NFTO

I have to admit you need a beautiful day once in a while to remind you why you put in so much effort, steal time, feel pain and stay focussed in cycling. And why we give up the bikkies and crisps and the like. Mentally and physically I crashed after racing last weekend and I found myself wallowing in Pringles and Merlot. I was losing the head. Tired and drained. But my Sunday spin was gonna happen. I did however, park my Thursday/Friday/Saturday training. How could you not go cycling after seeing the men of the Ras the day before in Inistioge? The ghosts of seven-straight-days-racing.So I ghosted out of town in the mist well before eight in the morning and felt the warmth of the sun after only fifteen minutes. It was gonna be a good one. Scooting along through the winding country of Rathnure and Kiltealy on the way to Bunclody [Wexford's answer to Pau] I had to face my fears. I was either going to be a car wreck and have to make the call of shame whilst sitting in a ditch somewhere, head in my hands, or, not admit defeat, have a shot at each ramp on Mt Leinster and go home smiling at my laboured breathing. Lo and behold, it was the latter!I rode the early 25 miles steadily and washed all the acrid shite out of my legs to the point where I felt good. Like awesome good. There was a time I'd do the early ramps and promptly calve. But in recent years I'd spent most of June in Bunclody working and regularly ran 5km up and back at lunchtime. So in my mind the hill was do-able. I got over my fear. And the sun and light airs helped, like a gentle hand to guide me. And its the view. The valley to the left is just...well...Alpine. I could sit and look across the slopes all day. That last 5k before the turn left near the Corrabutt gave me a pleasant crick in my neck. And I found the hump to the carpark easy. I didn't get any K.O.M.s but I sweated buckets like strava lava.####################################################################### However, this is all just a preamble. We all think we are kings when we can stomp on the pedals and have a 'no-chain' day. At least I did yesterday until I passed another cyclist down by the grids while descending the Behemoth. I dropped to the valley floor 'like a snot' as I was told later. I stopped to pick up a bottle jettisoned the day before in the Ras. It was a red NFTO bottle, Not For The Ordinary. How apt. The other cyclist caught up. 40 year old steel bike. 30mm tubs. 72 year-old rider. He had ridden from Shillelagh [?] and was out for a seven hour ride to prep for an Eroica event in England soon after doing the Italian original in the past. I was completely humbled. All of a sudden I realised that there I was killing myself all day, pushing the envelope, pushing my body, pushing my senses to be better. Yet here was this older version of me, a real character, who had it right. He too was soaking up the beautiful day, pushing his limits too. Just not the tunnel-vision limits I'd been nudging. To me ,what he was doing was sublime.################################# I left him and headed for home under the viaduct in Borris realising all my reasoning throughout the last 8 months about giving up racing was sound and sensible. Im still me, I'm still a cyclist with goals. But they are changing. I've done Flanders and have a fascination about Roubaix to satisfy yet. And I'll do the dolomites, Alps and Pyrenees too, please God, in the near future. I'll still be happy cycling. I know because I met myself in the valley below Mt Leinster yesterday and I enjoyed the company.