Ah the olive groves... thousands of acres of symmetric trees glistening in sun-speckled solitude. It must be the Tour of Andalusia that appears to burst from my tv.
Beautiful. But not reality. No indeed, while a whole bunch of mad Spaniards juiced to the gills flung themselves around the B roads of southern Spain real life was being played out on an insignificant piece of blacktop between Enniscorthy and Wexford.
Back story. Cue the music....
I brought my daughter to enniscorthy for a tennis camp. I planned to go cycling whilst she belted backhands and drank Robinsons. The missus wanted a fitbit from a shop in Wexford so I thought I'd kill two birds and enjoy the spin. Little did I know....
I love headwinds. When you turn around they become your friends. There I was having my eyebrows reshaped by a howling hoor of a southerly and making as much headway as a brexit negotiator when I ran into roadworks. This wasn't some farty old few yards of tar or line-painting. Oh no, this was a one mile stretch of crazy one-way-only that had me ringing my psychologist before the biscuit-eating, hipster-bearded Neanderthal sign-man turned the lollipop to 'Go'. I was now time crunched. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a creamery truck, now set free and pedalled like a gurning goat in it's slipstream at 71km/h.
So far so good. I turned in towards Wexford town and hit the Flandrien concrete roads along by the river with panache. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum for an eternity.
Drew Barrymore. She was the spit of Drew Barrymore. In looks anyway. Alas the good-time, girl-next-door Drew had been replaced by a humourless kid with the people skills of freddie Kruger. She didn't like that I had vouchers. Didn't like that I had a laser card too.Didn't like that I refused the insurance I could have with the product. I was the only customer in Argos but I wasn't feeling the love. It still needed a calendar to time the fitbit coming from the storeroom to front of shop. Like they were busy. Once outside and with a quick glance at the Garmin I knew it was serious. Would I make it to enniscorthy on time to pick up my daughter? Cue tense music....
I retraced my pedal strokes. Concrete roads. Check. Traffic lights. Check. Jump a truck? Check. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a concrete delivery truck and maxed out my gears at 73km/h. Avoided a suicidal pensioner in Oylegate. She only seemed to look left. French I assume. Shimmied a shite-fest of epic proportions thanks to a slurry carrying farmer and rode into enniscorthy with 3 minutes to spare. And brown in colour. Pretty.
My daughter beamed as I rolled in just as she finished up. My heart soared. Because I'd timetrialled like an animal for 40 minutes and felt like vomiting.
Lidl car park New Ross. 30 minutes later. Exit the car. Get a cramp akin to childbirth. Lean against the car screaming. All in a day's work. Kill two birds? Enjoy the spin? D'ya know what? I Did!!🤣😣
Thursday, February 21, 2019
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Spring Sportif
As a first event of the year the Barrow 100 Sportif is a cracker. Helped by sunshine and seasonal cold, to all participants it feels like coming home. And that's just the sign-on! In reality it is different things to different people. We all want to shake off the carnage of Christmas and see where we stand.
However some of us want to complete, others compete, yet more want to delete. 100k is no joke. Just cycling that distance in one go takes it out of you. Add in trying to stay with 180 other humans, each and every one with a different viewpoint and goal and completing isn't a given. Competing is another kettle of fish. Some live on Zwift. Some do 15 hours a week. Some turn themselves inside out in the shed/ garage/ mancave doing ferocious efforts in the depths of Winter. Some just go cycling when they can. ALL arrive on February 10th with a hunger that no food will fix. Road hunger.
And what of delete? Last year's poor form. A change of club that brings pastures new. Past mistakes; Not enough food and drinks. Over/ under-dressed. Mistakes to be rectified, problems to be solved. Delete the past, evolve, learn.
Weather apps, surfers, old farmers and TV channels are scoured for the wind, temperature and moisture content of a three hour segment on a given Sunday. Your kitchen table begins to take the shape of a meteorology laboratory what with your apps and laptop. Makes Met Eireann look stone-age. Clothes choice is whittled down as weather patterns are confirmed. Saturday night, as your friends sink pints and flick peanuts in the air to catch like seals would a fish, you have your gear laid out in order of putting on. Tyres at requisite pressure [grippy/ not too slippy]. Salt in the bottle. Bananas and gels. Everything charged.
