Hogwart's

Teaching is an odd game. It's natural for quite a few young men to sit in front of you and not want to be there. Its the norm for either you or your subject to be disliked. Obviously many kids do like your style or are fascinated by the subject matter too.
In the coming days they'll filter back and it'll be funereal. And that's ok 'coz you were once that kid. Remember? The teacher that lectured rather than listened? The one that made the banal into something brilliant? Or the one that smelled of drink and ciggies and signed your journal with a bookies pencil? Personally I remember three teachers. And though I came to be an 'educationalist' late on, it was those three that were in my heart when I did teacher training.

The first was a Christian Brother who recognised a waywardness in me and allowed me access to the school on winter evenings. My family trusted him and trusted me. I'd knock on the door of the CBS monastery after tea and he'd give me the key to the huge 6th class room. There I'd feed the hamsters and budgies that were kept as pets by the class. Or fill the moulds with plaster to make nativity figurines. Or paint the ones that were ready. And I'd wash out the jars and brushes, or clean out a cage or two. In retrospect I felt lost at that age and heading back to school for an hour once or twice a week kept me busy and away from bad stuff that was available if I so desired. But the Christian Brother gave me the key and the space to grow. I'd think nothing of knocking on the door of the monastery in the lashing rain and he'd think nothing of opening the school for me.

A couple of years later I faced a middle aged man who could not, would not, break down what was for me a tough subject into something manageable. Made fun of my inability. And then he would boast of how caring and Christian he was compared to others.

And finally came the one that left an indelible mark on me. English and History. Time and patience to listen. A sense of humour. Indulgent of teen flights of fancy. I wrote and flourished.

But its all three that stuck in my mind as I struggled through college. I wanted to SEE kids that were struggling coz I should know what one looked like. I wanted to leave the door open for anyone who needed it. I didn't ever want to be the arrogant and aloof man looking down while pretending to look up. And History and English were going to be my tools, used while listening and encouraging.

Of course the world isn't as straightforward as that. I've met students for whom the only use for literature would be as toilet paper. I've walked into classes where friendliness was a sign of weakness. I've faced circuses filled with Neanderthal monkeys that were supposed to be pupils.

And yet I've had a table thrown at me by a student who's sister had cancer and not put it in the discipline system. I've had a pupil walk out of the middle of a soccer game just to talk to me. Tried to make an 800 year old church come to life for 30 thirteen year-olds. I've shared my biggest fears and terrible sense of humour with thousands of kids and lived to tell the tale.

Now, the end of August. Nobody cares. It is true that no other profession allows 2-3 months of a complete switch off. But what is little known is the effect a teacher may or may not have on a young life. For good or for bad we can leave impressions that are carried like scars or remembered with rose-tinted glasses. Ask yourself whom you admired or hated when in school. That is it. You remember. Can you remember how they spoke or how they treated you? Of course you do. Good or bad they taught you something.

Wish me luck!

Bottled

I tried to get in touch with my feminine side once but she hung up. So, at the tender age of twenty, I began drinking large bottles of Guinness in an attempt to grow hair on my chest and to be manly in general. I got good at it too. I could drink a few bottles and still drive my motorbike home from Graignamanagh. Sure if you met the Guards back then you could switch off your lights, turn around, and disappear down a lane. I could drink 8 bottles over a night and cycle home high as a kite. But drink more than 8 and, like drinking chocolate, you'd suffer from a drowsiness akin to a sedative. So you'd either run down the main street in Graig on the bonnets/roofs/boots of the parked cars... or fall off your bike at the top of High street and get collected off the ground by your friend Daryl and brought home safely.

Why on earth am I telling you this?!! You see, today, at the ungodly hour of 6am I got up to go training. I had switched off the alarm while questioning my sanity. The rain outside seemed to be laying it down hard. Harder than a Gypsy's driveway anyway. But I consoled myself with the truth; training isn't a choice. So its raining hard? I am mentally driven to go out and nail my training. Its not a choice. You can miss the gym, miss Pilates, or aerobics, or the treadmill. I won't miss training.

