He bid us farewell by detailing the route we would need to follow from our stop to the kermesse's staging area and informing us that the wind would be blowing from the north west, off of the english channel. Sleet was already falling as we pulled into our destination. It might have been Morselede or Roselare, but it may well have been some other windy Belgian village. We mounted our bicycles, and struck out across a sea of muddy farmers' fields, wind blowing squarely on both cheeks. It was no sooner than we had began, when I gagged and vomited.
Belgian farmers fertilize their fields with a putrid mixture of horse, pig, and human waste.
Homogenized with chemical fertilizers, this foul muck is then sprayed in a fine mist over the fields where it settles into the black soil to produce some of the most beautiful vegatables I've ever eaten. The smell had hit me like a wall and turned my innards insides out. Later in life, I would miss that smell and the place that it came from. The freezing sleet was soaking through our street clothes and we were beginning the doubt the conductor's directions, when a car drove up along side of us. The driver was yelling out of the window, asking if we were headed to the race.