Monday, May 30, 2016

NFTO

I have to admit you need a beautiful day once in a while to remind you why you put in so much effort, steal time, feel pain and stay focussed in cycling. And why we give up the bikkies and crisps and the like. Mentally and physically I crashed after racing last weekend and I found myself wallowing in Pringles and Merlot. I was losing the head. Tired and drained. But my Sunday spin was gonna happen. I did however, park my Thursday/Friday/Saturday training. How could you not go cycling after seeing the men of the Ras the day before in Inistioge? The ghosts of seven-straight-days-racing.So I ghosted out of town in the mist well before eight in the morning and felt the warmth of the sun after only fifteen minutes. It was gonna be a good one. Scooting along through the winding country of Rathnure and Kiltealy on the way to Bunclody [Wexford's answer to Pau] I had to face my fears. I was either going to be a car wreck and have to make the call of shame whilst sitting in a ditch somewhere, head in my hands, or, not admit defeat, have a shot at each ramp on Mt Leinster and go home smiling at my laboured breathing. Lo and behold, it was the latter!I rode the early 25 miles steadily and washed all the acrid shite out of my legs to the point where I felt good. Like awesome good. There was a time I'd do the early ramps and promptly calve. But in recent years I'd spent most of June in Bunclody working and regularly ran 5km up and back at lunchtime. So in my mind the hill was do-able. I got over my fear. And the sun and light airs helped, like a gentle hand to guide me. And its the view. The valley to the left is just...well...Alpine. I could sit and look across the slopes all day. That last 5k before the turn left near the Corrabutt gave me a pleasant crick in my neck. And I found the hump to the carpark easy. I didn't get any K.O.M.s but I sweated buckets like strava lava.####################################################################### However, this is all just a preamble. We all think we are kings when we can stomp on the pedals and have a 'no-chain' day. At least I did yesterday until I passed another cyclist down by the grids while descending the Behemoth. I dropped to the valley floor 'like a snot' as I was told later. I stopped to pick up a bottle jettisoned the day before in the Ras. It was a red NFTO bottle, Not For The Ordinary. How apt. The other cyclist caught up. 40 year old steel bike. 30mm tubs. 72 year-old rider. He had ridden from Shillelagh [?] and was out for a seven hour ride to prep for an Eroica event in England soon after doing the Italian original in the past. I was completely humbled. All of a sudden I realised that there I was killing myself all day, pushing the envelope, pushing my body, pushing my senses to be better. Yet here was this older version of me, a real character, who had it right. He too was soaking up the beautiful day, pushing his limits too. Just not the tunnel-vision limits I'd been nudging. To me ,what he was doing was sublime.################################# I left him and headed for home under the viaduct in Borris realising all my reasoning throughout the last 8 months about giving up racing was sound and sensible. Im still me, I'm still a cyclist with goals. But they are changing. I've done Flanders and have a fascination about Roubaix to satisfy yet. And I'll do the dolomites, Alps and Pyrenees too, please God, in the near future. I'll still be happy cycling. I know because I met myself in the valley below Mt Leinster yesterday and I enjoyed the company.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Dominoes delivery

