Today was it. My last open race. It didn't go according to plan. A short race that I should have lit up. And I didn't. I tried to be a good team mate and do a lead-out; Nothing. I. Had. Nothing.
I've been running on fumes all year. I know because the last time I cracked a rib I rode a Sportif the following weekend. The last time I caught a virus I trained through it. The last time I had a serious dose of antibiotics I found my legs again. This year its been chasing/recovering/knock-down ad infinitum. I am retiring from racing fully equipped with the knowledge that I don't bounce like I used to.
As regards being a good team rider, what annoys me about failing today is that when someone needs help and they are inherently good... I will work like an ox for them. I've always just hit the afterburner button and had that extra gear. Today every light came on on my dash. Catastrophic systems failure. I've dragged team mates up the Ho Chi Minh trail (up along the gutter) in one-day races, stage races and leagues. And I can categorically say I was high on the thrill of it. And of course, if you weren't on my team then you probably had me stuck to your wheel at some point and I do apologise😂. And I learned all that from brilliant clubmates that buried themselves for me in the last decade. So to get to 1500 metres from the line today and not be able to go any faster and get my mate even into contention. Makes me sick. You see, there are beautiful people in cycling...I mean nobody is perfect but some people are beautiful. And I wouldn't want to ever let them down. I failed today. Maybe I'm living off nostalgia this last year. You know how it goes...the older I get, the better I was....
I'd reckon my blood is sepia coloured by now.
Watching re-runs of the Muppet show with my kids lately taught me a lot. I am either Statler or Waldorf, either of the old cronies in the balcony box. I accept that. While racing this year I'm addled by my fellow cyclist's poor handling. I mean if you can't cycle in a straight line you endanger others and you've picked the wrong sport. Try Irish Dancing. If you can't take a corner without leaving a rubber plantation on the road and a collective skid-mark in the bunch's shorts... go back to stabilisers or buy a quad. And if you weigh less than a bag of sugar, please oh please don't come up for an arse-in-the-air, eyeballs-out sprint finish. Chances are one of us gallopers will have more meat stuck between our teeth from last night's dinner than you have on your calves. And you'll get eaten. I tried not to be an old bo##@x... you know the type... seen it all, think their decade's of cycling have more value than your's. They've had the life of Riley being pseudo alpha males, ignorant of how off-putting they've become. Blissfully unaware of their own caricatures. So I tried to stay quiet, not get upset at the lack of forethought from the dudes in front of me, the ones pedalling like wind-up mice. Like I said, who wants to be remembered as an ass. In the past the other riders scolded you into being a steady cyclist. Old but effective. Today it's an internet tutorial. Adults can no longer tell each other they are wrong. The little fella pin-balling around the bunch yesterday, will do the same next year. Meanwhile I need a Xanax to calm the nerves after his acrobatics. Isn't it remarkable that female racers are by far the steadiest? An ability to learn perhaps?
But today was cool for a lot of reasons. I raced for years in Meath. My wife and parents-in-law hail from the heart of all the good circuits up there. I've done hill repeats on Christmas day past the church we were married in, placed in races all over that neighbourhood, annoyed the bejesus out of commissaires by showing up in Cipollini's zebra kit and getting up for the sprint. And cycled to the local garage to buy 2 bottles of wine on payday, placed in the bottle cages to share with my Father in law. See? Rose-tinted glasses. Meath is my Valhalla.
Isn't there the Chinese proverb about everyone having a certain amount of heartbeats? When it's reached it's reached. Isn't it the same for pedal revs turned in anger? Hundreds of thousands of mindless pedal revolutions turned. The pain. The sacrifices. The time.
The selfishness.
For a slim chance that the Gods will smile down. Pardon the pun but I've gone full cycle. I don't feel I need to beat anyone anymore. Especially not me.
What do I take from the craziness? A few unbelievable mates. A body slapped around like a Mafia informer, a few bigoted acquaintances. A ship-load of memories to make me smile in odd places at odd times. And the reality that in a promontory such as Ireland, I'm an oddity. I race bicycles. I don't understand parochial. No comprende 'insular'. I feel part of something bigger. I was never one for golf. Or cycling clubs run like golf clubs. I take an honesty from road racing. I will work like hell if you work like hell and while we're at it lets put on a show. 🏍🔥
So all that's left is the James Butler time trial, the traditional season-ender for roadies around these parts. I can't wait to ride it. It's the longest running event in the southeast. A final chance to high five your idols before the still winter settles upon us like a quieting quilt. The only difference this year will be that when the whirlpool of rushing wheels and whomping tubulars, torque-churning chainsets and focussed stares has been packed away afterwards, I'll be putting the bike in the shed with no specific plan for taking it out to race again. Instead I'll venture out in the musty leafed dawns and chestnut strewn lanes as it's my favourite time... A time to bury the past and wait for the new.💙
Saturday, September 15, 2018
Sunday, September 9, 2018
Outsiderz
This is pure bloody madness. You couldn't make it up. I headed out this morning to train my ass off in the back roads and as my surfer friends would say, I was 'stoked'. I swallowed Lavazza, granola and vitamin D, pulled on my gear and tootled down the driveway before 7.15am. There must be something wrong with me. I failed (yes failed, as in an exam) to train yesterday as there was stuff to do. All day I wondered could I steal just 40 minutes for a sprint session but alas... inconsequential chores defeated me. And now that Catholic guilt is biting. This is nuts. I had a few glasses of wine last night. The happy devil on my right shoulder at 10pm whispered lover's breathy words of want and Shiraz. I listened intently. This morning's devil was a nasty, laying-on-the-guilt mesomorph, killing me with anxst and regret like the drill sergeant in Full Metal Jacket. And for what exactly? I mean I'm just a cyclist. I admire any sporting person. But surely there's more to life? I have a job, a family, responsibilities.... Sport really doesn't matter does it?
