Total Miles Cycled – 155.7
Number of Miles Traveled – 5,014.9

A Peloton Departs Dinant

Subsequently our time in the Namur province was brief, and less than 18 hours later, our peloton of novice bike riders hit the pavement towards the Hainaut province town of Mariembourg, last big day of cycling. The following day, half of the group would return to Brussels and the other half would train it to the northern coast town of Bruges, but this day still had 45 miles to be cycled. The stop in Mariembourg would include a stop at a life-size model of a Thomas the Trainesque train depot along with the Brasserie des Fagnes. Then we would finish the day rolling up to Chimay.

As we set off west from Dinant, our orange mountain bikes to maintained an impressive sixteen miles per hour on the finely paved roads. This is roughly the same speed that Tour de France cyclists conduct interviews after a stage ride. Our route directed the group for a moment into Givet, France. That would count as four countries over the week. Ultimately juvenile competitiveness led Jeremy and I to break from the pack like Tour de France sprinters. Over the remaining distance to Mariembourg, Jeremy and I pushed ourselves on the flat terrain, risking our lives crossing rural intersections where trail and dirt farm roads crossed. These two middle-aged men topped twenty miles per hour over a few long stretches. This built time and distance on our compadres, for no clear reason other than bragging rights.

Thomas the Train and Brasserie des Fagnes

In Mariembourg, a solid ten minutes before the others, Jeremy and I, both fathers of four adorable children. Undoubtedly over the last decade, we have watched many episodes of Thomas the Train many times over and we found ourselves at Chemin de Fer à Vapeur des 3 Vallées, a life-size Thomas the Train train depot station. Since it’s considered a tourist site and we were voyageurs on a journey, we took obligatory photos, climbed on trains like our kids, and then found the museum and café closed, a prime time to halt operations. My understanding is that tourists actually prefer to visit around this time. The majority of Mariembourg residents were not here.

No one arrived while we climbed on the trains, so we set off to our prearranged meeting spot, Brasserie des Fagnes. This brewery on the edge of Mariembourg was designed for all residents. A large windmill hovered over the large bicycle parking lot. The open air picnic tables were bustling with families. Behind the wooden tables was a playground full of tykes playing while their parents drank and socialized. Inside the restaurant / brewery was an expansive dining area. One half was dedicated to the actual brewery and the other half set aside for the less adventurous, sun fearing crowd, and a small museum awash with the history and greatness of Fagnes beers.

Later, the Serge Pauwels of our group rolled in, saddled up to the table and joined the Fagnes beer and Belgian fries carboloading for the remaining 17 miles to Chimay. As we sat sharing stories of dodging killer butterflies, Frédéric Adant, the tall, well dressed fourth generation owner of Brasserie des Fagnes, approached the table to talk to us. He asked us where we visited and where we were headed. Once again, he seemed to express genuine interest in the adventure. At the end of the conversation, Pepper solicited a Chimay restaurant recommendation. Frédéric suggested les Étangs Gourmands (literal translation – food loving pond).

Chimay – Where There are Really Happy Birthdays

Seventeen miles later, we approached Chimay Espace, the duel retail space dedicated to selling L’Abbaye de Scourmont beer and lodging for the night. In the Poteaupré Inn, we purchased several bottles of Chimay beer, and who knew they made Chimay cheese too. It was at this moment I had to admit that Chimay was no longer my favorite Belgian beer (similar experience with Guinness in Dublin). It was now Pissenlit from the Fantôme brewery in Soy. Yet just like my ever-changing and expanding waistline in this current day and age, my beer palette will undoubtedly change in the next five years when we complete the next Belgium cycling tour. So that favorite Belgian beer could well change.

Thankfully everyone showered before driving two miles to the food loving pond at Étangs Gourmands, the restaurant Frédéric suggested earlier in the day in Mariembourg. The food at the self-proclaimed “cabarestaurant” was remarkable. But what the heck is a “cabarestaurant”? I didn’t see anyone dancing around like it was a cabaret. Maybe it was the fact this establishment had a cabin overlooking the lake and trying to be clever, combined the two words.

Two rambunctious couples, obviously enjoying a lot more Chimay than our table, grabbed our attention over Suva’s incessant awkward lawyer jokes. We engaged them in conversation in French. Actually, I did. Those French classes I taught in 2006 were going to pay off. This was my chance to wrestle control of the conversation away from the other guys at the table. It also allowed me to joke with the jovial Belgians, laugh, and then randomly point at Pepper, then continue laughing even harder. When he would ask what was so funny, I’d give him a completely inaccurate account of what was actually said.

One of the women was celebrating her birthday. We celebrated too. I can confidently say that she was definitely older than us, expect for possibly Scuba Steve. In the end, the birthday girl got birthday kisses from the younger American guys . . . on the cheek. Heck, no French kissing, we weren’t in France.

