The PC: Beercycling with Le Tour.

The PC: Beercycling with Le Tour.

A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor.

American clocks do not synchronize with Europe, and so each year that I remain stateside during the Tour de France, I must adapt with breakfast buffets of espresso, baguettes, gnarly goat cheese … and beer.

I’ve seen brief snippets of Le Tour in person on two occasions, in 2001 and 2004. Oddly, both glimpses came not in France, but in Belgium. The first viewing was in Lo, a very small town, and the second came in Liege, a very large city. Rural or cosmopolitan, the vibrations were identical, and it’s a thrill to be in proximity to the festive atmosphere surrounding the Tour, watching people of all ages gather to witness what can be the most fleeting of sporting seconds.

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But first, an obligatory word from the Tour’s sponsors, namely, the mechanized entourage preceding the cyclists’ arrival, equal parts dromedary and circus sideshow. In Lo, we got to see it all.

Support vans for the various teams roll through at intervals, and there is no mistaking which corporation pays their freight. Dozens of vehicles in all shapes and sizes belonging to various subsidiary sponsors dart past, leaving mounds of advertising paraphernalia strewn in their wake. When this colorful parade is over, there is a pause before sirens blast, bells toll, policemen noisily clear the street, and the actual cyclists finally make their appearances.

When riding on flat ground, the peloton can go past so incredibly quickly that if you yawn, you’ll miss it. Once past, enterprising spectators then rush back to their cars (or bikes) to take pursuit, and perhaps choose another vantage point further down the road.

But in Lo, it struck me that residents of villages not graced with the Tour’s presence for many decades take a far more leisurely opportunity to make a day of it, first introducing their children and grandchildren to the event’s history, and then watching the pedal-by before returning to their homes for cocktail hour and the evening news.

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Having taken up walking, I’ve done little in 2014 to merit the description of bicyclist, but still consider myself a lapsed, casual, commuting cyclist. My riding resumed in the late 1990’s after a long hiatus, beginning with a mountain bike for short jaunts only, then graduating to a hybrid – a heavier frame and wider tires.

I still have the bike. Except for the original frame, every bit of it has been replaced numerous times with replacement components. It has traveled with me to Europe on at least four occasions for the pursuit of beercycling, or the discriminating art of doing just enough riding to justify the beers (and meals) that come afterward.

It is inexcusable hedonism at its finest, though not without informative sightseeing, hearty exercise and enriching camaraderie. If you can bike past a Belgian frites stand without stopping, you’re a better – and thinner – man.

In beercycling, one experiences the cityscape and countryside, just not at speeds customarily traveled by Tour de France riders. I weigh more than them, and they climb mountains like the Pyrenees faster than I traverse the neutral terrain of Flanders. Their support teams are not at my disposal, although in the early days of the race, riders were compelled to carry everything they needed to make necessary repairs.

And, much as now, the Tour de France’s cyclists used to seek the assistance of performance enhancing substances. A poster on the wall at the Public House shows 1920’s era Tour participants on break, seated on the steps of a café, with admiring children clustered behind them watching intently as they hoisted big mugs of beer.

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A few years ago, I read “Tour de France: The History, The Legend, The Riders,” by Graeme Fife.

Fife, an English amateur cyclist, provides a workably chronological, if sometimes meandering, account of the race’s century-long history, as well as gritty descriptions of his own two-wheeled gonzo ascents of the particularly gruesome climbs expected of riders each year in the Alps and Pyrenees.

These climbs provide instruction as to why drugs of all conceivable types have always been taboo, as well as (arguably) indispensable elements of the Tour. Before the fame and riches, there came a race designed by its founder to be a superlative, supreme test in the annals of human endurance, something otherwise found only within the pages of a US Marine Corps training manual.

In fact, early Tour routes were calculated, lengthened, augmented and toughened according to their prime mover’s earnest (warped?) desire for the “perfect” Tour as one so abominably difficult that only a single rider would survive each year to approach the stand and claim victory.