Don't be daft.
I'll go race next weekend and be hung up on it the whole week in advance. Picturing the course, planning and plotting. Thinking of the craziest nutters in the world trying to knock me off in the name of sport. Ah sure tis a bit of craic. They don't mean it. I blame the Celtic Tiger. They cycle like Banks; headless and unaware of consequences. And there'll be a crash.
The training is going spectacularly well. I've been out with Mick who happens to be juiced to the gills at the moment. On bacon and cabbage. Today we cycled towards cake with the sun behind us. We compared his silhouette... Tayto and IPA nurtured... with my Dorito and wine cultivated shadow... And came to the conclusion that climbing hills will not feature in our immediate future. We tried tucked-down, time trial positions but my gut slapped my legs.
In preparation for next week's race I've decided to use a finish bottle. All the pros are doing it. They might mix Tramadol and coke for a little edge. In my case I'll probably just put merlot in it as finishing a bottle has never been a problem. In fact it's the only race I've won this year convincingly. ( I can't count the Time trial I won in the spring because I was the only entrant).
Tomorrow I'll train in the rain. Because training indoors when its not December is for soft, squishy cyclists. I've argued with my psycho-analyst about this, so I must be right. And I've pointed out that 45 therapy sessions (indoors) with a man who has 'anal' in his title is just wrong.
By mid-week I'll be watching my weight. It's humiliating when the bell sounds on the scales like a fairground test-of-strength and a little voice utters "You've won a prize!!". I'll cut down on the pasta
. A few midnight packets of Tuc crackers will be a good replacement.
But I'm not completely beyond help. I don't tell people I'm "doing nothing" on the bike yet seem to be sighted out training 9 days a week at odd hours and wearing a burkha to avoid identification. Every spin I do is in the public domain, every slow, sweaty, slow kilometre. I don't pretend I'm a clean cyclist either. You should have seen the inside of my shorts that time the truck got too close! And I don't do drugs unless you count industrial quantities of caffeine, wine and Goji berries. And bacon. I certainly don't have a tab in Holland and Barrett or miss the start of races coz I couldn't swallow all the tablets. I'm a kid of the nineties so the only pills lying around are the ones mentioned in biographies I have of dead music icons.
Yes, cycling is a mad-cap world of potions, personalities and loneliness. I think I'm fairly sane. Throwing a leg over a bike keeps my mind clear even though the world of cycling is at best an odds-bodkin's realm of insanity! The best cyclists are the ones that can isolate themselves, train to absolute exhaustion, sleep a lot, shun society, abstain from alcohol or eating much and revel in pain. Crazy! So I'm sane because I don't tick six out of seven of those. And you're a little unstable because you've gone back to look at the list!
Come on. Join me for a spin in the rain tomorrow and I'll introduce you to the wacky racers! I'll throw in an oily espresso and if the sun comes out we can look at my silhouette....
Don't be daft.
I'll go race next weekend and be hung up on it the whole week in advance. Picturing the course, planning and plotting. Thinking of the craziest nutters in the world trying to knock me off in the name of sport. Ah sure tis a bit of craic. They don't mean it. I blame the Celtic Tiger. They cycle like Banks; headless and unaware of consequences. And there'll be a crash.
The training is going spectacularly well. I've been out with Mick who happens to be juiced to the gills at the moment. On bacon and cabbage. Today we cycled towards cake with the sun behind us. We compared his silhouette... Tayto and IPA nurtured... with my Dorito and wine cultivated shadow... And came to the conclusion that climbing hills will not feature in our immediate future. We tried tucked-down, time trial positions but my gut slapped my legs.
In preparation for next week's race I've decided to use a finish bottle. All the pros are doing it. They might mix Tramadol and coke for a little edge. In my case I'll probably just put merlot in it as finishing a bottle has never been a problem. In fact it's the only race I've won this year convincingly. ( I can't count the Time trial I won in the spring because I was the only entrant).
