Where to start? Why at the beginning of course!! Twenty years ago I rode up to oylegate to a five mile time trial with my best mate Adrian and won the bloody thing! It was only five miles but.... Well there's a lot of buts. But it began a sequence of local and national races that were my happy times. Today I rode the same event as a last hurrah but in the intervening years my life has been enriched beyond belief by cycling's incredible people and events. Stuff I remember in the wee hours. Up to that point two decades ago I was a drifter. Emotionally and physically I did what felt right rather than what was just right. A couple of years as a bike messenger for example, meant more than years of cycling dreams and lack of direction.
It took until three or four years ago to stop dreaming about my courier days. I wonder now will I spend midnight hours thinking over races? Maybe. But it's more the people isn't it? We've all met those that had a profound effect on us. I don't have enough space in a blog to scribe a list from my life. How about a sample?
Pat Dobbs is someone I'll always have affection for. Some may have seen us as rivals but I only remember both of us getting down to work and killing everyone around us from start line to finish line. I can't recall both of us ever contesting the sharp end of a race with many left around us. Full gas, to my mind was invented by myself and Pat. I don't think we knew that southeast cycling was taking off as we raced but I know there's a cohort of damn fine cyclists still knocking about from those times. Pat threw everything at me. He would attack anywhere. It was like he had read the manual on 'how to break your rival's'. He taught me a lot about unpredictability and the element of surprise. And that has won me races.
Mizgajski. My Polish mate is a triple espresso in life. He'll get your heart rate up through effort or laughter or a coffee stop. That Eastern European no-bullshit frame of mind is something I relate to. And the sarcasm. In the ten years we randomly trained or raced together he helped me develop as a rider. We shared awesome training rides... white outs in the snow, job-risking recon rides in far-flung counties and raids on races (with one-day licences) I'll never forget. Dominating league races or training for awesome things... Miz has the vision. And training NEVER got cancelled. Boonen said "sometimes you don't need a plan you just need big balls". He was talking about Marcin Mizgajski.
And what about that Adrian from the time trial? We used to cycle in school. Not TO school. IN school! And while the years may have come and gone Adrian has been a cycling icon. The first to have a power-meter. First to build bikes too. He is a mechanic too, with more than 30 years experience. He has taken his spannering with him to international races on road and track. Oh, and he has cycled in just about any European terrain you might dream about. He is an icon because holistically he has achieved more than any cyclist I know. If he wasn't riding in it he was mechanic at it or organising it or integral in some way. The time might be long gone when we shared his Mum's Christmas cake on Mt Leinster in the Spring or tackled the Muur in Geraardsbergen together but if there's someone in my cycling sphere that has done it all while under the radar, it's Adrian.
And there's the anonymous. Anyone that waved at me while headed the other way on lonesome country roads. Anyone that let my handlebars into spaces in races that a surgeon couldn't work with. The old people that spoke to me while they herded cattle across the road or said something nice at a shop counter instead of reverting too easily to hurling/football/ignorance mode. I have to remember the countless faces that looked disappointed in bars and restaurants, on buses and in shops when they asked me what my favourite sport happened to be. Favourite??? And I'd have to explain how my heart rate rose and my serotonin spiked when I even thought about cycling. And then I lost them.... Funny that. Countless dead conversations.And I guess I have to think of those that gave me space on the road instead of a space in a graveyard.
Of course there's a cast of characters that made my time in cycle racing a truly awesome production; The protagonists [both heroes and villains alike] and the background staff that often got me ready for my role with a focussed sound bite or wardrobe change. All I know as I get older is that behind most of us that share that road-hunger lie incredible stories. Some awesome, some harrowing, some from the darkest places. All awe-inspiring. Those who shared the stories behind the race face I salute. Those that listened to mine, Chapeau! You know who you are.
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Sunday, October 7, 2018
Barney
I'm a dinosaur. I belong in the Jurassic period, 65 million years ago. Or at least I belong with hairy-nosed old men in shebeens drinking whiskey and talking about the grain of hurleys. Or maybe I'm a scab-kneed troglodyte building a stone wall up a Donegal hillside many millenia ago? That's how I felt at 7am this morning. Stepped out the front door, locked it behind me and saw frost. 1 degree on the Garmin. And out popped my inner cave dweller. I shrugged and said feckit. So I'm wearing fingerless gloves and a smile as I drop down the hill to the river. And I realise it's VERY cold. Tips of my fingers like McCain oven chips. Nether regions shrinking away. By the time I'm on the quayside you could use my nipples as coat hooks.