So I killed my coffee and granola, dragged on enough layers to just about hide my identity, took a deep breath as I locked the front door behind me, and headed for the hills.

My real problem started with Smithwicks at 19. Smithwicks makes you wee a lot. They may now call it Red Ale but it still is a bladder beater. For me, I had to go every half pint or so. Thats grand until you go to your girlfriend's Grad. Try drinking steadily, attempting to get frisky and legging it to the toilet every 15 minutes. The girlfriend thought I wasn't interested in her. The toilet attendant thought I had a thing for him. It wasn't long before the rumour mill had me pinned as a bi-sexual philanderer with a drink problem.

So I'm cycling out to Graignamanagh at 7am, there's nothing but puddles, leaves and wind for company. Down a back road (that I would have used 30 years ago to avoid the Guards) I round a curve to hear the Phhhhfffft of a puncture. The rain is now HEAVY. Heavier than the atmosphere after midnight at that Grad.... I pull out the back wheel and begin searching for the flint or stone or whatever the culprit happened to be. Normally a miniscule item is to blame. Smaller than Trump's conscience. Not today. A massive piece of brown glass, invisible on the soaked road, has rendered my tyre and tube useless and nearly sliced the frame too. I step back in frustration. Step back and hear a crunch. More glass. I lift my foot and begin to see bits of broken glass everywhere. And a big piece with the Guinness label still attached. St James's gate under my cleats.

Its not 'til I'm riding home on the flat rim, crawling, thump, thump, thump, squelch... that my rage dissipates. Probably some kid drinking bottles of stout and acting the donkey dumped the bottle heading home. Down the back roads. Avoiding the Guards. Trying to stay awake. Can I really be angry? The kid didn't think he'd spoil my day, ruin my new tyre, get me soaked, score my wheel, or give extra business to my Local Bike Shop.

I had plenty of time to think about it as I hadn't made the call of shame. It wasn't even 8am. So I'd absolved whoever it was before I'd slopped into the hallway of my house a good while later.

The deluge stopped. I've changed the tyre and tube. I was about to crack open a beer but... well, something held me back.

Last blast.

50. It's a big number. I'm heading out tomorrow night to race my last ever Wexford league race. You know I'm in my 50th year. No big deal. But doing the maths it seems that I've participated in close to 50 of those races. Now THAT is significant. And I've only won a handful. Jeez Joe, that's not anything to write home about, I hear you say. But hold on a minute. Do you know what it takes? Me neither! At least, I didn't for ages! Let me explain!

To win (or survive) the league you must refuse. You need to refuse to think about anything but the win. That's far from straightforward. Cycling is chess on wheels. You race against clubs and individuals and conditions and your condition. You can be the strongest yet lose every week as you follow the wrong wheels, gamble on the wrong time to launch or stay or even let adrenaline guide you instead of the cold-blooded killer in your heart. You must refuse to race anyone's race but your own.

A good club can bring you to victory by doing all the work and shenanigans for you. This might allow you to ride easy and keep your reserves. Conversely, a club that lacks cohesion will burn energy and leave nothing for you to work off. Both times I won the league, half a dozen years apart, I found myself so well looked after by my club it became easy. On one occasion 8 years ago I was so well minded that I dropped my phone when reaching for a gel, stopped, retrieved it and got back up for the sprint.

But both times there was what the Spanish call a chispa, a spark. Years back I'd gotten such stick and abuse from the local cycling community after switching clubs that I'd trained harder than ever that winter. But I'd a restricted amount of training time. 70% of my sessions were short and sharp. And for the first time ever I'd incorporated serious, painful sprints. I didn't miss a weekly session from November to July. Once I let loose in the finishing straight....

Last year I'd gotten awesomely fit over the winter only to break my elbow at the end of January. The antibiotics killed me. I mean, I was back on the spin bike when I couldn't put my weight on my arm but my head was a ball of white noise. And I came back. I rang my coach Richie on the way home from my first win in the league last Summer and we laughed and nearly cried at our hard work and patience. Spark.