Tomorrow I'll train in the rain. Because training indoors when its not December is for soft, squishy cyclists. I've argued with my psycho-analyst about this, so I must be right. And I've pointed out that 45 therapy sessions (indoors) with a man who has 'anal' in his title is just wrong.
By mid-week I'll be watching my weight. It's humiliating when the bell sounds on the scales like a fairground test-of-strength and a little voice utters "You've won a prize!!". I'll cut down on the pasta
. A few midnight packets of Tuc crackers will be a good replacement.
But I'm not completely beyond help. I don't tell people I'm "doing nothing" on the bike yet seem to be sighted out training 9 days a week at odd hours and wearing a burkha to avoid identification. Every spin I do is in the public domain, every slow, sweaty, slow kilometre. I don't pretend I'm a clean cyclist either. You should have seen the inside of my shorts that time the truck got too close! And I don't do drugs unless you count industrial quantities of caffeine, wine and Goji berries. And bacon. I certainly don't have a tab in Holland and Barrett or miss the start of races coz I couldn't swallow all the tablets. I'm a kid of the nineties so the only pills lying around are the ones mentioned in biographies I have of dead music icons.
Yes, cycling is a mad-cap world of potions, personalities and loneliness. I think I'm fairly sane. Throwing a leg over a bike keeps my mind clear even though the world of cycling is at best an odds-bodkin's realm of insanity! The best cyclists are the ones that can isolate themselves, train to absolute exhaustion, sleep a lot, shun society, abstain from alcohol or eating much and revel in pain. Crazy! So I'm sane because I don't tick six out of seven of those. And you're a little unstable because you've gone back to look at the list!
Come on. Join me for a spin in the rain tomorrow and I'll introduce you to the wacky racers! I'll throw in an oily espresso and if the sun comes out we can look at my silhouette....
Monday, August 27, 2018
Hogwart's
Teaching is an odd game. It's natural for quite a few young men to sit in front of you and not want to be there. Its the norm for either you or your subject to be disliked. Obviously many kids do like your style or are fascinated by the subject matter too.
In the coming days they'll filter back and it'll be funereal. And that's ok 'coz you were once that kid. Remember? The teacher that lectured rather than listen? The one that made the banal into something brilliant? Or the one that smelled of drink and ciggies and signed your journal with a bookies pencil? Personally I remember three teachers. And though I came to be an 'educationalist' late on, it was those three that were in my heart when I did teacher training.
The first was a Christian Brother who recognised a waywardness in me and allowed me access to the school on winter evenings. My family trusted him and trusted me. I'd knock on the door of the CBS monastery after tea and he'd give me the key to the huge 6th class room. There I'd feed the hamsters and budgies that were kept as pets by the class. Or fill the moulds with plaster to make nativity figurines. Or paint the ones that were ready. And I'd wash out the jars and brushes, or clean out a cage or two. In retrospect I felt lost at that age and heading back to school for an hour once or twice a week kept me busy and away from bad stuff that was available if I so desired. But the Christian Brother gave me the key and the space to grow. I'd think nothing of knocking on the door of the monastery in the lashing rain and he'd think nothing of opening the school for me.
A couple of years later I faced a middle aged man who could not, would not, break down what was for me a tough subject into something manageable. Made fun of my inability. And then he would boast of how caring and Christian he was compared to others.
And finally came the one that left an indelible mark on me. English and History. Time and patience to listen. A sense of humour. Indulgent of teen flights of fancy. I wrote and flourished.
But its all three that stuck in my mind as I struggled through college. I wanted to SEE kids that were struggling coz I should know what one looked like. I wanted to leave the door open for anyone who needed it. I didn't ever want to be the arrogant and aloof man looking down while pretending to look up. And History and English were going to be my tools, used while listening and encouraging.
Of course the world isn't as straightforward as that. I've met students for whom the only use for literature would be as toilet paper. I've walked into classes where friendliness was a sign of weakness. I've faced circuses filled with Neanderthal monkeys that were supposed to be pupils.
And yet I've had a table thrown at me by a student who's sister had cancer and not put it in the discipline system. I've had a pupil walk out of the middle of a soccer game just to talk to me. Tried to make an 800 year old church come to life for 30 thirteen year olds. I've shared my biggest fears and terrible sense of humour with thousands of kids and lived to tell the tale.
Now, the end of August. Nobody cares. It is true that no other profession allows 2-3 months of a complete switch off. But whats little known is the effect a teacher may or may not have on a young life. For good or for bad we can leave impressions that are carried like scars or remembered with rose-tinted glasses. Ask yourself whom you admired or hated when in school. Thats it. You remember. Can you remember how they spoke or how they treated you? Of course you do. Good or bad they taught you something.
Wish me luck!
In the coming days they'll filter back and it'll be funereal. And that's ok 'coz you were once that kid. Remember? The teacher that lectured rather than listen? The one that made the banal into something brilliant? Or the one that smelled of drink and ciggies and signed your journal with a bookies pencil? Personally I remember three teachers. And though I came to be an 'educationalist' late on, it was those three that were in my heart when I did teacher training.
