Ready steady Eddie

Flashbacks.
Tyres pumped so hard before a time trial we couldn't make the slightest impression upon them.
Blue blazer wearing commissaire holding us back at the start of a race, keeping us warm in the midday chill by poking fun at all of us.
Meeting him at the zoo with his daughter and him being such a family man.
Ah yes. Eddie Tobin.
Every time I think of him there's sunlight. Apt then that I rode my last Eddie Tobin memorial race today in beautiful sunshine. Clean, perfect, kingdom-of-heaven sunshine. Was talking about him as I sat in the shade before the race. Sat like a poncho wearing Mexican. 24 degrees by God! Yup, Eddie was about, a divilish smile as we clicked in and rode out. He would have smiled too at the faces around the races. A bunch of folk that would have known him.
So where do I come into it? Well I don't really. I raced, I raced well. I've learned. It took a while. Three decades give or take. I did everything right but didn't bother the top ten. You know those old newsreels of nuclear explosions in Nevada? That was me at 75 measly metres from the line. Gone from the podium to needing Imodium in the blink of an eye. The writing isn't just on the wall, it's graffiti on my soul at this point. "Go home old timer!" or "this is a young man's game!". Yup, graffiti. As if Banksy himself was getting anxsty with my presence.
As a result this season has felt like a farewell tour of sorts. I'm saying goodbye to the people that formed me. Some of them,to our loss,have races called after them. I'm saying goodbye too to the people that race with me now. Very young to very wise.... And those that don't know I exist; those weekend gods I've always admired from afar.(Not in a weird way, just wanting to BE them rather than BEAT them.)
And in the last while all of those I've started out with or clashed with or met or lost have whittled down to a few that actually know me. Thats not as brutal as it sounds. Let's face it, cycling is a solitary pursuit. So we might turn up like Roman gladiators to do battle on odd sundays but otherwise we are... well... hermits. We hide away, use cycling as our spiritual waypoint, and do a very violent and contrived, nasty and physical mass of a Sunday. Imagine it! A cyclist's Sunday service is one where we lie, outsmart and rejoice in the beating of our fellow human beings!
So for me to call a few people REAL friends that know me isn't so terrible. I also realise I'm a good person. Every human is questionable, however, cycling mixed with the crazy sh##e of life of late has taught me that I'm ok.
And full circle brought me via Eddie and a galaxy of superb human beings over 3 decades of falling in and out of love with my chosen sport. So I feel like a stoned Californian with a spliff in hand on the beach at Aya Napa... I've found myself. By losing myself in the fellowship of the chainring.





Ah hold on a minute. Even by my poor standards, that's a cop out.
What's the moral of the story? I'm kicking on 50 years old. Great if I'm a Ruby Port. I'm not. Today I raced against people 31 years younger. Want me to repeat that? And the dude at the roadside with the broken collarbone? It's all fun and games until someone can't go to work. I don't bounce like I used to do. Time is in shorter supply than morals in the Dail. I thought I could juggle but I make Bobo the clown look pro. The kids like having me around. It's time to hang up the wheels. Figuratively, as they are nice wheels and would be wasted on a wall. And as all this is happening, I've been surrounded by the coolest people on planet earth. Fact.