By Fujimoto Masaaki
  

  I do believe I owe you guys an explanation.
  
  I'd mentioned in my previous column that I was done with Holland for good. The intention was to get to the airport and buy a ticket on the first flight out Monday.
  
  Turns out I never made it to Luchthaven Schiphol. My bags were all packed and ready to go. I was down in the hotel bar nursing one last cup of cappucino when this blonde surfer dude attempts to pick me up.
  
  He looks to be about six foot five, all rippling muscle and with a silly looking straw boater to top it all off. Mind you, it's still a chilly 5 degrees celcius outside and this dude is in his beachwear.
  
  "Sorry, I have this thing for Asian men," he explains after I make it clear I'm as straight as a plank of wood. "Hajimemashite, what brings you to this part of town, my friend?"
  
  I take another sip of the hot brew and decide what the hell, there'll be another plane within the next hour. I start explaining my predicament, doing my best to emphasise the juicy bits. Of course, I admit I overelaborate a little bit, especially my strengths and position in the team.
  
  "Ah yes I heard of it. Financial irregularities eh? What's the world coming to?" He gives a magnificent shake of his blond mane and peers into the depths of his beer mug.
  
  He's silent for a bit and just when I'm sure my new friend has drifted off into Never Never Land, he perks up and looks me dead in the eye, "You know, it's strange. But if I believed in coincidences

and that sort of thing, you might just be a godsend."
  
  I'm about to bring up my sexuality again when he catches my look of horror and bites back a grin.
  
  "Ever heard of Royals?"
  
  As a matter of fact, I haven't.
  
  Not surprisingly, he's not referring to a certain lineage of kings and queens, but rather an amateur cycling team on the outskirts of Amsterdam. Actually, amateur is putting it a little too nicely.
  
  This ragtag bunch of riders is made out of a gang of hard drinking locals from the small fishing village in Marken. Team manager Finz is the mayor's nephew and also runs the only bar in town.
  
  As it turns out, the team was a man down after star rider Wilfried van der Laan eloped and ran off with the town's Danish seamstress. Due to an extremely poor fishing season, the team had not yet managed to find a new rider. Which is where I come in.
  
  I can't say I'm too enamoured with the idea of joining this team of ragamuffins, but my new buddy Dick Vonk (no kidding) offers me a ride down to his village and a free tour on the condition that I'd think his proposal over.
  
  A short trip and a sixpack of Grolsch later, the offer is sounding decidedly more attractive. Dick has explained that to supplement his paltry income as the team's second choice sprinter, he is also the Royals's unofficial head scout. The team languishes somewhere just off the bottom of OCM's 7th division and its equipment budget is so miniscule it about covers a two course dinner.
  
  But what clinches it in the end for me is the fish. I know

it's a few thousand miles away from Kyoto, but its livelihood reminds me of home. Most of the team are fishermen, with the exception of a few (Dick included) who look to spend most of the time in the gym pumping iron. I'm amazed he can even sprint on his bike, but then again I have to remind my dear readers that this is a team in the seventh tier league after all. Pro Cycling this is certainly not.
  
  I meet a few other members of the team in what passes for the clubhouse. There's Bartholomeus Baker whose father was an alcoholic clergyman from the Northern reaches of England and who drowned off the coast not too far from this very village during a drunken binge. There's also Filip Themmen who looks every bit of his 32 years of age and perhaps a pint more, but whom Dick claims is one of the better climbers on the team. He's also the masseuse and I don't doubt it a bit after seeing the size of his mammoth hands. The handlebars on his bike look puny in comparison but I'd hesitate to make a gorilla on a bike joke at such close proximity. The hairy forearms and craggy lined face don't help in stifling my sudden urge to giggle either.
  
  I don't sign a contract in the end. It's a simple gentleman's agreement, sealed with a shake of the hand with the manager Finz. Then it's off to the bar for a celebratory round of drinks and an in depth discussion on the intricacies of Japanese ritual suicide. The racing season is almost over but next season promises more to come.
  
  For one thing, I certainly ain't out of my depth among these guys. Who knows, I might actually even come home within the top ten next season. I'm sure there aren't that many Division 1 quality riders like me in these parts. Just you wait.