The first was a Christian Brother who recognised a waywardness in me and allowed me access to the school on winter evenings. My family trusted him and trusted me. I'd knock on the door of the CBS monastery after tea and he'd give me the key to the huge 6th class room. There I'd feed the hamsters and budgies that were kept as pets by the class. Or fill the moulds with plaster to make nativity figurines. Or paint the ones that were ready. And I'd wash out the jars and brushes, or clean out a cage or two. In retrospect I felt lost at that age and heading back to school for an hour once or twice a week kept me busy and away from bad stuff that was available if I so desired. But the Christian Brother gave me the key and the space to grow. I'd think nothing of knocking on the door of the monastery in the lashing rain and he'd think nothing of opening the school for me.
A couple of years later I faced a middle aged man who could not, would not, break down what was for me a tough subject into something manageable. Made fun of my inability. And then he would boast of how caring and Christian he was compared to others.
And finally came the one that left an indelible mark on me. English and History. Time and patience to listen. A sense of humour. Indulgent of teen flights of fancy. I wrote and flourished.
But its all three that stuck in my mind as I struggled through college. I wanted to SEE kids that were struggling coz I should know what one looked like. I wanted to leave the door open for anyone who needed it. I didn't ever want to be the arrogant and aloof man looking down while pretending to look up. And History and English were going to be my tools, used while listening and encouraging.
Of course the world isn't as straightforward as that. I've met students for whom the only use for literature would be as toilet paper. I've walked into classes where friendliness was a sign of weakness. I've faced circuses filled with Neanderthal monkeys that were supposed to be pupils.
And yet I've had a table thrown at me by a student who's sister had cancer and not put it in the discipline system. I've had a pupil walk out of the middle of a soccer game just to talk to me. Tried to make an 800 year old church come to life for 30 thirteen year olds. I've shared my biggest fears and terrible sense of humour with thousands of kids and lived to tell the tale.
Now, the end of August. Nobody cares. It is true that no other profession allows 2-3 months of a complete switch off. But whats little known is the effect a teacher may or may not have on a young life. For good or for bad we can leave impressions that are carried like scars or remembered with rose-tinted glasses. Ask yourself whom you admired or hated when in school. Thats it. You remember. Can you remember how they spoke or how they treated you? Of course you do. Good or bad they taught you something.
Wish me luck!
Sunday, August 26, 2018
Bottled
I tried to get in touch with my feminine side once but she hung up. So, at the tender age of twenty, I began drinking large bottles of Guinness in an attempt to grow hair on my chest and to be manly in general. I got good at it too. I could drink a few bottles and still drive my motorbike home from Graignamanagh. Sure if you met the Guards back then you could switch off your lights, turn around, and disappear down a lane. I could drink 8 bottles over a night and cycle home high as a kite. But drink more than 8 and, like drinking chocolate, you'd suffer from a drowsiness akin to a sedative. So you'd either run down the main street in Graig on the bonnets/roofs/boots of the parked cars... or fall off your bike at the top of High street and get collected off the ground by your friend Daryl and brought home safely.
Why on earth am I telling you this?!! You see, today, at the ungodly hour of 6am I got up to go training. I had switched off the alarm while questioning my sanity. The rain outside seemed to be laying it down hard. Harder than a Gypsy's driveway anyway. But I consoled myself with the truth; training isn't a choice. So its raining hard? I am mentally driven to go out and nail my training. Its not a choice. You can miss the gym, miss Pilates, or aerobics, or the treadmill. I won't miss training.
So I killed my coffee and granola, dragged on enough layers to just about hide my identity, took a deep breath as I locked the front door behind me, and headed for the hills.
My real problem started with Smithwicks at 19. Smithwicks makes you wee a lot. They may now call it Red Ale but it still is a bladder beater. For me, I had to go every half pint or so. Thats grand until you go to your girlfriend's Grad. Try drinking steadily, attempting to get frisky and legging it to the toilet every 15 minutes. The girlfriend thought I wasn't interested in her. The toilet attendant thought I had a thing for him. It wasn't long before the rumour mill had me pinned as a bi-sexual philanderer with a drink problem.
So I'm cycling out to Graignamanagh at 7am, there's nothing but puddles, leaves and wind for company. Down a back road (that I would have used 30 years ago to avoid the Guards) I round a curve to hear the Phhhhfffft of a puncture. The rain is now HEAVY. Heavier than the atmosphere after midnight at that Grad.... I pull out the back wheel and begin searching for the flint or stone or whatever the culprit happened to be. Normally a miniscule item is to blame. Smaller than Trump's conscience. Not today. A massive piece of brown glass, invisible on the soaked road, has rendered my tyre and tube useless and nearly sliced the frame too. I step back in frustration. Step back and hear a crunch. More glass. I lift my foot and begin to see bits of broken glass everywhere. And a big piece with the Guinness label still attached. St James's gate under my cleats.