And both times I won the overall, the team were behind me like a strong breeze, making everything easier. The purple and gold jersey has always brought out the best in me.

Yet it was a couple of men I raced with elsewhere that taught me the basic maths. Frank o Rourke taught me that when I worked I should throw everything I had into the pot. And Stephen Kelly taught me (by continuously beating me) that riding smart is hard work with huge rewards.

I'm gonna miss the crazed, greyhound stadium mentality of a one hour race. Pretending not to hurt on either drag. Hiding until launch time, pretending not to be able/interested/motivated. Waiting for the strongest to waste energy or get caught out by an attacking team mate. I love the panic during attacks, those not wanting to work, the weak getting stretched, the strongest doing the damage. Not for the faint hearted.

So tomorrow is it. Years of chasing super fit humans all over the roads. Years of trying to out-think and out-gun all-comers. Years of cheer at the sign on, years of comeradeship and bitter rivalries, poker and defeat, bravado and bullishness contained in an hour.

How does it feel? Different. I've been around for a long time. I'm mentioned in the book of Genesis. Lately I've been hung up on compassion fatigue. I've run into hundreds of bicycle jockeys over time and always tried to be helpful and encouraging. Call it a family trait. Some appreciated it. Some didn't. It turns out that I've been doing this s##t for decades. Investing my time in other people's problems, trying to find solutions or the right words to help my fellow human beings along. Not everyone appreciates this. Isn't it human nature that we have preconceptions about others before we meet them? Or someone's opinion of you colours other's? I'm a give-a-damn kinda fella, I've had my ups and downs and flat-lines. Sure I've said the wrong thing or wouldn't tolerate a few fools to the point where its cost me friends or open doors. But I'm 50. I no longer care. I have some amazing friends in cycling. And I have many's respect. If I've not gotten on the right side of you then who's fault is that exactly? I think I've apologised to anyone that deserved it or you have graciously left me back into your world without a word and I thank you for it.

Compassion fatigue. I've smiled that crooked smile at a multitude. Said something funny to put you at ease. Time for someone else to do the same. Tomorrow I'll head out the road and soak up the atmosphere, take mental pictures all the way. And I'll race until I can't.

Then my friends... it's your turn.

Things that pass you by

Life is funny. There's a bunch of stuff you had on an adolescent bucket list that slipped your mind as you got older. And AMEN to that. Might have been the car, the girl, the house, the sporting triumph, the idyllic island holiday. You get the picture, right? Of course we might feel regret at not crossing off many of those targets that felt very important at the time. On the other hand, I do remember Garth Brooks lyrics from way back that are relevant. Now before you start lambasting me, I ain't no fan of country music. You don't have to wear a Stetson to have friends in low places and besides, isn't a hoe-down when your first girlfriend slips on chip-grease outside the kebabish at 3am?

No, Garth sang a slow song about thanking God for unanswered prayers. Of course, by buying his singles we were answering some of them. If you don't remember the tune, just hold a lighter in the air and close your eyes. I never dreamt about being a GAA star or even being fashionable. Rockstar? Nope. Rich? Nope. It never crossed my mind to dream big. But I did dream and say the odd prayer. And luckily, God had bigger stuff to be at! You know, famines, comforting the terminally ill, helping people face cancer or bereavement. Understandably, I was put out at the time.... Now I understand that the help I needed wasn't a big issue. God was telling me to figure it out for myself. Now, if you knew me 20 or more years ago you'll know I wasn't the fella with a blunt force trauma sense of humour or opinions, nor was I self-aware really. (Think cave man). So it took me forever to realise I had to make my own way, make decisions, make headway in life. Turns out it wasn't just blind luck or blind love that put me in relationships, although it might have kept me in them...!

I used to dream about sailing. Around the world. I couldn't tell the difference between a stern and a spinnaker but none-the-less I was going to learn to sail and make a living from it by writing about my adventures in Yachting Monthly. But I didn't. I've met the deck shoe and white-shirted world-sailors and I'm glad I didn't become that disconnected soul searching for a spiritual home.