Perhaps this is why I feel about the Tour de France much as I do about American baseball: Some sportsmen may well be cheating dopers, and I’ll waste no time defending their actions, preferring to gaze benignly past the ephemeral, toward the timeless and true essence of the sport itself, this being what matters the most to me.

Accordingly, my personal Tour de France moment was in 2006 in the Czech Republic. In one grueling day, my compatriot Kevin Richards and I rode roughly 125 late summer kilometers through ceaselessly hilly, gorgeous Bohemian countryside, fully laden with panniers, stopping exhausted just before dusk at a three-word, multi-syllabic town, renting a room, showering, and finally dining on beer, wine, duck, beef and more beer. These are the drugs of choice for the discerning beercyclist.

Vive la France! … and, long live Ceska Republika, too.

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In 2001, the Lo year, we beercyclists made the newspaper in Poperinge. As translated by the inimitable Luc Dequidt, here is the article.

Did we really say that about Lance Armstrong? Maybe it was the beer talking.

4 Americans visit the Tour - Beer and Cycling

Four Americans stayed this week at the Palace Hotel in Poperinge - Bob Reed and Kevin Lowber from Kentucky, Tim Eads and Roger Baylor from Indiana. Mainly here to sample local brews, they did not want to miss the Tour de France; they watched it from the terrace of a local pub in Lo, a more than unique experience for the four Americans.

Kentucky is mainly known for breeding horses, so horse racing is extremely popular. Indiana is more industrialized with steel industry around Lake Michigan. Needless to say that they were charmed by the peace and quiet of the Poperinge area, a cyclist's paradise. Their home states are more car orientated.

On Monday they cycled to Lo; they had never seen the Tour or any other main cycling event. American TV pays more attention to extreme sports, cycling is not one of them despite the presence of Lance Armstrong. They were impressed by the publicity caravan, carnival as they called it; a Michelin flag or Champion cap made a nice souvenir. They watched out for the American cyclists; they recognized the US Postal shirts but not who rode with a blue shirt. They strongly believe in another victory of Lance Armstrong but did not hear yet about the cooperation with the controversial Italian doctor Ferrari.

They do not speak in public about drugs. "Armstrong seems to be an honest guy." They would be very disappointed when it would appear that their hero in the Tour takes illegal products.

They do not know many names of Belgian cyclists, exception made for Tom Steels and Eddy Merckx, of course. After the Tour passed through Lo, Westvleteren was the next stop for a delicious Trappist.

Roger, Tim, Kevin and Bob already visited Poperinge in 1999 during the hop fest. Bob remembers the refreshing taste of Hommelbier and still speaks highly about the Hop Queen.

Again local real ales are the reason for staying at the Palace. Landlord Guy serves them another brew each evening in a matching glass; no less than 130 different beers are available at the Palace.

Before leaving Poperinge, they cycled up the Cassel-mountain and visited a local inn, het Kasteelhof, where another local ale was tasted.

As a salesman, Kevin introduced the Hommelbier in quite a number of American pubs and also Roger serves it in his Rich O's Public House. He will soon serve his own homebrew.

This column contains bits from previous writings on the topic.

The PC: Welcome to Nail City, Part Two.

The PC: Welcome to Nail City, Part Two.

A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor.

For those just tuning in, this column used to appear at LouisvilleBeer.com, but henceforth will be published here each Monday. Previous columns at LouisvilleBeer.com are archived there.

Ever wondered where the church pews in the Public House (formerly Rich O's) were procured? Here's the conclusion to the story of an excellent weekend adventure in Wheeling, West Virginia in 2001.

Part One can be read here.

Arts and supposed craft beer.

On Saturday afternoon, driving east on the interstate, we crossed into downtown Wheeling while admiring the city’s graceful, ancient long-span suspension bridge, the world’s oldest, dating from pre-Civil War times.

Stopping briefly to make final arrangements for the truck, I was struck by the surplus of aging and generally derelict red brick warehouses. They’re the sort of building that microbrewery start-ups so eagerly sought in the 1990’s, before that particular industry suffered its first great leveling off.

Downtown, in the vicinity of the approaches to the suspension bridge and the epicenter of attempted tourism, some of the city’s commercial buildings, banks and corporate headquarters of another age had been renovated. One of them, at 1400 Main Street, was the Wheeling Artisan Center.