Could Joey finally pull out a result? Could 8 months of training actually merit a good day on the bike?! First Barrow Wheeler in the race is one result I did achieve! Sounds great considering my club had it's strongest team in years at a race. Sprinters, climbers, pucheurs and rouleurs abounded, there was so much endorphins knocking around that if they were on the UCI prohibited list, we'd all be banned. So first in my club was an achievement, right? Don't be daft! Like a bunch of Cubans playing dominoes in the afternoon, my club succumbed to all sorts of craziness and as the afternoon went on the numbers tumbled. Some just wanted to survive their first open race for a while and did admirably. But it was to my utter surprise, through the afternoon that all of the boys and all of the plans, went South.@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@There's nothing more demoralising than your clubmates sitting on a grass verge sipping cups of tea in the afternoon sunlight, calling out your name in encouragement whilst you struggle by, throwing yourself around to stay in contention all the while stopping your tongue from catching in the front spokes. And my clubmates shouldn't have been there at all. It was a big push up the hill on the second lap that did for them. A typical, headless, no-rhyme-or-reason effort you get in the A4s. A few strongmen drove it over the hill and then sat up. This put some of my team mates out the back yet the same strongmen couldn't replicate their actions on lap 3 and therefore I and a few others stayed in the race. Chapeau headless strongmen!And the last lap was pedestrian.@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ Then you get the silly crash. Cyclists are weight concious. And mathematical. They probably average 75kg. That didn't prevent the conundrum of an average cyclist trying to fit between a ditch and a bigger rider in a space reserved for an anorexic squirrel. Cue resultant carnage as balance is lost, ditch is found, brakes are tested, chamois' soiled and skin is broken. Apologies to the hand I rode over[and it's owner]. I got back on, surveyed the damage. Good to go, now last of my club standing, by default, as Shane's bike had been damaged. @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ And then the cramps come to visit, like unwanted visitors, knocking on the door of my quads. Spasms fly electrically to my brain in the shape of a grim reaper, whispering "You're legs are dead sonny jim...you feel shite...you have cramps in your cramps...that fred in front of you with the flapping Aldi jersey, saddle bag with deck chair and coffee maker, tyres at 26 p.s.i., is gonna best you!" And your head spins....Isn't there sambos and fresh coffee at the finishline? Isn't some bastard cooking a barbecue on the back of the course every lap? Can't you just stop?! And it feels like someone has tilted the inclines and turned the last lap into a right auld son of a syphillitic camel. And the hailstones....@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ But the cramps subsided, the giant tsunami of pain had subsided to a ripple in a duck pond. The mind stopped sparking like a loose wire and started focussing again. Everything, like an alcoholic's moment of clarity, came together. Could this be my day? Hell no! The cramps came back when I started my sprint so I sat and ground out a top fifteen place [again]. At least I was in the bunch sprint, not waving at it as it disappeared up the road. No prizes for 15th. Praise for finishing well, praise for being first of the club in, praise for not succumbing to the crazed, lunatic, last lap psychosis either. Time for a re-boot and re-route and a ramp up for 2016 season part two!

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Little do you know

Marcin Mizgajski first showed up on my radar like a ghost. I'd heard there was a 'Latvian' dude doing laps of the ring-road at warp-speed, however I hadn't seen him. And then like Casper, he latched on to the back of our training group on the Ring Road, turned out to be Polish and had so much enthusiasm and strength that we are still the best of friends today. 12 years later, each other's biggest fan. I've forgotten a lot but theres a few chapters that are stuck in my memory. Miz was a tri-athlete when we met but it didn't stop him doing road races. In Poland, only priests teach religion. I picked up Miz in my car for his first Comeragh league race. We drove to Waterford, The Offspring blaring on the car stereo. I explained to him that I was teaching religion in Tramore at the time, and I was cursing the little f##kers that never listened. He put two and two together and tried to figure out how he was in a car with a cursing priest who liked California punk. He was baffled. But thats ok, for I was extremely baffled as to how the blondy haired dude had driven all the way from Poland in a Trabant, belching smoke, the only two-stroke car to make it to New Ross EVER![With his future wife and their belongings]. If Miz sets his mind to something, thats it. His Ironman in Lanzarote was a group effort where his enthusiasm and work ethic pulled cyclists, swimmers and runners together to get his long training done. And then he did it. The amount of times years ago we rocked up to races with one-day licences and got placings, much to the annoyance of the organisers. Miz has that ability not to race lots but yet show up and light a fuse. When we went on tour like that we laughed all day, returning with sore jaws from the banter. Not for us the tradition and bluster of provincial road-racing. But nobody puts in the work like Miz. I've been lucky to trace our way to Wexford in deep snow, done the hilly spins in the dead of Winter with him, hung on for dear life during intervals. I once filled the car-boot full of water as Miz did motor-pacing behind in the rain. Theres always an espresso somewhere. Theres the feeling when you are near Miz that you can achieve. Bullshit is not tolerated. I'm an also-ran in races but Miz has an ability to get the last drop out of every situation. With him I've had my best results. He IS endorphins. The Gorey 3 day...winning a stage stuck in the 39. Or winning the time trial because he knew all year he would. Riding the Ras twice, Setting the world alight at the Ras Mumhan. Determined to work in a leisure centre and getting the qualifications to do it. Being so focussed on the County Champs as to win it over and over. Oh, and a Leinster Championship too! So its no big surprise to me that I'm writing this blog 48 hours after Miz the pilot and Damien the stoker won the road race at the world cup round in Pietermaritzburg South Africa, after a bronze in the time trial. No surprise to me that that tandem pairing is a success. Theres two very determined blokes on board and the more the odds are dead against them, the more likely they are to succeed. Here's hoping....