Thank God, out on the road all is forgotten. It's a meet and greet. A reunion on a grand scale. Platonic speed-dating. "Ah Jaysus how are you lad???", "Good my friend!", and we are all back together again in a social sense, moving up and down the lines like soldiers on the Somme. Then without further adieu the poop hits the fan. We turn towards a cutting wind that comes at us from the Comeragh mountains. It smells of ragged sheep and icicles. Conversation stops. All we hear is a headwind licking past our ears, parting our eye-brows and stretching what was a 200 metre, smiling, cycling snake into a one kilometre long road kill. By kilometre 25 you've got it or had it. This wasn't the plan. Neither was seeing full-timers or those back from Gran Canaria attack like there's a first place. The soup at the finish will be delicious but I don't think it's a prize. So the horse has bolted and what's left are 'riders' or 'hiders'. Riders keep pushing at the front causing momentum to move us all forward. Hiders sink into tiny gaps and shadows, unable to be up the road making the race. Instead they stay out of the wind, conserve energy and leave the work to others. They can fit their front wheel into the one inch of road you leave in the gutter, in order to arrive at the last few hills rested, 50 mile-phantoms. And the other riders, the ones that didn't make the split in the headwind; They are the day's real winners. A slog in a small group or solo is a religious experience akin to purgatory. You hope to make it to the finish but most of your day is suspended just above hell. Any old goat can hide. Real cyclists are the ones that look like ghosts at day's end.
Picturesque Inistioge is an oxymoron. Here is where grimaces and pulled faces and pure carnage constricts the best of us and hands us our hopes in a bag. Everyone feels the few kilometres of vertical. No jersey or wheels or gears or prayer prevents pain up there. Gravity turns your blood to gravy and your hopes to mush. Your incantations to God fall on deaf ears. It's your own tough if, instead of twelve o'clock mass you are waylaid on a hillside in South Kilkenny by your own short-comings. A decade of the rosary won't lift cramp or double-vision. But if you pray long enough you'll crest the hill and breathe again.
New Ross is a beautiful place. After 99 kilometres of self-inflicted mutilation, arriving at the town limits is akin to seeing the promised land. Or a Saharan mirage. Minutes later you are holding a group post-mortem with your similarly dead-legged friends. Wolfing down the prized soup and eating the weight of a Spanish climber in sandwiches. A wave of euphoria, the release of the endorphins of relief, and in no time you are bigging-up next year. And then you try to stand up....
However some of us want to complete, others compete, yet more want to delete. 100k is no joke. Just cycling that distance in one go takes it out of you. Add in trying to stay with 180 other humans, each and every one with a different viewpoint and goal and completing isn't a given. Competing is another kettle of fish. Some live on Zwift. Some do 15 hours a week. Some turn themselves inside out in the shed/ garage/ mancave doing ferocious efforts in the depths of Winter. Some just go cycling when they can. ALL arrive on February 10th with a hunger that no food will fix. Road hunger.
And what of delete? Last year's poor form. A change of club that brings pastures new. Past mistakes; Not enough food and drinks. Over/ under-dressed. Mistakes to be rectified, problems to be solved. Delete the past, evolve, learn.
Weather apps, surfers, old farmers and TV channels are scoured for the wind, temperature and moisture content of a three hour segment on a given Sunday. Your kitchen table begins to take the shape of a meteorology laboratory what with your apps and laptop. Makes Met Eireann look stone-age. Clothes choice is whittled down as weather patterns are confirmed. Saturday night, as your friends sink pints and flick peanuts in the air to catch like seals would a fish, you have your gear laid out in order of putting on. Tyres at requisite pressure [grippy/ not too slippy]. Salt in the bottle. Bananas and gels. Everything charged.
Thank God, out on the road all is forgotten. It's a meet and greet. A reunion on a grand scale. Platonic speed-dating. "Ah Jaysus how are you lad???", "Good my friend!", and we are all back together again in a social sense, moving up and down the lines like soldiers on the Somme. Then without further adieu the poop hits the fan. We turn towards a cutting wind that comes at us from the Comeragh mountains. It smells of ragged sheep and icicles. Conversation stops. All we hear is a headwind licking past our ears, parting our eye-brows and stretching what was a 200 metre, smiling, cycling snake into a one kilometre long road kill. By kilometre 25 you've got it or had it. This wasn't the plan. Neither was seeing full-timers or those back from Gran Canaria attack like there's a first place. The soup at the finish will be delicious but I don't think it's a prize. So the horse has bolted and what's left are 'riders' or 'hiders'. Riders keep pushing at the front causing momentum to move us all forward. Hiders sink into tiny gaps and shadows, unable to be up the road making the race. Instead they stay out of the wind, conserve energy and leave the work to others. They can fit their front wheel into the one inch of road you leave in the gutter, in order to arrive at the last few hills rested, 50 mile-phantoms. And the other riders, the ones that didn't make the split in the headwind; They are the day's real winners. A slog in a small group or solo is a religious experience akin to purgatory. You hope to make it to the finish but most of your day is suspended just above hell. Any old goat can hide. Real cyclists are the ones that look like ghosts at day's end.