On the building’s upper floors were housed West Virginia arts and crafts shops, exemplifying the folksy milieu of the south, and obviously a staple attraction for blue hair bus tours and visiting groups, which the local visitor’s bureau in turn routinely directed to River City Ale Works on the first floor, which is where we were seated at the bar, wondering if this was as good as it gets in a place like Wheeling.

Comrade, can I see your ration coupon?

For me to have enjoyed the aforementioned good life, it required a desperate effort to remain upwind from my interrogator. Besides, the conversation seemed to have gone about as far as it could, so I started to turn toward the sanctuary offered by our rental car, but he wasn’t finished with me quite yet.

“Fine, thanks, but Jesus Christ, I don’t want to use the damn coupons – look, I just want to cash these in and get back the money for drinks. Does it say I can do that?”

Pondering the theory and practice of loopholes, I caught the scents of burning leaves and cold river water. Traffic hummed on the adjacent interstate. Elsewhere on Wheeling Island, West Virginia’s state high school football championship game would be starting later in the evening.

Exactly what do people drink at dog tracks, anyway?

Why? Why? Why?

Sitting at the River City Ale Works, it occurred to me that we had been forewarned. Before departing Louisville, I visited Pubcrawler, an ancient Internet database built about the time of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, and searched for brewpubs and beer bars in Wheeling. There were none of the latter, and to put it charitably, the reviews for our choice of brewery (the only one in town) were mixed.

I learned that the original occupant of the space was called Nail City, an establishment billed as West Virginia’s largest brewpub. When asked about this, the bartender informed us that the current River City Ale Works was the only brewpub in West Virginia, making it the largest by default.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t true; there proved to be at least one other brewpub operating in the state at the time, but we had no access to floor space measurements, and it seemed that the first of many Brewpub Warning Flags about to be raised: When you spend valuable moments debating ephemera rather than the merits of the beer on offer, you just might be headed for trouble.

Should we stay or should we go?

Alternatives seemed few in number, other than hitting the road for nearby Pittsburgh, a scant hour up the interstate, but which one of us would stay sober enough to drive?

We elected to stay at Wheeling’s largest and only brewpub, the reward for which was an admittedly fine meal, as well as the efforts of an energetic female bartender who tried her best to be helpful. However, for aficionados of brewpubs, even great food and wonderful hired hands are small consolation when the beer is unimpressive.

Here, then, are a few warning signs to consider during a brewpub visit. They are specific to Wheeling’s River City Ale Works as experienced during our visit so long ago, but equally applicable, in varying forms, to similar establishments.

You become worried when:

1. A brewpub’s dining menu lists at least 75 different meals, but only six house beers are described on the table tents.

2. The six everyday beers listed on the table tents aren’t available.

3. The two beers that are available, neither of which are listed on the table tents, are written on a chalkboard half-obscured by Miller Lite point-of-sale materials.

4. The two house beers are competent, if unspectacular, but they’re served ice-cold in frozen glasses.

5. For every glass of house beer the bartender pours, another glass goes cascading down the drains as foam is “poured off.”

6. The bartender explains that the reason for the discrepancy between the six beers listed on the table tents and the chalkboard’s two like this: “Well, we didn’t brew for a while, but now we’re brewing again.”

7. You ask why this is the case, and she replies, “Because the brewery was broke.”

8. The brewpub offers “happy hour” pricing, but a large and readily visible sign reminds customers that the special prices do not apply to the two house-brewed beers that are available.

(The preceding bears repeating: A brewpub offers “happy hour” pricing for mass- market swill, not its own beer)

9. You look around the bar, and no one else is drinking the house beer. You conclude that you must be strange for insisting to do so, speculating that your interest in beer is greater than that of the management, and wondering why such a place even bothers maintaining a brewery when so little is done to nurture and support it.

The overwhelming evidence available to us was that it might be a long time before craft beer became a priority in Wheeling, notwithstanding the freedom once enjoyed by the city’s residents to “extol the merits of John Barleycorn."