Its not 'til I'm riding home on the flat rim, crawling, thump, thump, thump, squelch... that my rage dissipates. Probably some kid drinking bottles of stout and acting the donkey dumped the bottle heading home. Down the back roads. Avoiding the Guards. Trying to stay awake. Can I really be angry? The kid didn't think he'd spoil my day, ruin my new tyre, get me soaked, score my wheel, or give extra business to my Local Bike Shop.
I had plenty of time to think about it as I hadn't made the call of shame. It wasn't even 8am. So I'd absolved whoever it was before I'd slopped into the hallway of my house a good while later.
The deluge stopped. I've changed the tyre and tube. I was about to crack open a beer but... well, something held me back.
Wednesday, August 8, 2018
Last blast.
50. It's a big number. I'm heading out tomorrow night to race my last ever Wexford league race. You know I'm in my 50th year. No big deal. But doing the maths it seems that I've participated in close to 50 of those races. Now THAT is significant. And I've only won a handful. Jeez Joe, that's not anything to write home about, I hear you say. But hold on a minute. Do you know what it takes? Me neither! At least, I didn't for ages! Let me explain!
To win (or survive) the league you must refuse. You need to refuse to think about anything but the win. That's far from straightforward. Cycling is chess on wheels. You race against clubs and individuals and conditions and your condition. You can be the strongest yet lose every week as you follow the wrong wheels, gamble on the wrong time to launch or stay or even let adrenaline guide you instead of the cold-blooded killer in your heart. You must refuse to race anyone's race but your own.
A good club can bring you to victory by doing all the work and shenanigans for you. This might allow you to ride easy and keep your reserves. Conversely, a club that lacks cohesion will burn energy and leave nothing for you to work off. Both times I won the league, half a dozen years apart, I found myself so well looked after by my club it became easy. On one occasion 8 years ago I was so well minded that I dropped my phone when reaching for a gel, stopped, retrieved it and got back up for the sprint.
But both times there was what the Spanish call a chispa, a spark. Years back I'd gotten such stick and abuse from the local cycling community after switching clubs that I'd trained harder than ever that winter. But I'd a restricted amount of training time. 70% of my sessions were short and sharp. And for the first time ever I'd incorporated serious, painful sprints. I didn't miss a weekly session from November to July. Once I let loose in the finishing straight....
Last year I'd gotten awesomely fit over the winter only to break my elbow at the end of January. The antibiotics killed me. I mean, I was back on the spin bike when I couldn't put my weight on my arm but my head was a ball of white noise. And I came back. I rang my coach Richie on the way home from my first win in the league last Summer and we laughed and nearly cried at our hard work and patience. Spark.
And both times I won the overall, the team were behind me like a strong breeze, making everything easier. The purple and gold jersey has always brought out the best in me.
Yet it was a couple of men I raced with elsewhere that taught me the basic maths. Frank o Rourke taught me that when I worked I should throw everything I had into the pot. And Stephen Kelly taught me (by continuously beating me) that riding smart is hard work with huge rewards.
I'm gonna miss the crazed, greyhound stadium mentality of a one hour race. Pretending not to hurt on either drag. Hiding until launch time, pretending not to be able/interested/motivated. Waiting for the strongest to waste energy or get caught out by an attacking team mate. I love the panic during attacks, those not wanting to work, the weak getting stretched, the strongest doing the damage. Not for the faint hearted.
So tomorrow is it. Years of chasing super fit humans all over the roads. Years of trying to out-think and out-gun all-comers. Years of cheer at the sign on, years of comeradeship and bitter rivalries, poker and defeat, bravado and bullishness contained in an hour.
How does it feel? Different. I've been around for a long time. I'm mentioned in the book of Genesis. Lately I've been hung up on compassion fatigue. I've run into hundreds of bicycle jockeys over time and always tried to be helpful and encouraging. Call it a family trait. Some appreciated it. Some didn't. It turns out that I've been doing this s##t for decades. Investing my time in other people's problems, trying to find solutions or the right words to help my fellow human beings along. Not everyone appreciates this. Isn't it human nature that we have preconceptions about others before we meet them? Or someone's opinion of you colours other's? I'm a give-a-damn kinda fella, I've had my ups and downs and flat-lines. Sure I've said the wrong thing or wouldn't tolerate a few fools to the point where its cost me friends or open doors. But I'm 50. I no longer care. I have some amazing friends in cycling. And I have many's respect. If I've not gotten on the right side of you then who's fault is that exactly? I think I've apologised to anyone that deserved it or you have graciously left me back into your world without a word and I thank you for it.
Compassion fatigue. I've smiled that crooked smile at a multitude. Said something funny to put you at ease. Time for someone else to do the same. Tomorrow I'll head out the road and soak up the atmosphere, take mental pictures all the way. And I'll race until I can't.
