Monday, February 15, 2021

The day I beat Eddy Merckx. (updated)

 True story.

In 1994 Sean Kelly finally hung up his wheels after one last paycheck and disappeared into the anonymity of life near Carrick on Suir. Or so he thought. Except a whole generation of cyclists had been reared on him. Like babies on SMA, any kid of the eighties grew on Kelly's exploits in France, Spain and of course... Belgium. And there was no way they were going to let him disappear without a celebration. 

Let's not mess around here. Belgium is an absolute bitch to break. If you can read, race and retaliate in any Flandrian bike race you are a GOD.

And he did. Rode the northern classics with cobbles and climbs like they were his local loop.

Yes, he placed in the Tour de France over 3 weeks, won a heap of green jerseys and defeated Spanish combines to win the Vuelta in '88. But in truth every shitty, Belgian-toothpaste race he rode in the '80s struck a chord in every Irish cyclist 'coz there was always shite roads, rain, nasty locals and ridiculous politics. We could relate. But in '94 he'd said goodbye. 


In previous years there had been hamper races,  Christmas spins to showcase local talent and to keep the heart lit through the winter months. On his retirement, a slightly more amped up version was organised. A day of farewell and thanks for the quiet fella who'd carried the love of a nation.

Although it was more than a quarter century ago I remember it like it was this morning. Funny, I remember my club mates being there and the atmosphere. Tension. Expectation. Split into two parts, over a thousand were there just to say hello and thanks but towards the end the minority were there to race. 

Kelly? Sure thing. But there just happened to be a few continental whippets along for the celebration. Fignon, daSilva, Roche and his younger brother Laurence. Hinault, de Vlaemick, Criquilon, Earley and Kimmage. Oh, and Eddy Merckx. So what was I doing there?

 I'd been surviving in Dublin on Koka noodles and KVI bread and was hitting the Dublin mountains on my bike to escape reality as often as possible, coming home beaten by the climbs of the Hell Fire Club, the Sally Gap or Enniskerry. And when I cycled those climbs I was Kelly. If you've seen me cycle you'll know I lack the smooth style of Roche. I am someone fighting my bike. I am Kelly. 

  A whole bunch of us were down from New Ross. My besties and the oldies. And it was all fun and games until a flag dropped on the run back to Carrick. Out of nowhere the speed trebled. Kelly and his peers were up front and gone while the rest of us tried to get on terms. There were crashes and quitters and catastrophes. Bodies everywhere. Yes I did think I would die and yes, it was like that scene in Forrest Gump. Remember? He is ambushed in Vietnam and runs with the wounded while mortars are exploding left, right and centre? Well in Carrick I was Forrest. But I didn't get a Congressional medal of honor, my medal was staying upright. 

I was ok. I was light and ignorant. At one point someone went down hard in front of me and slid along, removing skin. And I'd normally pull over and figure it wasn't worth it. But that day was special. I'd switched off my common sense button. I bunny-hopped the poor fella on the ground, stayed up and got on to the back of the bunch drilling into Carrick. I was part of the group that was last onto the circuit before they pulled over the barricade to close the circuit. Or so I thought. Coming around a kilometre later I noticed the barricade being opened to let a certain Eddy Merckx through!

I cannot remember how many short circuits there was over the 2 bridges but I remember having a short circuit while sparring with Stephen Roches brother every lap. I would climb quicker off the bridge and he would roll faster on the flats. He wasn't long after retirement and I beat him to the finish after a ding-dong, elbow-to-elbow into the last corner. And I beat Merckx. That's not a boast really, he was as beer-barrel-bellied and slovenly then, as I am today. But still it was knees out on the corners and feeling like a pro turning onto the main street every lap. No air in my lungs, out of my mind with fatigue. I loved it. Top gear for 90% of each lap. It hurt real good.

And half a lap ahead the real men were winning. Kelly first of course. And there was an enormous crowd in the square and Kelly was hoisted on Fignon's shoulders I think. Phil Ligget did MC.

But it was the buzz. 1500 cyclists just wanted to thank Kelly. The feeling of goodwill was enormous. The colour, the anticipation. I can't remember what I wore or said or how I just made the cut but I do remember the feeling of relief at making the circuit being short-lived as it just got faster and faster. And the spin home and banter afterwards, feeling part of an event and a sport that was enormous. And only now do I realise that it was the zenith of cycling for me. I never ever felt as alive on a bike as I did that day. Or as a part of something.