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.💙
Saturday, September 15, 2018
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....
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