Picturesque Inistioge is an oxymoron. Here is where grimaces and pulled faces and pure carnage constricts the best of us and hands us our hopes in a bag. Everyone feels the few kilometres of vertical. No jersey or wheels or gears or prayer prevents pain up there. Gravity turns your blood to gravy and your hopes to mush. Your incantations to God fall on deaf ears. It's your own tough if, instead of twelve o'clock mass you are waylaid on a hillside in South Kilkenny by your own short-comings. A decade of the rosary won't lift cramp or double-vision. But if you pray long enough you'll crest the hill and breathe again.
New Ross is a beautiful place. After 99 kilometres of self-inflicted mutilation, arriving at the town limits is akin to seeing the promised land. Or a Saharan mirage. Minutes later you are holding a group post-mortem with your similarly dead-legged friends. Wolfing down the prized soup and eating the weight of a Spanish climber in sandwiches. A wave of euphoria, the release of the endorphins of relief, and in no time you are bigging-up next year. And then you try to stand up....
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
Average Joe's Gym
Expecting an average Sunday spin to be, well... average, can be a mistake. I should have known when I passed a burning bin down town at 7am that it wasn't an average day. And then I got to thinking [cycling gives you serious time to think. Could be planning somebody's downfall, a full-blown argument with your nemesis, the plot of your novel, mentally pummeling an idjit in the workplace or... just shooting the breeze with nature....], sorry, I got to thinking, is there ever an average outing for a cyclist? Or for that matter, any endurance sport enthusiast?
I'm not blowing my own trumpet [now that would be an interesting sound!] but I'm above average. OK, not in the looks department. Nor talent, ability, intelligence or attitude.😣 BUT; I'm not a loser either. So how on earth is average Joe not average? I think being an average cyclist has raised me above the average! I'm munching porridge and glugging coffee while a large amount of lard-arteries are lying in bed floored by the excesses of draught beer, dead-calf-kebab-meat and probably keeping their eyes screwed tight lest they see the Chupacabra they brought home with them in a moment of alcoholic idiocy. I am sneaking out an hour before dawn to reboot my chip and get my brain in gear for whatever the future will bring.
I am also organised. GPS, lights, bottles, food, clothes; you name it, its charged or arranged. Coffee ground the night before too lest I wake a child and fail to escape to freedom. Even the squeaky bathroom door is left open in case it is heard. Sunday donuts complete with plates and glasses are out for the sprogs. My life might be chaos on ketamine but my biking is OCD [Obsessive Cycling Disorder].
And then there's my sensory faculties. Average? Nope! I'm alert to everything. Once it was that I saw the sights, heard the others in the group chatting and advising. I can still smell cotton jerseys and chamois cream and varying embrocation for your legs that went from mild through warm to Chernobyl. And now I'm switched on. I am above average because I'm NOT driving to the gym, my gym is the road. I'm a hate-figure, a smug git, cycling on roads belonging to cars and vans and impatient imbeciles. Imagine that! I'm above average because I make motorists think, react, respect. There's not much out there that can do that today. But I still have time to smell the Roundup, turned earth, slurry, spilt diesel, dead badgers and rain. I hear hidden running brooks, birds and the hum of milking parlours. And I feel; Sun on my skin. Cold air, rain on my bare shins... In fact I feel... ABSOLUTELY UNFREAKIN-BELIEVABLY ALIVE!!!!!!!!
Am I above average in your estimation yet??? What about day to day? I'm not awesome. Nobody is. But I'm striving. Cycling has given me a sense of humour. Mostly as a cyclist you'll end up laughing at yourself or someone else. Near death experiences make you (eventually) laugh at the grim reaper. A bunch of like-minded individuals shooting the breeze will inevitably lead to laugh-out-loud moments. Endorphins make everyone happy. So if I cycle vigorously and load up on them, I've basically been given the key to God's crackhouse, haven't I? If I try to make you laugh I'm just divvying out the goods.
A good friend said "energy makes energy". Bloody right! So when I'm out pounding the roads, trampling tarmac, ace-ing asphalt, I'm really a human perpetual motion machine, creating energy to get me through all the other challenges life flings. I'll never be that flat-on-my-butt dude that won't go outside with the kids. Cycling makes me want to exercise more. Thats above average. Most dudes my age have jelly for organs and tempranillo for blood. And soon their personality reverts to that negative, poor-mouth old-fart setting. An often irreversible affliction.
