The County Wexford World Championships.

 Impossible to explain, imperative to be there, the Wexford county champs in cycling is way bigger than it sounds!

I'm not denying that hurling has incredible accuracy and physicality at warp speed. Or that Rugby has it's game plays, violence and set pieces. For sure, Running has it's sheer fitness and single-mindedness. Soccer has it's skill and ecstasy. Golf has the..., ok, maybe not Golf. 😉. But cycling has it all. At 40km per hour. Wearing not a lot more than a swimsuit. 

And the county champs brings all the big guns out of the woodwork. Imagine the best couple of players from all the GAA clubs in the county going head to head with each other. Now you get the idea.

And, as a consequence, you get the idea of a scalp. Just one day in the year all bets are off. You race against your clubmates, training partners, frenemies, every conceivable MAMIL, race winner, full-timer and talent out there. You may not actually win but you might scalp last year's champ or someone that has consistently got their wheel in front of yours all year. Someone wins gold but everyone gets something out of it. An individual title means you cycle, race, plan, execute everything for yourself for a change. Not as easy in cycling as it sounds.

I think it was Zippy Doyle that coined 'County Wexford world championship'. For one evening in the summer Wexford cyclists down tools (no matter what corner of the universe they are in) and find their way to some random circuit in the middle of the county for this hurt-fest. And last Wednesday was no different. I've raced the counties up the Durr, around the halfway house, in Inch, up near Carnew, even in Listerlin of all places. And everywhere in between. Up savage hills one year, pan-flat the next. This year's had it all. White knuckle descents, sketchy bends, valley roads and lumps and bumps aplenty. One man's Croke Park is another man's Kiltealy.

Everyone is always happy to be there and to leave it all on the road too. And last Wednesday, well, lets just say I haven't seen that many smiling faces in the middle-of-nowhere since that rave on a farm in 1992.

And no, I didn't get a medal. No excuses,  did what I could, rode honestly. But my head is still buzzing with the craziness of it. I loved every second. Chasing and bluffing... so many variables and odd moves. And to feel part of something so alive is a wonderful experience. There are so many good people keeping cycling alive in Wexico, such great events and organising, no wonder a county title/medal/placing is fought tooth and nail for. 

I'll turn 57 at Christmas. Will I be at next summer's Wexford cycling World championship? Wouldn't miss it for the world!

Here we go!

 My first bunch race in a long time is tomorrow. I use the word 'bunch' loosely as I don't expect to be in a bunch for long. Still, I'll be there. Cycling is struggling, our community is shrinking, it is our duty to support, or in my case, make up numbers. I've been out of the loop a long time now, enjoying what Phil Gaimon calls the  "Worst Retirement Ever".

You see, I'm addicted. Always saw myself as a racing cyclist. Always liked the idea of racing or competing. Makes up the DNA of my whole family really, be it running, cycling, rowing, climbing, rugby or the race against time. We did whatever it took.

Of course, now that I'm 56 and rattled at best, it's gonna be hurt-locker territory. My lungs won't draw as much as the kids, my blood won't pump like the best of them either. But in my head is a hard drive glitching with 40 years of sepia film reels of the good and the bad of it. The crashes and dashes, the ones that got away, the few I nailed. The friends and enemies lost and found. Stick around long enough in any sport and your circle gets smaller but infinitely better.

So my memories bring me to the start line, the memories of how bad it can be hiding at the back of the film roll.

Why? Isn't it easier to Netflix and chill? Isn't it a better option? Well... no. I'll be last in a lot of bunch races this year but afterwards I'll be buzzing, high as a kite. I'll re-run each part of the race, working it over. I may not have much to give anymore but life would be a whole lot tougher sitting at home with a dose of FOMO kicking home.

So it's when the blood did flow fast with my taps open that will drive me to that start line.

It's the good moves in past races that appeared like an alcoholic's moment of clarity that will fill my head.

It'll be the shirkers and workers of bygone times I'll be rubbing shoulders with.

I honestly can't wait.

After all, living in the past makes you tend to repeat it.