Mount Leinster Challenge

But really it all began 3 days earlier. I'd been too busy to get my usual 2 litres of water a day, or the Dioralyte needed to hydrate properly. Fast forward a few days and my legs seized like my timing belt had gone. I got over the Corrabutt, cycled towards home, 50k away, like an old man. My pedals were lead weights, my quads like a corpse's, my voice hoarse from shouting at the pain. I cycled and screamed through a downpour in Drummond. Luckily no locals were about to see the demented fool seep through, anger and snot and rain-water running down his lined face. If I'd seen me I would have been worried for my health.

Let me ask you a few questions! Do you love the Mount Leinster Challenge as much as I do???? Where else would you climb a hill called the Dying Sow? Where else would you smile through agony on a 20% incline to have your photo taken? Where else would your marshalls have begun a nationwide cyclist awareness campaign, or won significant races or know your name? What's not to love about a food stop that was a pleasurable challenge all on it's own? And the mountain itself? Like Ventoux, a leviathan sitting there waiting to slay you for a moment's hesitation or lack of respect. Who didn't smile on it's slopes at the mere achievement of being there, on those very inclines?

Where is the beauty in hurting yourself? I suppose it's the theatre of war. You see, every spin I go on gives me a feeling that I'm fighting. I'm not just talking about driver ignorance. It could be the simplest of things to fight against...the comfort of the couch, could be family or personal health issues, time-thief guilt, financial or work stress etc. Or a combination of all the above. But I'm fighting. Always.

However, the Mount Leinster Challenge is a beautiful theatre of war. You might meet your inner-self out there but you'll both be looking at the view! An Alpine valley that resembles a cascade of vivid green paint spilt from top to bottom on the East-side of the mountain. Or the heavy ramps resembling Caporetto sapping your will as you cycle the funnel of the 9 Stones. Or as your heart is sinking but beating furiously there's that pastoral quilt thrown over your right shoulder on the summit of the Corrabutt. County Carlow laid out like a giant's picnic blanket to the West. Hurt yes. Worth, definitely. The fact that you can endure all that in sound company and live to tell the tale is even more sublime.

Yes I suffered like a dog, yes I would go back again tomorrow. I underestimated the Challenge this year. I rode the 32km from home, approached the mountain like it was a Dutch canal bridge and got nobbled on the dead roads between battlefields. But I did meet Ben, hoping to race around Europe this Summer in between a PHD. I did meet Andy, back from Bilbao and pedalling effortlessly. And Mick, working hard in Oxford. I helped someone get their Garmin out of a ditch on the cattle-grids, chatted to old friends from other lives , has-beens and will-be's, whippets, tryers and damn fine people all living the dream in an event organised to the max. All you had to give was your sweat and time. Screams optional.