Then my friends... it's your turn.
To win (or survive) the league you must refuse. You need to refuse to think about anything but the win. That's far from straightforward. Cycling is chess on wheels. You race against clubs and individuals and conditions and your condition. You can be the strongest yet lose every week as you follow the wrong wheels, gamble on the wrong time to launch or stay or even let adrenaline guide you instead of the cold-blooded killer in your heart. You must refuse to race anyone's race but your own.
A good club can bring you to victory by doing all the work and shenanigans for you. This might allow you to ride easy and keep your reserves. Conversely, a club that lacks cohesion will burn energy and leave nothing for you to work off. Both times I won the league, half a dozen years apart, I found myself so well looked after by my club it became easy. On one occasion 8 years ago I was so well minded that I dropped my phone when reaching for a gel, stopped, retrieved it and got back up for the sprint.
But both times there was what the Spanish call a chispa, a spark. Years back I'd gotten such stick and abuse from the local cycling community after switching clubs that I'd trained harder than ever that winter. But I'd a restricted amount of training time. 70% of my sessions were short and sharp. And for the first time ever I'd incorporated serious, painful sprints. I didn't miss a weekly session from November to July. Once I let loose in the finishing straight....
Last year I'd gotten awesomely fit over the winter only to break my elbow at the end of January. The antibiotics killed me. I mean, I was back on the spin bike when I couldn't put my weight on my arm but my head was a ball of white noise. And I came back. I rang my coach Richie on the way home from my first win in the league last Summer and we laughed and nearly cried at our hard work and patience. Spark.
And both times I won the overall, the team were behind me like a strong breeze, making everything easier. The purple and gold jersey has always brought out the best in me.
Yet it was a couple of men I raced with elsewhere that taught me the basic maths. Frank o Rourke taught me that when I worked I should throw everything I had into the pot. And Stephen Kelly taught me (by continuously beating me) that riding smart is hard work with huge rewards.
I'm gonna miss the crazed, greyhound stadium mentality of a one hour race. Pretending not to hurt on either drag. Hiding until launch time, pretending not to be able/interested/motivated. Waiting for the strongest to waste energy or get caught out by an attacking team mate. I love the panic during attacks, those not wanting to work, the weak getting stretched, the strongest doing the damage. Not for the faint hearted.
So tomorrow is it. Years of chasing super fit humans all over the roads. Years of trying to out-think and out-gun all-comers. Years of cheer at the sign on, years of comeradeship and bitter rivalries, poker and defeat, bravado and bullishness contained in an hour.
How does it feel? Different. I've been around for a long time. I'm mentioned in the book of Genesis. Lately I've been hung up on compassion fatigue. I've run into hundreds of bicycle jockeys over time and always tried to be helpful and encouraging. Call it a family trait. Some appreciated it. Some didn't. It turns out that I've been doing this s##t for decades. Investing my time in other people's problems, trying to find solutions or the right words to help my fellow human beings along. Not everyone appreciates this. Isn't it human nature that we have preconceptions about others before we meet them? Or someone's opinion of you colours other's? I'm a give-a-damn kinda fella, I've had my ups and downs and flat-lines. Sure I've said the wrong thing or wouldn't tolerate a few fools to the point where its cost me friends or open doors. But I'm 50. I no longer care. I have some amazing friends in cycling. And I have many's respect. If I've not gotten on the right side of you then who's fault is that exactly? I think I've apologised to anyone that deserved it or you have graciously left me back into your world without a word and I thank you for it.
Compassion fatigue. I've smiled that crooked smile at a multitude. Said something funny to put you at ease. Time for someone else to do the same. Tomorrow I'll head out the road and soak up the atmosphere, take mental pictures all the way. And I'll race until I can't.
Then my friends... it's your turn.
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
Things that pass you by
Life is funny. There's a bunch of stuff you had on an adolescent bucket list that slipped your mind as you got older. And AMEN to that. Might have been the car, the girl, the house, the sporting triumph, the idyllic island holiday. You get the picture, right? Of course we might feel regret at not crossing off many of those targets that felt very important at the time. On the other hand, I do remember Garth Brooks lyrics from way back that are relevant. Now before you start lambasting me, I ain't no fan of country music. You don't have to wear a Stetson to have friends in low places and besides, isn't a hoe-down when your first girlfriend slips on chip-grease outside the kebabish at 3am?
No, Garth sang a slow song about thanking God for unanswered prayers. Of course, by buying his singles we were answering some of them. If you don't remember the tune, just hold a lighter in the air and close your eyes. I never dreamt about being a GAA star or even being fashionable. Rockstar? Nope. Rich? Nope. It never crossed my mind to dream big. But I did dream and say the odd prayer. And luckily, God had bigger stuff to be at! You know, famines, comforting the terminally ill, helping people face cancer or bereavement. Understandably, I was put out at the time.... Now I understand that the help I needed wasn't a big issue. God was telling me to figure it out for myself. Now, if you knew me 20 or more years ago you'll know I wasn't the fella with a blunt force trauma sense of humour or opinions, nor was I self-aware really. (Think cave man). So it took me forever to realise I had to make my own way, make decisions, make headway in life. Turns out it wasn't just blind luck or blind love that put me in relationships, although it might have kept me in them...!
