It was my father who infected me with the cycling virus in my youth. He was a fanatic competitive cyclist and he arranged my first real racing bike for me. Together we made our first trip, which I still remember well. We were both proud, me because I cycled 20 km per hour and my father because we shared his passion.
From just cycling, training became more serious as I got older. I joined a cycling club, got a new bike and started racing at home and abroad. I look back on this time with beautiful and valuable memories. Of course, there were also less beautiful moments. Cycling is and remains a dangerous sport, and I too have had to admire the asphalt up close on several occasions. Three times a broken collarbone (yes I am a real cyclist), bruised body parts, a concussion and several abrasions, did not make my love for the sport disappeared. Still, a few years ago, cycling came to a screeching halt. I moved in together, worked 40 hours and had two beautiful children. I couldn't bring myself to train as much and therefore I didn't reach the level I wanted anymore. For me it was all or nothing and so I finally hung up my bike on the willows.