Eyes affixed to the plunging neckline of our bartender, we asked for directions to the best package liquor store with the widest selection in the city.

“That’d be Cut Rate over on Wheeling Island. We all go there. Go across the suspension bridge, fourth stop sign, turn right … “

Beer and circus.

Like the set pieces at Madame Tussaud’s, the tableau outside the liquor store was frozen in time. Present were Syd, Tom and me, each with paper sacks of cold beer in hand, and the sun setting to the west, behind our hotel in Ohio. Standing before us was a man with a sheet of paper. His pal’s arm was extended in an almost Biblical offering of refreshment. Just off stage, silently, drearily, there reposed a woman.

In the fading light, the fine print on the coupons was way too small, and my patience far too gone, for me to bother trying to read it.

“It doesn’t say you can’t,” I offered. “So go for it.”

Gratefully reassured, the man thanked me a final time and accepted the bottle of malt liquor. The three forlorn bearers of dog track “drink” tickets shuffled off toward their ultimate redemption, to the greyhounds, to the southernmost extremity of Wheeling Island.

Come to think of it, the woman hadn’t said a word the whole time … and all because I could read.

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Editor’s note.

For abundant historical information on Wheeling, as well as numerous photographs both old and new, go to the Ohio County Public Library’s web site, and don’t forget that the preceding account dates from 2001. The River City Ale Works remains in business, but ceased brewing quite some time ago. There may be better beer hotspots all over the city now … and the same guy may still be redeeming coupons at the dog track.

The PC: Welcome to Nail City, Part One.

Photo credit: Wheeling National Heritage Area

For those just tuning in, this column used to appear at LouisvilleBeer.com, but henceforth will be published here each Monday. Previous columns at LouisvilleBeer.com are archived there.

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Ever wondered where the church pews in the Public House (formerly Rich O's) were procured?

Here's the story of an excellent weekend adventure in Wheeling, West Virginia in 2001. It is by no means intended as a complete portrait of Wheeling today, almost 13 years later, but merely a snippet from the past.

Welcome to Nail City.

Heavily laden with provisions, Syd and I exited the package store, where we had been directed to shop because it had the “best” selection in town.

It certainly wasn’t the best section of town, and when a raggedly dressed man approached us, a number of potential shakedown scenarios, none of them particularly savory, flashed through my mind.

“Excuse me, sir … ”

The possibilities loomed like the dreaded sub-sections on an income tax return. Did I have spare change? A cigarette, perhaps? Would I care to purchase a pharmaceutical from his vast selection, to self-medicate? Or was he a representative of Watchtowers-R-Us?

What’s the frequency, Kenneth?

“We Feature Gallo, Bartles & Jaymes, and Other Fine Wines.”

Fine wines? It must be true; hell, it was right there in the yellow pages for Wheeling, West Virginia, which was another five minutes east from our vantage point at a motel near St. Clairesville, Ohio. It was a late autumn weekend, deer season, and as soon as we were 50 miles east of Columbus, the interstate became littered with road kill and filled almost bumper to bumper with pickup trucks hauling uncovered carcasses.

Venison is fine by me, but I’m not a hunter, and although cigars are an important part of my life, this was no pilgrimage to the former home of Marsh-Wheeling (ironically, they’re now made in Indiana).

We had one, and only one, reason to drive from Louisville to Wheeling: The business of beer, or to be more specific, the business of capitalizing on the misfortune of certain elderly residents of the city.

Apparently, some of these old folks had died, even as others became too infirm to climb the double staircases leading to the second-floor sanctuary of their Pentecostal church. The church had relocated to smaller, street-level quarters elsewhere in Wheeling, and a local used furniture dealer was conducting a sale of fixtures prior to the building being put on the block.

Among the items to be sold were the church’s venerable oak pews, some six feet and other nine feet long, which were estimated by our intermediary to be more than 60 years old. Our mission in Wheeling was to relieve the congregation of a baker’s dozen of these pews, and make them holier.

On Sunday morning, we were slated to meet the broker at the church, load the liberated pews into a Ryder rental truck, and haul them back to New Albany for use in the Public House – another charismatic place where the patrons speak in tongues and gargle snake oil.