While the monks of L’Abbaye de Scourmont slept soundly, back at Espace Chimay, we concluded day #7 playing frisbee amongst a robotic lawn mower sliding back and forth under our feet. Next up, excursions to Bruges and Brussels. Me, I was going to visit a pink elephant.

Day #8 – Chimay – Couvin – Charleroi – Brussels
Number of Miles Cycled Today – 10.3
Number of Total Miles Cycled – 166.3
Number of Miles Traveled – 5,095.5

Last Ride

Who doesn’t like elephants? Today we met one, a pink one. This also marked our final group ride. It was also our shortest. From the sparsely population of Chimay, we headed easily over ten early morning miles over rolling hills to Couvin, our final cycling destination.

Nothing positive could really be said about Couvin. Busy, dirty, it was the New Mexico of Belgium. It’s claim to fame was that Hitler commanded his troops for three weeks in 1940 at a nearby spot.

Jason, Tom, and I left our loyal orange bikes with the rest of the group while we caught a train to Brussels via Charleroi. Belgium doesn’t have the reliable, frequent train service one would find in France, so we couldn’t dawdle around, otherwise we may have had to stay the night in Charleroi. I’d rather share a room with both Peppers for another night.

Easy Hotel

From Gare Central, I waddled with my light weight backpack on my back, carrying a folded up bike trailer that proved to be useless in one hand, and a baby blue Igloo cooler full of beer in the other. Each offset the weight of the other as I trudged to Easy Hotel. Easy Hotel falls under the same umbrella as Easy Jet. Easy Jet is renowned for the additional fees for seating, bags, flight changes and booking. You want to bring a suitcase, $25 pounds. Fortunately at Easy Hotel, I didn’t have to pay for toilet paper, soap, pillow, or a bed. It was included! Honestly, the room was surprisingly spectacular. Clean, economical, and modern. I’d stay there again.

Maybe NOT So Rare

This trip revolved around riding to as many Belgian breweries as possible in a week. My ultimate goal was Westvleteren, and I acquired those in Dinant. I thought I fortuitously pulled off the biggest steal in Dinant. You can imagine my surprise when walking around Grand Place and every bottle shop sold Westvleteren. It cost quite a bit more, but it was easily accessible and also came with an Abbey of Saint Sixtus of Westvleteren wooden crate. There wasn’t a crate in Dinant. The crate was tempting but considering my cooler and bike trailer wrapped in a tarp, the crate would have to wait.

Délirium Café

Striking out on my own, I moved from the sun drenched Grand Place to Délirium Café. You may recognize Délirium Tremens beer as the tan bottle with a pink elephant gracing the label. The Pink Elephant inspired cafe was a multi-level, patrons drink all times of the day type of bar. Large beer barrels turned on their sides populated the floor upon entering at street level. Délirium Café offers every imaginable beer you could imagine. The Guinness World Record supports this claim with a certificate. That makes it official. The Guinness World Records’ certificate stated that Délirium Café had the “most varieties of beer commercially available was 2,004 . . . when counted on 9 January 2004.” Just to outdo their 2004 self, they now claim to have the most beers available on site at 3,162. When I came in late afternoon, the place was busy. When I would return later in the early evening with Jason and Tom, the stream of humanity was steadily building into a flood.

I met Jason and Tom at Bombay Inn Indian Restaurant, home of Belgium’s spiciest curry. When I eat Indian food, Thai food, or anything remotely spicy, I request the spicy level formulated for a two year old’s palette. Yet for the two Yankees across the table, they ordered their tikka masala at the “downtown Calcutta” spice level. I sniffled across the table nursing my yellow curry and naan bread as they tore into theirs.

Further down the road, we left the Indian subcontinent and returned to Belgium’s A La Mort Subite (French for “sudden death”) to conduct less spicy gastronomical research. We sampled their Gueuze beer. Gueuze beer is a fermented, wheat Lambic beer that takes years to brew in various beer barrels. We tried a few, but quickly decided to return to the festive confines and atmosphere of Délirium Café. By the end of the night, Jason, Tom, and I met and shared stories with a guy from Malawi well-versed in the 90’s Chicago Bulls, two friends from London taking a quick weekend getaway, probably arrived on Easy Jet, and an Army guy stationed in Stuttgart, Germany who just earned his Doctorate. So, if you want to meet the world in Brussels, follow the Pink Elephant to Délirium Café, that would be a great place to start.

Sadly, this had been our last day of cycling in Belgium. Tomorrow, everyone would return to Brussels Airport in order to return to the United States or take a side trip to Iceland. We now concluded our preliminary research of Belgian beers. Yet for the study to be thorough, a return at a future date would be necessary.