I used to dream about sailing. Around the world. I couldn't tell the difference between a stern and a spinnaker but none-the-less I was going to learn to sail and make a living from it by writing about my adventures in Yachting Monthly. But I didn't. I've met the deck shoe and white-shirted world-sailors and I'm glad I didn't become that disconnected soul searching for a spiritual home.
I dreamt about being a pro cyclist in Belgium. The cold, the grit, the cut-and-thrust of hard races. The solitary warrior accepting the adulation of the crowd. God turned his back and rightly so. I had to figure out by myself that I loved cycling but I didn't have the ruthless streak or constitution to push myself far enough.
Similarly, the man upstairs let me navigate my way through a couple of caustic relationships, taught me valuable lessons by staying out of it.🙈
I may have drifted a little, I'm not terribly loyal, skirted around the edges, didn't suffer fools and still can't.
Then I woke up one morning in recent years to the realisation that certain things I have, ways I am, people I love... are here now because those countless dreams faded into countless dawns. Garth Brooks has had a second coming since for God's sake! I woke to realise that the bucket list of your youth is a bunch of post-its you throw away as life gets involved. I woke to realise that I have a bucket list that I wasn't always aware of. It's just that a number of good souls have kindly filled it in for me.👨👩👧👧
Jeez, when I think of sweating with worry alone in a bedsit, trying to work out how low I could go to keep someone loving me. Later replaced with the sweat of figuring out how to get away.🙊
Or dreaming of Belgian cobbled streets into the wee hours. Now I'm just stoked at getting to a league race or looking over ditches with my cycling buddies.🤘
And the love part? Lets just say a little thanks to the heavens that I don't teach in the Midlands now. Or I'm not an alcoholic lead-teacher in Madrid, waiting for rain, taking the strain. I really have so much to be thankful for. 💖
Still can't stand country music though. Line dancing? Where I grew up, the line came before the dancing!🐴
No, Garth sang a slow song about thanking God for unanswered prayers. Of course, by buying his singles we were answering some of them. If you don't remember the tune, just hold a lighter in the air and close your eyes. I never dreamt about being a GAA star or even being fashionable. Rockstar? Nope. Rich? Nope. It never crossed my mind to dream big. But I did dream and say the odd prayer. And luckily, God had bigger stuff to be at! You know, famines, comforting the terminally ill, helping people face cancer or bereavement. Understandably, I was put out at the time.... Now I understand that the help I needed wasn't a big issue. God was telling me to figure it out for myself. Now, if you knew me 20 or more years ago you'll know I wasn't the fella with a blunt force trauma sense of humour or opinions, nor was I self-aware really. (Think cave man). So it took me forever to realise I had to make my own way, make decisions, make headway in life. Turns out it wasn't just blind luck or blind love that put me in relationships, although it might have kept me in them...!
I used to dream about sailing. Around the world. I couldn't tell the difference between a stern and a spinnaker but none-the-less I was going to learn to sail and make a living from it by writing about my adventures in Yachting Monthly. But I didn't. I've met the deck shoe and white-shirted world-sailors and I'm glad I didn't become that disconnected soul searching for a spiritual home.
I dreamt about being a pro cyclist in Belgium. The cold, the grit, the cut-and-thrust of hard races. The solitary warrior accepting the adulation of the crowd. God turned his back and rightly so. I had to figure out by myself that I loved cycling but I didn't have the ruthless streak or constitution to push myself far enough.
Similarly, the man upstairs let me navigate my way through a couple of caustic relationships, taught me valuable lessons by staying out of it.🙈
I may have drifted a little, I'm not terribly loyal, skirted around the edges, didn't suffer fools and still can't.
Then I woke up one morning in recent years to the realisation that certain things I have, ways I am, people I love... are here now because those countless dreams faded into countless dawns. Garth Brooks has had a second coming since for God's sake! I woke to realise that the bucket list of your youth is a bunch of post-its you throw away as life gets involved. I woke to realise that I have a bucket list that I wasn't always aware of. It's just that a number of good souls have kindly filled it in for me.👨👩👧👧
Jeez, when I think of sweating with worry alone in a bedsit, trying to work out how low I could go to keep someone loving me. Later replaced with the sweat of figuring out how to get away.🙊
Or dreaming of Belgian cobbled streets into the wee hours. Now I'm just stoked at getting to a league race or looking over ditches with my cycling buddies.🤘
And the love part? Lets just say a little thanks to the heavens that I don't teach in the Midlands now. Or I'm not an alcoholic lead-teacher in Madrid, waiting for rain, taking the strain. I really have so much to be thankful for. 💖
Still can't stand country music though. Line dancing? Where I grew up, the line came before the dancing!🐴
Saturday, July 21, 2018
Spain for me
Ah Spain. It was only while sitting at a shaded barbeque demolishing Argentinian beef and roasted peppers that it hit me. We were finally relaxed. All the carnage of previous months had disappeared in a cloud of charcoal smoke, well-cooked steak aromas and the plick plick of Cruz Campo beer tinnies opening. I'd gotten on a plane 24 hours after my last race, visited everything worth seeing on the Costa del Sol and exhaled.