And that inner chimp whispered something in my ear about Stephen Roche. Our intrepid Tour de France winner used to start his winter training on January first with no gloves. It helped him "toughen up "!!!!!
In my mind some caveman set foot outside and went to kill lunch. He was probably wearing the equivalent of 3 or 4 roadkills and a beard. Cold? What cold? Must kill dinner or die.
I felt like that. To hell with gloves. So I felt a little Cold? So my butt resembles ALDI frozen turkey crown? Just get on with it!
See? A dinosaur!
But it goes further. It must have been the spin to Hook lighthouse but I thought a lot about how far I've come yet stayed in the past.
I still eat bananas out training and racing. A pocket full of them. I can't be dealing with bars that taste like squirrel and bubble gum. Likewise gels. Like licking a sweet shop counter, those things stick like gorilla glue to everything. And God forbid if you pocket the empty wrapper. They ooze into the corners of your jersey, needing a crowbar to remove the goo.
And for millions of years we've eaten what we could hunt and gather and farm. What must our colons be thinking when we pour factory-made, chemical-tasting artificiality down our gullets? Besides, Mick Finn says you should never trust yourself to pass wind after 9 gels and 100km.
Similarly with technology. I've seen too many cyclists with bikes worth ten grand but no clue about wind direction or positioning. And I've seen a few dudes this year on bikes that amount to shopping trolleys making fools of lads cycling on mortgages. Call me ancient but I've always raced on something I could replace. And as for power meters and wattage? I always admired those who used technology to advance up the ranks. But isn't there a huge number of watt-heads and power punks that can't win a point despite all their technology? I think there's a lot of snake oil out there to add to your diet but a hearty helping of road-hunger is the only sustenance you need.
Do I need blood tests and this year's supplement? Nope. Just common sense and a bike to ride.
I must be old school. I just need a slate and a stick of chalk to chart my progress. Apps and graphs just bore me.
I guess I should just shuffle off now, drag my knuckles on the ground, get a chain-stain on my calf and head off into the dusk to hunt miles. I'll be doing laps of Jurassic park if you need me.
And that inner chimp whispered something in my ear about Stephen Roche. Our intrepid Tour de France winner used to start his winter training on January first with no gloves. It helped him "toughen up "!!!!!
In my mind some caveman set foot outside and went to kill lunch. He was probably wearing the equivalent of 3 or 4 roadkills and a beard. Cold? What cold? Must kill dinner or die.
I felt like that. To hell with gloves. So I felt a little Cold? So my butt resembles ALDI frozen turkey crown? Just get on with it!
See? A dinosaur!
But it goes further. It must have been the spin to Hook lighthouse but I thought a lot about how far I've come yet stayed in the past.
I still eat bananas out training and racing. A pocket full of them. I can't be dealing with bars that taste like squirrel and bubble gum. Likewise gels. Like licking a sweet shop counter, those things stick like gorilla glue to everything. And God forbid if you pocket the empty wrapper. They ooze into the corners of your jersey, needing a crowbar to remove the goo.
And for millions of years we've eaten what we could hunt and gather and farm. What must our colons be thinking when we pour factory-made, chemical-tasting artificiality down our gullets? Besides, Mick Finn says you should never trust yourself to pass wind after 9 gels and 100km.
Similarly with technology. I've seen too many cyclists with bikes worth ten grand but no clue about wind direction or positioning. And I've seen a few dudes this year on bikes that amount to shopping trolleys making fools of lads cycling on mortgages. Call me ancient but I've always raced on something I could replace. And as for power meters and wattage? I always admired those who used technology to advance up the ranks. But isn't there a huge number of watt-heads and power punks that can't win a point despite all their technology? I think there's a lot of snake oil out there to add to your diet but a hearty helping of road-hunger is the only sustenance you need.
Do I need blood tests and this year's supplement? Nope. Just common sense and a bike to ride.
I must be old school. I just need a slate and a stick of chalk to chart my progress. Apps and graphs just bore me.
I guess I should just shuffle off now, drag my knuckles on the ground, get a chain-stain on my calf and head off into the dusk to hunt miles. I'll be doing laps of Jurassic park if you need me.
Saturday, September 15, 2018
The circus is leaving town
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.💙
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.💙
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.
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