Inline Magazine Nov. 1992

In-line racing may seem to have an uncertain future here in America, but a trip to the Netherlands would confirm that the future of the sport is now. My most recent trip to Holland was an odyssey in the classic sense - a voyage of discovery into myself and into the world of skeelerrijden, or in-line skate racing.

Although it's barely half the size of the state of South Carolina, Holland has assumed a role in the development of in-line skate racing inversely proportional to its size. Nowhere has the racing branch of in-line fitness exercise progressed so far as it has in the Netherlands, where - for almost a decade now - the Dutch have been transforming mere racing into total entertainment. The racers, the crowds and the sponsors all keep coming back for more.

The actual competition may be the main draw, but in Holland a race is first and foremost a community happening, a colorful event replete with sideshows like brass bands, charismatic announcers and bouquet-bearing beauty queens. The community feeling is unmistakable - children scurry around underfoot, hell bent on collecting skeelertopper cards and autographs, while odoriferous farmers with creased faces clomp up in wooden shoes to the side of the course, set themselves down in creaky folding chairs and puff placidly on tobacco pipes. It's no wonder, then, that the carnival atmosphere of in-line happenings has caused them to be referred to as the "skeeler circus" in Holland.

Since it often seems that cows still set the pace of life in rural Holland, in-line racing has maintained and expanded upon its status as something quite out of the ordinary. Historically speaking, kerkronden (literally, "around the church") criterium races were the first events to attract a steady following of spectators, who came to watch rain or shine.

Then came the ultramarathons, ever popular among racers for being a true test of individual mettle. Although these long distance events (called klassiekers) may make your feet hurt, they still offer an inimitable cross section of Holland's picturesqueness: sheep grazing in front of an idyllic cluster of windmills, drawbridges spanning melting images of tree rows and sky, brick-paved streets with quaint narrow houses and whole fields of cattle sent stampeding at the sight and sound of a pack of hungry skaters.

Last came the 400-meter skeelerbanen (oval asphalt tracks), suitable for pack races as well as individual races against the clock. These tracks, of which there are now nine in the Netherlands, hold the many variables in the skate equation as constant as possible, so that record times - no matter where they are set - can be equitably compared.
The symbolic start of any race is always the first sighting of the Wehkamp truck. Just finding the truck is a coup, as it signifies that you have found the race site, an often daunting challenge in Holland. The truck pulls up an hour or so before the start of a race and uniformed staffers leap out to set everything up. These are the unsung heroes who make the racing possible (and if you have some good T-shirts to trade, these are the people from whom to score some authentic team-issue clothing).

A Dutch race is a highly organized, well-funded affair. The race area is cordoned off and those who don't have racing skates on must pay a nominal admission fee to get in. High-profile advertisers seem to shoulder the major cost of putting on the events - it cots the equivalent of only $3 to enter a race - so racers don't get squeezed by the promoters to take part in the cash primes and 20-deep placement bonuses.

You need only gaze at the advertising towers-turned-jungle-gyms for the children, or follow the wires strung with banners that connect the loudspeakers all around the course to appreciate this true off-the-shelf, self-sufficient, stand-alone operation. Just look at the tons of barriers that have been erected to keep crowds back in the corners and finish area (the crowds bang on the colorful metal advertising placards as the leaders or a lapped rider goes by). In Holland, everyone who races is a star - sprint by dramatically or take a sharp turn fast and you'll always be cheered. Go see the mobile jury wagon with awnings that shade a long row of seated officials, or dream of yourself standing on the carpeted victory podium. Race accouterments such as these are the outward signs that in-line racing is not a fad in Holland - it's there to stay and prosper.

The summer months are a busy time for the in-line pelotons, which race in the evening after work. Run like clockwork, the races begin at 6 p.m. and often last until dusk (it doesn't get really dark in summer until after 10 p.m.) The jeugd (youth) race always begins promptly at six and runs for 15 minutes plus one lap after the bell. The veteranen en dames race together at 6:30, for 30 minutes and three laps, followed by the B-rijders at 7:15 for another 30 minutes plus three laps. The A-rijders follow at 8 p.m. with a 45-minute plus five-lap race. The Dutch definitely seem to have a trademark on efficiency.

Competitors come from all over Holland. Because of the country's size, a race is usually never farther away than a couple of hours by car. The races are always centered around the town sporthal , the equivalent of a civic park and recreation department. There the racers get their numbers, go through their pre-race rituals and shower after the race. Very few put their skates on until just moments before their event; instead, they can be seen jogging, stretching and doing dryland exercises prior to the competition.

Most every racer has a skin suit with protective padding sewn into the hips and butt, a nice insurance policy against the dreaded road rash. Tiny pockets in the back of their suits hold curious little hip flasks filled with glucose syrup. They drink this stuff towards the end of the race for a final surge of energy.

In the summer of 1992, something truly epic came to pass, something that combined all three of these disciplines - time trialing, criterium racing, and ultramarathon road racing - into one event: the second annual Siebrand Driedaagse. A three-day stage race, the Driedaagse consisted of a 4,5K time trial prologue in Oldebroek, a 45-minute plus five-lap criterium in Hattem and an 87.1K ultramarathon road race in Epe. As in the Tour de France, scoring was based on cumulative time; packs were credited with the same time.