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Wreck of the Hespers

I is wrecked. I've been juggling so long that I had to drop the baton. What with cleaning the pharmacy out of anything stronger than Sudocrem to treat my Sinusitis, trying to get the kids as much fresh air as possible, being a good[ish] husband and son, reading late loads, cooking a bit, training like a pro, teaching, burning the candle at both ends and in the middle for good measure....well, you get the picture! I raced very strongly on Sunday, loved it, went home spent. And then the tsunami I've been holding back of late just washed over me. The sinuses are back, my patella tendonitis returned for a [painful] visit too. I ain't sleeping, my muscles are sore and refusing to hydrate. I have a pain in my face and for the first time since September I don't want to race. That is tiredness. Put the heavier wheels on after washing the Belgian toothpaste out of every grey nook and cranny on the Ridley last Sunday evening and just left it there. Although the love affair is still on... we are on a break. I just need to regroup. Its all gone remarkably well so far, something had to give. I really did not expect my tendonitis to transfer over from running. But then May is my month, I've been buried in thresholds and goals lately, really stepping out on the razor blade. I will just go easy for a few days until the bags under my eyes and heart go. Easy spins and coffee. My Mum, God bless her, would often use that phrase 'you look like the wreck of the Hespers!' She hasn't in years, until she saw me today. If the Mammy can see it....

Monday, May 2, 2016

Hardy Bucks

Everyone was sick. Nobody was racing. Nobody felt good. Chest infections, sinusitis, tummy bugs and tiredness. Add to that the hail, cold, wet roads. And then they all showed up. Like ghosts out of the weak grey light, rolling around, getting warmed up against the odds. You have to applaud people's dedication. Racing around a 22 km circuit four times is a tall order. Racing full gas even taller. Couple that to fitter athletes, more competitive ambitions, let alone rivalries, club pride and sheer Irish doggedness and you get the picture! A random Sunday in May can be a lot more exciting than having a quick fag outside the Cloch Ban before rushing back in to finish your pint. Theres no point in trying to explain the intricacies of bike racing to the outsider. It's way too general. But lets look inside the average Joe's head. That...would be me!#################################################################################################################################### Friendship means a lot. Up and going in a bike race, apart from settling into your usual spot, you become aware of your friends and rivals. I'm always gonna give at least a quick check-in to my mates as we go up and down the pace line. Not necessary right up at the front as, obviously, your mate is doing just fine or wouldn't be there. But further back you want to make sure they know they are counted and sometimes, when going badly, you need to take their mind off the pain. A hand on the back of a good guy, a word of encouragement, a swift joke maybe. Non-friends can get the works. Barging their space. Stony silence or a glare when passing, letting the wheel in front go in order to make those behind you close it, taking up more space than you need or leaving someone in the wind and attacking them to add insult to injury. But really a bike race is a good-hearted affair with little in the way of argy-bargy. There might be the odd arrogant kid but nobody pays them any attention as they give it all to themselves anyway. Positioning, as the actress once said to the bishop, is key. I like to keep an eye on things, therefore I'm a sit-in-the-sweet-spot type of animal, top thirty, away from the twitchy tri-athletes that think handling is squeezing their quads at night. Also away from the juicers, caffeine or PWO-ed out of their skins, fine motor skills resembling an electrocuted rhino. But some like the rear, having a chat, keeping their powder dry with the off-chance of catching a crash or two as the penalty for taking a gamble. It takes a bit of getting used to. Countless races trying to hold your position, akin to a chinook fighting the falls. Its a tiring process but once its right you save yourself oodles of calories and watts [whatever they are]. Sometimes clubs can work really well, pretty much a unit, defending a position or keeping a high pace to dissuade Jacky Durand types. When they do its an endorphin high. When it goes wrong, its a learning curve. But you'll spend more time going over all the minutiae than you spend training. And then there is yesterday. The Frank O'Rourke race. You try to get it all right but get a sinus infection the previous week and swallow a pharmacy to get yourself right, stay out of trouble for 87 kilometres in sketchy conditions. Then find yourself fighting to stay upright withthin sight of the line, in the right hand ditch, yup, right hand ditch, so far right I started panicking in French! Soon you find yourself passing your team mate with 80 metres left, he on the ground, you holding out for maybe 15th place and a less crampy thigh. Of course theres always an unknown gobshite that tries to pass you for 14th place and doesn't care if he switches you doing it. You cross the line, swing around back down the finishing straight and try to use your sense of humour to regail your fallen comrade who looks BAD on the ground. Thankfully he isn't. And you go home empty handed, after doing everything right, and beat yourself up about it all. And plan the next race. Report card says 'room for improvement.' I wish my team mate hadn't gone down. I wish a chunk of the 40 boyos behind me had raced instead of trained. I wish rivalries were put to better effect. I wish a couple of my good mates had gotten to race instead of spectate. I wish ,I wish, I wish!