Yes the sun shone in Ireland. But its not getting away. Its not watching the world cup with an 86 year old Dutchman drinking G+Ts and talking about DeValera. It's not meatballs and kidneys for supper. It's not a world of back stories by the pool.
And the wine flowed too. I can float like a seal in the pool as good as any. Sun myself like a hide in a tannery. But mid-holiday I laced up the sneakers and ran along the seafront. My mentality of reading and rioja gradually softened to a sauna run at midday followed by a cool beer. I'd run as far as the Marbella club, drip sweat on their 5 star carpet, then turn for home. Slow, painful mission accomplished. Then the struggle back up the hill. But passing half-cut beach revellers, bloated lunchers and the idle rich as I ran, gave me an incredible feeling.
Days later I found myself cycling with Carlos, a fine tri-athlete from Madrid. We tested ourselves on all the climbs, often over and over. Before breakfast. Istan with it's twists and warm winds, snakes and Reservoir. Ojen, Monda and Alhauren el Grande with it's Don Quixote hilltops and windmills. And once I braved the San Pedro traffic alone to climb the madrono, a lonely, buzzard-crowded series of ramps up to the heavens. I kissed my rented Bianchi at the top, threw the knees out on the long, sweeping bends and waved at the melon vendors on the lower slopes. Outside the exorbitant golf clubs stood Spanish gypsies selling small buckets of golf balls, lost by foreign golfers daily and collected up nightly. Sprints by the coast, coffee spin to the yacht basin. Ah Spain.
Of course there was a Paella cooked by the neighbours to keep us fuelled you understand....
The miles took away the guilt of tapas and of beer literally cheaper than water.
So I'm thinking of putting a bike together and leaving it in Marbella so every now and then I can exhale....
Late on in the holiday, bike returned, sneakers moth balled, I was staring from a sand dune in Tarifa at Africa only a dozen miles away. The layers of mountains that ran through Spain in folds...the Sierras...dipped at the straights of Gibraltar and resurfaced in Morocco as the Atlas mountains. I've been in Spain nearly twenty times now and last week was the first time I realised that those mountains are me. Are all of us. I'll have to come back again to discover more. Wanna join me?
Yes the sun shone in Ireland. But its not getting away. Its not watching the world cup with an 86 year old Dutchman drinking G+Ts and talking about DeValera. It's not meatballs and kidneys for supper. It's not a world of back stories by the pool.
And the wine flowed too. I can float like a seal in the pool as good as any. Sun myself like a hide in a tannery. But mid-holiday I laced up the sneakers and ran along the seafront. My mentality of reading and rioja gradually softened to a sauna run at midday followed by a cool beer. I'd run as far as the Marbella club, drip sweat on their 5 star carpet, then turn for home. Slow, painful mission accomplished. Then the struggle back up the hill. But passing half-cut beach revellers, bloated lunchers and the idle rich as I ran, gave me an incredible feeling.
Days later I found myself cycling with Carlos, a fine tri-athlete from Madrid. We tested ourselves on all the climbs, often over and over. Before breakfast. Istan with it's twists and warm winds, snakes and Reservoir. Ojen, Monda and Alhauren el Grande with it's Don Quixote hilltops and windmills. And once I braved the San Pedro traffic alone to climb the madrono, a lonely, buzzard-crowded series of ramps up to the heavens. I kissed my rented Bianchi at the top, threw the knees out on the long, sweeping bends and waved at the melon vendors on the lower slopes. Outside the exorbitant golf clubs stood Spanish gypsies selling small buckets of golf balls, lost by foreign golfers daily and collected up nightly. Sprints by the coast, coffee spin to the yacht basin. Ah Spain.
Of course there was a Paella cooked by the neighbours to keep us fuelled you understand....
The miles took away the guilt of tapas and of beer literally cheaper than water.
So I'm thinking of putting a bike together and leaving it in Marbella so every now and then I can exhale....
Late on in the holiday, bike returned, sneakers moth balled, I was staring from a sand dune in Tarifa at Africa only a dozen miles away. The layers of mountains that ran through Spain in folds...the Sierras...dipped at the straights of Gibraltar and resurfaced in Morocco as the Atlas mountains. I've been in Spain nearly twenty times now and last week was the first time I realised that those mountains are me. Are all of us. I'll have to come back again to discover more. Wanna join me?
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