I dreamt about being a pro cyclist in Belgium. The cold, the grit, the cut-and-thrust of hard races. The solitary warrior accepting the adulation of the crowd. God turned his back and rightly so. I had to figure out by myself that I loved cycling but I didn't have the ruthless streak or constitution to push myself far enough.

Similarly, the man upstairs let me navigate my way through a couple of caustic relationships, taught me valuable lessons by staying out of it.🙈

I may have drifted a little, I'm not terribly loyal, skirted around the edges, didn't suffer fools and still can't.

Then I woke up one morning in recent years to the realisation that certain things I have, ways I am, people I love... are here now because those countless dreams faded into countless dawns. Garth Brooks has had a second coming since for God's sake! I woke to realise that the bucket list of your youth is a bunch of post-its you throw away as life gets involved. I woke to realise that I have a bucket list that I wasn't always aware of. It's just that a number of good souls have kindly filled it in for me.👨‍👩‍👧‍👧

Jeez, when I think of sweating with worry alone in a bedsit, trying to work out how low I could go to keep someone loving me. Later replaced with the sweat of figuring out how to get away.🙊

Or dreaming of Belgian cobbled streets into the wee hours. Now I'm just stoked at getting to a league race or looking over ditches with my cycling buddies.🤘

And the love part? Lets just say a little thanks to the heavens that I don't teach in the Midlands now. Or I'm not an alcoholic lead-teacher in Madrid, waiting for rain, taking the strain. I really have so much to be thankful for. 💖

Still can't stand country music though. Line dancing? Where I grew up, the line came before the dancing!🐴

Spain for me

Ah Spain. It was only while sitting at a shaded barbeque demolishing Argentinian beef and roasted peppers that it hit me. We were finally relaxed. All the carnage of previous months had disappeared in a cloud of charcoal smoke, well-cooked steak aromas and the plick plick of Cruz Campo beer tinnies opening. I'd gotten on a plane 24 hours after my last race, visited everything worth seeing on the Costa del Sol and exhaled.
Yes the sun shone in Ireland. But its not getting away. Its not watching the world cup with an 86 year old Dutchman drinking G+Ts and talking about DeValera. It's not meatballs and kidneys for supper. It's not a world of back stories by the pool.

And the wine flowed too. I can float like a seal in the pool as good as any. Sun myself like a hide in a tannery. But mid-holiday I laced up the sneakers and ran along the seafront. My mentality of reading and rioja gradually softened to a sauna run at midday followed by a cool beer. I'd run as far as the Marbella club, drip sweat on their 5 star carpet, then turn for home. Slow, painful mission accomplished. Then the struggle back up the hill. But passing half-cut beach revellers, bloated lunchers and the idle rich as I ran, gave me an incredible feeling.
Days later I found myself cycling with Carlos, a fine tri-athlete from Madrid. We tested ourselves on all the climbs, often over and over. Before breakfast. Istan with it's twists and warm winds, snakes and Reservoir. Ojen, Monda and Alhauren el Grande with it's Don Quixote hilltops and windmills. And once I braved the San Pedro traffic alone to climb the madrono, a lonely, buzzard-crowded series of ramps up to the heavens. I kissed my rented Bianchi at the top, threw the knees out on the long, sweeping bends and waved at the melon vendors on the lower slopes. Outside the exorbitant golf clubs stood Spanish gypsies selling small buckets of golf balls, lost by foreign golfers daily and collected up nightly. Sprints by the coast, coffee spin to the yacht basin. Ah Spain.
Of course there was a Paella cooked by the neighbours to keep us fuelled you understand....
The miles took away the guilt of tapas and of beer literally cheaper than water.
So I'm thinking of putting a bike together and leaving it in Marbella so every now and then I can exhale....
Late on in the holiday, bike returned, sneakers moth balled, I was staring from a sand dune in Tarifa at Africa only a dozen miles away. The layers of mountains that ran through Spain in folds...the Sierras...dipped at the straights of Gibraltar and resurfaced in Morocco as the Atlas mountains. I've been in Spain nearly twenty times now and last week was the first time I realised that those mountains are me. Are all of us. I'll have to come back again to discover more. Wanna join me?

