“World Cup”…the two words bring about those same butterflies as that angry “Boy Sets Fire” song, the same fizziness of a hard espresso shot, the similar uneasiness of the scent of warming gel. It sounds like a big deal, eh, but it’s just another gun shot, whistle blown or red light changing green. But this time, girls with names bigger than the word cyclocross are chomping at the bit beside me, speaking different languages, every multi-colored kit is a new view, the scent of cigar smoke and copious amounts of beer lingers in the nerve-filled air. Pre-race instructions, call-ups and numbers are all in some jibberish that I try to decipher. And the spectators! The 2.89km course is frosted with people 6-8 deep and they’ve all forked 15 euro to yell while we drool on ourselves and bleed out of our eyes…just another Boxing Day in Belgium.