This year's running of the event was a landmark for the in-line sport because it was the first real (i.e., fair, just confrontation between international in-line athletes. Even though there were a number of conspicuous absences, the Driedaagse showcased the most awesome international assemblage of talent (French, Russian, Dutch and American) ever to appear at the start of an in-line competition.

My pilgrimage to Oldebroek, the site of the Driedaagse's first event - a 4.5K time trial - was incredibly scenic. Ringed by dikes and pumped dry by windmills, Oldebroek has been reclaimed from the sea. Formerly the province of herring and eel, the town is now the fleshy heart of the flower industry. On the way, we passed 500-year-old fishing villages and crossed over drawbridges spanning locks swarming with pleasure craft.

Oldebroek is the original hotbed of in-line skating and home to the famous Ruitenberg brothers, championship skaters of all seasons. In town, I asked for directions at the local pharmacy, and the owners were so excited that I had come that they phoned the Ruitenbergs. No sooner had they given me the local papers with all the skeeler new hot off the press, when who should roll up with an official welcome but Henri Ruitenberg, a founding father of the in-line sport! After doing all I could not to prostrate myself in front of his incandescent self, I was shown the 400-meter skeelerbaan and then dropped off at a youth hostel on the edge of the woods.

The three-day event went off without a hitch, with the Americans making a strong showing in all the races. Team Hyper's Doug Glass took third overall, teammate K.C. Boutiette took seventh and I took tenth place. Two other Americans made it into the top 40, as well; Brian King and John Svennson were 33rd and 38th, respectively. Little wonder, then, that the word from the skeelertoppers is that we've got to stop training so hard in the US. Apparently, we've gotten too strong.

My training program while in Holland was designed to promote physical and mental toughness. It consisted of 40K to 60K bicycle tours of the countryside, coupled with daily television updates of the grueling Tour de France. Bicycles are the holy cow of Holland, and the bike rides were led by my host, Gerard Kaagman. Gerard is and incredibly fit retired fabrications worker, designer of the Pool Sport frame, a part-time ice skater sharpener and a devoted husband and father. My rides gained significance through his recounting how the windmills worked in concert to pump water out of the polders, or about how they ground grain, sawed wood, or made mustard. We even stopped to feed the sheep PowerBars next to the very windmill that made the paper on which America's Declaration of Independence was signed.

The Kaagmans kept me well fed on traditional Dutch fare and let me sleep off my full stomach in their attic. Next to my bed, I even had a pile of old skating magazines to look through, with pictures of Diane Holum in her prime times. Sound like a good trip? It was.

So go. Go to Holland. Find out for yourself about the Dutch. They're a separate breed of racer - shrewd and wily, but also generous and noble. The Americans may be closing the gap, but the superlative style of in-line racing in the Netherlands can't help but be a perennial source of fascination and insight for all skaters.

SIDE DISH
From the moment you disembark form the airplane, you'll be overwhelmed by the sense of order that pervades the physical landscape in Holland. The first thing you will notice is how clean and expansive looking it is, a remarkable feat considering Holland is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. Copious amounts of open space are punctuated by dense aggregations of housing and industry. Because Dutch law restricts human impact on the landscape, you'll find no roadside billboards, bright pink houses, or convenience stores in Holland. Everything is regulated.

Owing to a vast network of bike paths, Holland is also a wonderland for the human-powered projectile. Posters at train stations promote the use of bikes and warn of bike theft. On either side of every roadway (note the word "every"), you'll find either a designated bike lane or a separate path. All routes and distances are marked by little red signs, and at intersections these paths have their own miniature traffic island and light signals. Despite the wildly variable surface conditions (tiles, bricks, slurrey-seal and smooth red asphalt), you'll feel as if you'd died and gone to Rollernirvana. These bike paths - although not always uniformly smooth - will at least take the fear of road kill out of you and allow you to appreciate the scenery to the fullest. Instead of racing skates, try Aeroslippers when touring the countryside or terrorizing the streets of Amsterdam.

A tour on skates through that city will also open your eyes to the permissiveness of Dutch society. Check out the graffiti-covered half-pipes that sit in full view of the Rijksmuseum, home of national treasures from the likes of Rembrandt and Vermeer. You can also go see the unbridled licentiousness of the redlight district or marvel at the new meaning the name "coffee shop" gives to more than 300 establishments with dissertation-length menus of soft drugs.

Windmills, Holland's only true landmark, still dot the landscape like eye candy. Only five percent of their original number remain. Replaced by electric pumps, these relics of a former era stand in mute testimony to the monumental struggle of the Dutch people through time. Little by little, the Dutch have wrested control of the land from the sea, fighting the invading water with everything from sandbags to massively engineered storm surge barriers. They appear to have won. The Dutch have proven themselves stewards of their own destiny, and their landscape provides credence to their saying: "God may have created the world, but the Dutch created Holland."