Barney

I'm a dinosaur. I belong in the Jurassic period, 65 million years ago. Or at least I belong with hairy-nosed old men in shebeens drinking whiskey and talking about the grain of hurleys. Or maybe I'm a scab-kneed troglodyte building a stone wall up a Donegal hillside many millenia ago? That's how I felt at 7am this morning. Stepped out the front door, locked it behind me and saw frost. 1 degree on the Garmin. And out popped my inner cave dweller. I shrugged and said feckit. So I'm wearing fingerless gloves and a smile as I drop down the hill to the river. And I realise it's VERY cold. Tips of my fingers like McCain oven chips. Nether regions shrinking away. By the time I'm on the quayside you could use my nipples as coat hooks.
And that inner chimp whispered something in my ear about Stephen Roche. Our intrepid Tour de France winner used to start his winter training on January first with no gloves. It helped him "toughen up "!!!!!

In my mind some caveman set foot outside and went to kill lunch. He was probably wearing the equivalent of 3 or 4 roadkills and a beard. Cold? What cold? Must kill dinner or die.

I felt like that. To hell with gloves. So I felt a little Cold? So my butt resembles ALDI frozen turkey crown? Just get on with it!

See? A dinosaur!

But it goes further. It must have been the spin to Hook lighthouse but I thought a lot about how far I've come yet stayed in the past.

I still eat bananas out training and racing. A pocket full of them. I can't be dealing with bars that taste like squirrel and bubble gum. Likewise gels. Like licking a sweet shop counter, those things stick like gorilla glue to everything. And God forbid if you pocket the empty wrapper. They ooze into the corners of your jersey, needing a crowbar to remove the goo.

And for millions of years we've eaten what we could hunt and gather and farm. What must our colons be thinking when we pour factory-made, chemical-tasting artificiality down our gullets? Besides, Mick Finn says you should never trust yourself to pass wind after 9 gels and 100km.

Similarly with technology. I've seen too many cyclists with bikes worth ten grand but no clue about wind direction or positioning. And I've seen a few dudes this year on bikes that amount to shopping trolleys making fools of lads cycling on mortgages. Call me ancient but I've always raced on something I could replace. And as for power meters and wattage? I always admired those who used technology to advance up the ranks. But isn't there a huge number of watt-heads and power punks that can't win a point despite all their technology? I think there's a lot of snake oil out there to add to your diet but a hearty helping of road-hunger is the only sustenance you need.

Do I need blood tests and this year's supplement? Nope. Just common sense and a bike to ride.

I must be old school. I just need a slate and a stick of chalk to chart my progress. Apps and graphs just bore me.

I guess I should just shuffle off now, drag my knuckles on the ground, get a chain-stain on my calf and head off into the dusk to hunt miles. I'll be doing laps of Jurassic park if you need me.