Mercatone uno

I doubt Marco Pantani was well impressed with Joe Rossiter when he slid past him and into the team camper van outside Dublin Castle in 1998. Its not like he would have thought "Wow, skinny feckers them Irish..." would he? I, on the other hand, was mesmerised by the diminutive climber. I mean he was just tiny. Tiny. Likewise Fernando Escartin the Spanish Kelme rider with the hook nose of Coppi. I wished him good luck in Spanish and he too was smaller than any good-sized chorizo I'd ever eaten in Madrid. They were heading for a team hotel after the Tour presentation for a good rest and an IV while I was plodding off with my pals to Temple Bar for Guinness and Tayto crisps. I know I'll never be that small or powerful or lean or talented but it just struck home today what damage I might have to undo just to be average.
As I said, Marbella in August was my Winter break. Add a slightly lax week of personal celebration after securing the local league and I now have a gut. Doing a new skinsuit justice is gonna take either a good tailor, surgery or a bucket-load of training starting tomorrow. Sobriety isn't always a given but its going to have to be from now on. And the watershed on TV is mimicked in my personal life by a similar limit. After 10pm if still awake...well, put on Liam Neeson's voice in Taken and picture me in a darkened kitchen talking to biscuits..."I will find you..." etc.
There's two things I can't afford to do any longer. Not training for any length of time is carcinogenic to my body. And a lack of sleep is my nemesis. I start back training tomorrow to shock my system. That's that. And so long as I get 5 hours of sleep a night I can in cycling terms only, keep going like Ron Jeremy.
I feel 'hungry for road' too. Still motivated. I know that putting in the miles will sort both moobs and mood at the same time. The only hormones my body may produce in common with Marco and Fernando will be serotonin and growth hormone but at least they won't be administered by a shady doctor in a hotel room. And in present circumstances where I'm not getting a lot of sleep due to stress, I could do with that Seratonin. Catch 22. The upside is I'm back to health. I can go cycling. Speaking to the Barber today, turns out he snapped his leg at his 50th Birthday party and won't ever ski again, a past time he is passionate about. And there's the dudes that go straight to pub or off-licence at the end of every working day to start the second shift...the one to oblivion. At least I pulled the halter before that beast had bolted.
I'm a lucky kid to be where I am, I just have to convince my body to tag along.

Glutton intolerant

God almighty. So the gluten-free diet died a death after a few days. Beige food that tastes like a Cornflakes box and hard-bread alternatives that resemble beef jerky just ain't me. Likewise the wine instead of beer approach. I'd rather have a light beer occasionally rather than a bottle of wine that renders me comatose. Now if only I could stop impulse buying tortilla chips and family bars of Fruit and Nut chocolate, or, for that matter...eating anything resembling a sin, it would be great.
I'm at an age where every dietary mistake makes seeing my shoes less likely. If I race my bike I'm up against kids possessing the metabolisms of a rocket launcher. Their bodies haven't known stress, their minds are free of worries and they are as fresh as sushi. I on the other hand sometimes need a glass of wine to decompress. I have bills and kids and commitments. Food is often a Xanax alternative. I'm telling you...the odds are stacked.
Approaching fifty has left me with a few scars. A 32-inch waist is becoming a luxury. There's more grey-hair growth from my ears and nose than anywhere else. I'm beginning to grunt getting up from the sofa. 'Older' people seem to know my name. I could be a grandfather. I spend tea-breaks talking about aches and pains. I see problems as chores rather than challenges. I'd more easily unfriend rather than befriend. Actually, I must be a right old pain to be around.
So is it possible to reverse the effects of nature? No, but can't I keep on laughing, keep on pushing myself physically, try to fool myself into believing I'm younger than I am as long as possible? Some people are born being a forty-nine year old. Thankfully that has never been me. Damned if Spelt bread, couscous and mouse-shit flavoured Ryvita will change that either.

Gloves off

Sitting in Ardkeen yesterday as the nurse picked staples out of my elbow, [now christened Frankenstein],{The elbow, not the nurse!] it occurred to me that it's been a tough year. Waaay too much going on to get into here but its been a nightmare. And it also occurred to me that if I didn't have bike racing to look forward to, or training to do regularly, I'd be in a bad place. Once those staples were out I knew I wanted to go racing. I needed to retrieve something for myself by racing and I needed to repay a hell of a lot of people for parking their time to look after me in whatever capacity. As it turned out it was good fun and well worth the pain. I'd had my Winter break in August, reading 'til the wee hours on the balcony every night accompanied by a vineyard. Then straight to hospital upon my return for the op to unwire my elbow to return it to full motion. Bloody anaesthetic. Not my friend at all. Then tentative steps on the turbo. Not a friend of mine either. Four hasty road spins of dubious duration and there I was in Camross, league hingeing on me getting a single point but feeling like I wouldn't get that unless I was the only entrant. Tom Simpson once put a deposit on an extremely expensive car. Something to aim for. He had to race and work hard to get the car. I'm not Tommy so I just told my team mates I'd get that point. Something to aim for. I was forcing myself to go for it regardless of the fact that on the way back from hospital the devil on my left shoulder that said don't go racing was knocking ten bells of crap out of the angel on my right. I took a leaf out of Zippy Doyle's pre-race primer and filled myself with so much espresso my passport would have read Ethiopian/Kenyan blend under Nationality. I wore my skinsuit but had to put a jersey on top because Camross exists in a micro-climate labelled unpredictable. After 10 kilometres I wanted to vomit/stop/sell my bike/feign a puncture/ease myself out the back and hide in a field. But every time I looked around a friendly club mate would ask how I was. And going through the finish I had David and Sean looking at me. Two guys that had given up swathes of time to let us have a regular run-out. I'd like to say I was out to show the purple and gold to it's full lustre but really I hoped to survive and get around without catching my tongue between brake block and front rim.
And then I came round. Thought the least I could do was a long range sprint to lead out any of my team that wanted a free ride to the line. Funny then that I ended up watching Street Outlaws at midnight last night. Its about street racing and that's exactly what materialised 500 metres out last night. I was getting ready to go when my friend Hughy got the jump on me 50 metres early. Mark Cavendish or Peter Sagan will tell you every tiny detail of a sprint. I'm not them but in what felt like 20 minutes of a sprint last evening I was looking at it like it wasn't me. Hugh on the left torqueing it down, myself on the right talking it up. Both of us hitting the nitrous and waiting for the end of the world's longest quarter mile. I just hoped my club mates were on my coat tails and they were. I needed a point. I got two. First four in the bunch sprint were Wexford Wheelers. And one up the road. Sweet as! Moral of the story? Sometimes you are better off sticking at it although everything points at failure.