However, all this had yet to happen. It wasn’t even 1:00 p.m. on Saturday. We’d checked into our hotel and were searching the phonebook, not quite in the mood for fine wines, but wondering what the local beer scene was like in Wheeling.

We were about to learn that at the time, good beer in Wheeling was about as plentiful as strip clubs (or, for that matter, strip steaks) are in Pyongyang.

Act II, in which the outsider pauses to assist the eager natives.

“Excuse me, please, sir ... but can one of you read?”

The man waved a sheet of paper inches from my skull as I paused to reflect that it had been quite some time since such a question had been asked of me. But what was the catch?

Suspicious yet intrigued, wary but accommodating, I decided to acknowledge that yes, since at least the mid-1960s, during some point in the LBJ administration, I have been able to read – quite well when conscious, actually.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, “because if you can help me read this, maybe I can get this (expletive deleted, but referring to a procreative female dog) to shut up.”

He motioned to an indifferent and perfectly quiet female waiting in the shadows by the pay phone. She rolled her eyes toward the darkening firmament, seemingly less afraid of potential violence from her boyfriend than yet another worthless evening of futility and trash talk.

Seconds later, my friend Tom emerged from the store toting his evening’s refreshment. Right alongside him was my interloper's best buddy, a veritable Sancho Panza, who announced that he had invested in bottled water for himself and a 40-ouncer for my questioner, just as instructed … and here was the small change to prove it.

Examining the man’s sheet of paper, I saw immediately that it was a “VIP Club” circular for the dog track located down the street. He pointed at the bottom of the page, where there were three coupons, each for a complimentary slot machine pull. Visibly triumphant at his good fortune – he’d managed to find someone literate, pliant and reasonably sober this late in the afternoon, obviously a novel concept – he asked if the three coupons could be used, all at once, before midnight that same day.

“Well, it doesn’t say you can’t use them all tonight,” I said, studying the various expiration dates emblazoned on the coupons, “so good luck, and have a good life.”

We needed to start drinking, and badly.

If you will look on the map …

Wheeling is located between Ohio and Pennsylvania in that strange angular panhandle of West Virginia that points northward like a bony, outstretched middle finger. Much of the city lies on the left bank of the Ohio River, but the central district spills over onto an island in the river, where we were directed to buy beer and to counsel colorful locals.

Wooded hills define the physical character of the area. Towns are wedged into the flat bottomlands between the heights. To look at Wheeling on a map is to see an urban area seemingly one mile wide and twelve miles long, poured between the river to the west and a long ridge to the east.

At one time, Wheeling was the “Gateway to the West,” later an industrial powerhouse, producing steel, iron, nails, glass, cigars and even beer, the latter inspiring these words from a history of the area written in 1879:

To historically review the dawn or subsequent development of man's appreciation for ale and beer, would be no sinecure achievement, suffice it to say that since the arrival of the earliest pioneers in this section, brewing, in some shape, has ever held its own. But the nutritious and palatable blending of malt and hops found little difficulty in fascinating the popular taste, even our grand-fathers were free to extol the merits of "John Barleycorn."

Contrary to enduring stereotypes of West Virginia as a hillbilly type of place where squirrel brains and incest stubbornly remain on the collective dinner table, Wheeling has enjoyed a diverse cultural history engendered by the immigrants who came to work in the city’s numerous factories. The last names of three pro sports luminaries born just across the river in the state of Ohio, John Havlicek and brothers Phil and Joe Niekro, attest to this, as does the presence of Catholic, Orthodox and Jewish congregations to spice the backwoods fundamentalist broth.

But the pendulum never stops swinging. It was well into the 20th century before an expedience borne of economic decline compelled local movers and shakers to reconnect with Wheeling’s southern heritage, and with some of the cultural themes that West Virginia’s original secession from secessionist Virginia had been intended to forestall.

It’s been a few years now, but when I was there, the industrial landscape appeared suspiciously Rust Belt and quite northern to me.

Where were we, anyway?

Part Two will appear on Monday, May 12