Bob in front of his humble abode. It doesn't look so bad!
It appears I spoke to soon. A walk around the corner to the right brings you here, to Bob's cage in the basement. For reasons still unknown, every morning the landlady who lived upstairs would come down to the sidewalk and throw a bucket of slop water on the window.
Bob in his natural habitat: The Gent velodrome, where he schmoozes with current, former, and future pros, the director the UIV, riders from his past, attractive girls on student night, Belgian aficionados, Australian ex-pats, and pretty much everyone else. Lurking behind is his former manager, renown for his dastardly conduct, questionable contacts, latching onto all English-speaking riders, and being some sort of a cycling slumlord. Now Bob buys him a drink every year for getting him into races he never could have otherwise.
Now Bob makes an annual pilgrimage to the velodrome in Citadel Park to watch the 6-day. I'm starting to understand why.