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 in 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.

Tied to the mast

What the hell? I mean, it's odd enough to sneak out at 7am, wending my way down the hill in lycra, an ungodly hour to be going anywhere. So imagine my surprise to find the boardwalk at the Dunbrody famine ship thronged with Japanese tourists. I mean, whats the Japanese for "get out of my way, I need to take a selfie!" anyway? It was a mutual thing in the end. They stared at me like I was a lunatic cyclist at 7am cycling in the fog, I stared at them as if they were camera toting tourists on a whirlwind tour of...New Ross.
But I got my selfie, thinking it was gonna be a weird day. My plan was to ride from sea level to the highest point in the province. So I needed a selfie with the masts in the background, the intention being to book-end it with a t.v. mast selfie up on mt Leinster. 55 mile round trip. Easy peasy...eh...japanesy?
Japanese tourists were the least of my worries.
I scooted along, finally feeling relaxed for the first time in a couple of months. It was warm. Shorts and short sleeves after 7 in the morning is normally reserved for Marbella. I assumed it would be cold 795 metres higher. Doh!
Just like a cheap spaghetti western I encountered omens. A road-kill cat that seemed to have been annihilated from four different directions. He didn't look happy. He'd have made a fine imitation lion-skin rug for a sitting room.
A texting driver on my side of the road.
A buzzard circled near the mountain. I hoped it was looking for a non-lycra-clad breakfast. From down in the valley it's wingspan resembled a hang-glider from hell.
I wound my way to the lower slopes and smiled. The mountain was shrouded in mist. I wouldn't be able to see the scale of the leviathan I'd chosen to assault. Mt Leinster climbs in a series of punishing ramps. The narrow road clings to the mountain side, it's sheer nastiness visible all the way on a clear day. Not today.
I passed broken glass at the bottom. A vodka bottle. Huzzar. Wasn't 'huzzah!' a celebration first exclaimed in Shakespeare's time? Why am I thinking about this anyway? Altitude. Must be kicking in. Or perhaps it's this bit of road, the Dying Sow? Nothing like a stretch of asphalt named like that to concentrate the mind!
And up I went defying gravity, for beer bellies are meant to stay at sea level. And then there was a bunch of horses on the road. Wild ones, calling the Blackstairs their home. Well, obviously they can't speak so they don't actually call anything, well... anything. They parted to let me on up the hillside. One of them looked at me pitifully and shook his head. "Poor f##ker" I imagine he snickered in pony dialect.
And then I arrived at the gates of hell. The private road to the summit and destiny. A walker was 100 metres up the road and disappearing into thick mist. I followed. It took me 6 minutes to catch him. I was in my lowest gear almost immediately. That was a shock. As was the 19% gradient reading on the computer. That's steeper than any learning curve I've encountered! On passing the walker I discovered he had seen two decades more than me. We shared a quip about heavy breathing that in hindsight should have been accompanied by duelling banjoes and a hog roast. Maybe thats why the Dying Sow died? My pace quickened.
Around the only serious bend halfway up, the heat kicked in. I was at 2000 feet and I was blinded by sweat, my hands couldn't grip the 'bars and the tar under my wheels was soft! 18 degrees below the summit. I put my foot down to clear my eyes, remembered the walker behind me, and pushed on again. And the summit was closer than I thought, hidden in a humid fog.
Mt Leinster's summit is an anti-climax. You touch the galvanised gates, take a picture, and descend. Apart from a family of walkers milling around, it's lonely. Not far off 3000ft up, yet celebration amounts to a slowing of the thumping in your chest and a realisation that you've sweated so much you are about to freeze.
A couple of white knuckle minutes warms you instantly. Then you pass the horses again and wink, bunnyhop the huzzar bottle, outrun the buzzard coasting the thermals above you and, with the wind at your back you arrive almost elegantly back where you started, in time to bid 'sayonara' to your animated, camera-swinging Japanese buddies....