Christmas caution.

Remember your first bike? Bet you it was Christmas. Shiney steed taking your breath away. You couldn't wait to take it outside and be instantly fast, skilled and superhuman. But it was still dark out. In the meantime you pulled the brake levers over and over, watched the cam action of the brake on the still rim. Or wheeled it backwards to hear it click. Oh joy. Then we all grew up. Gone is that President BMX. But the freedom and independence associated with it has stayed with us. We don't wait for Christmas anymore to buy cycling jewellery, however, Christmas is a super time for cyclists. Its a pivot point. We've either done the donkey work of late Autumn and early Winter and are looking forward to a gulp of claret and a gob-full of Turkey as a well deserved bonus for going training to bank miles. OR...we are going to put in a huge training camp over the Christmas holidays, see the kids at bed time and stagger into January with a thousand k in the legs and our hopes still alive. Either way its central to a racing cyclists life. We will hope to sneak out and put in a Tinkoff training camp. Just not in the Canaries. But its similar, if you leave out the tan-lines, subtract the warmth, the different scenery and of course the care of a professional squad. Here in Ireland over Christmas we can have the same-ish, complete with muck spots in our ears, raw skin from exposure, the same dead roads as always and a quick rub from the village idiot with the poteen for 'medicinal' purposes. Almost pro. And the food; low-loaders full of sprouts,[gotta have the greens] ample turkey, [great protein and good fats], spuds [enuf said], mince pies, [perfect rear-pocket ,mid-ride fillers], pudding with custard, [no good reason but to hell with it!]. All great fitness foods. Its the chocolates, the biscuits, the Catholic guilt of our youth that says we will let the mammy down by not eating our children's weight in toffee/ fudge/ quality street or Christmas cake that does the damage. No point having the post-fasted-Christmas-morning-ride followed by a infant-sized fistful of perfectly wrapped little toffee bowel-blockers. I blame the church. Being good to your neighbour, treating everyone equally is what its all about. Last year's sherry, tumblers of whiskey, vineyard's of wine, six packs of Galahad. We all just want to make everyone welcome at our door. Its in our Irish nature to force our Muslim neighbours two doors up to 'try' Jameson. To cajole diabetic Aunty Bidser into a few handfuls of Heroes [few being code for a kilo]. God help your vegetarian friend being fed a nut-roast drowned in meat gravy 'to make it feel real' or anyone in your kitchen without a plate/glass/platter/bottle/magnum in their hand to busy them. And this is where us cyclists blur the edges between lean and gristle. We have to look out for ourselves. Its not cool to hear our arteries hardening as we eat a supper of foie gras and port, even if we think we have trained hard enough for it. Its nice to try tipples without actually meeting Santa Maria in person, moving to live at Chateau Neuf du Pape, settling in Bordeaux, having Sangre de Toro running in your veins or drinking Prosecco coz it has 'Pro' in the title. No, we have to abstain, watch others develop Bisto for blood, believe that Fergus down the road will be doing his annual Ullrich X-mas while you imagine yourself as a svelte little elf in the off-season. To nail it altogether you need to cycle on Christmas Day. Get up early, tell the inconsolable kids that you won't be long and get the hell out the door. I remember a few years ago cycling near Culmullin in Meath and seeing a kid open his presents on the kitchen table as I went by in the half light. Bah humbug, I really wanted the scalp of the racer dude that lived in Kilcloon, the village that time forgot. He always beat me. I passed his house in the 53, hoping he would see me and feel very threatened for the upcoming events. He was not there. I spent the return leg thinking about where he could be. I persuaded myself he was in Lanzarote. Ba***rd! Ruined my Christmas. In hindsight he was probably just around at the Ma's. But miles done on Christmas day are sacred. Not for the feint-hearted. Men have been destroyed by those miles. Or at least the psychotic partners they face upon their return! So you get in the miles, hopefully with company and hit New Year's humming like a fridge in the middle of the night. You have avoided the hamper-porn, the brandy butter that nobody compus mentus would touch, you won't even kiss anyone under a mistletoe in case you pick up a bug. You have done it! Survived your body's neanderthal want to shut down and hibernate like a shaven-legged brown bear. You have in fact, dodged nature's strength at it's best. You are a survivor of the most vicious season of all, an Irish Christmas and it's lead-up. Only a cyclist could have the stubbornness to go against the tide of pub-goers, Winter-pound-putter-on-ers and voracity of a rampant Granny forcing cake onto your plate. But really, balance is the key. Not trying to balance your drunken physique up a stairs, not balancing a plate of sprouts in one hand and as many Ferrero Rocher in the other. Just balance. One mince pie = one hour on the bike. Half a Turkey's arse with stuffing = two hours of Sufferfest. Bottle of vino = 100km steady. But isn't it nice to pig out in order to justify more time out on your bike? Season's Greetings fellow tight-rope walkers!