My shop of choice is a bike shop. The weather forecast is the only news I need. My friends talk about PSI, carbon weaves and watts. I shave my legs knowing it'll help fight infection if I fall. Not because I'm perverted. My chosen sport transcends age, place of birth, any class system, politics, creed or past. I am addicted to, beholden and sworn to my above average life. An ordinary life is extraordinary as a consequence. Come and join ordinary Joe's gym. It's free. It'll set you free. And it's anything, anything but average.
I'm not blowing my own trumpet [now that would be an interesting sound!] but I'm above average. OK, not in the looks department. Nor talent, ability, intelligence or attitude.😣 BUT; I'm not a loser either. So how on earth is average Joe not average? I think being an average cyclist has raised me above the average! I'm munching porridge and glugging coffee while a large amount of lard-arteries are lying in bed floored by the excesses of draught beer, dead-calf-kebab-meat and probably keeping their eyes screwed tight lest they see the Chupacabra they brought home with them in a moment of alcoholic idiocy. I am sneaking out an hour before dawn to reboot my chip and get my brain in gear for whatever the future will bring.
I am also organised. GPS, lights, bottles, food, clothes; you name it, its charged or arranged. Coffee ground the night before too lest I wake a child and fail to escape to freedom. Even the squeaky bathroom door is left open in case it is heard. Sunday donuts complete with plates and glasses are out for the sprogs. My life might be chaos on ketamine but my biking is OCD [Obsessive Cycling Disorder].
And then there's my sensory faculties. Average? Nope! I'm alert to everything. Once it was that I saw the sights, heard the others in the group chatting and advising. I can still smell cotton jerseys and chamois cream and varying embrocation for your legs that went from mild through warm to Chernobyl. And now I'm switched on. I am above average because I'm NOT driving to the gym, my gym is the road. I'm a hate-figure, a smug git, cycling on roads belonging to cars and vans and impatient imbeciles. Imagine that! I'm above average because I make motorists think, react, respect. There's not much out there that can do that today. But I still have time to smell the Roundup, turned earth, slurry, spilt diesel, dead badgers and rain. I hear hidden running brooks, birds and the hum of milking parlours. And I feel; Sun on my skin. Cold air, rain on my bare shins... In fact I feel... ABSOLUTELY UNFREAKIN-BELIEVABLY ALIVE!!!!!!!!
Am I above average in your estimation yet??? What about day to day? I'm not awesome. Nobody is. But I'm striving. Cycling has given me a sense of humour. Mostly as a cyclist you'll end up laughing at yourself or someone else. Near death experiences make you (eventually) laugh at the grim reaper. A bunch of like-minded individuals shooting the breeze will inevitably lead to laugh-out-loud moments. Endorphins make everyone happy. So if I cycle vigorously and load up on them, I've basically been given the key to God's crackhouse, haven't I? If I try to make you laugh I'm just divvying out the goods.
A good friend said "energy makes energy". Bloody right! So when I'm out pounding the roads, trampling tarmac, ace-ing asphalt, I'm really a human perpetual motion machine, creating energy to get me through all the other challenges life flings. I'll never be that flat-on-my-butt dude that won't go outside with the kids. Cycling makes me want to exercise more. Thats above average. Most dudes my age have jelly for organs and tempranillo for blood. And soon their personality reverts to that negative, poor-mouth old-fart setting. An often irreversible affliction.
My shop of choice is a bike shop. The weather forecast is the only news I need. My friends talk about PSI, carbon weaves and watts. I shave my legs knowing it'll help fight infection if I fall. Not because I'm perverted. My chosen sport transcends age, place of birth, any class system, politics, creed or past. I am addicted to, beholden and sworn to my above average life. An ordinary life is extraordinary as a consequence. Come and join ordinary Joe's gym. It's free. It'll set you free. And it's anything, anything but average.
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Baby food and some words rude...
Apparently I was the first of my family to be brought up on SMA baby formula. Quite a big deal at the time. Never mind breast is best, try powder as chowder! Of course it was still the sixties so I imagine that formula probably contained nicotine, iodine, creatine, caffeine and a sprinkling of milk powder infused with lead. Thankfully things have come a long way and today's baby foods are kosher. I imagine that all that blend of crazy stuff set me up nicely for adult life. My Dad candidly stated that I had a stomach like a swill-barrel. He was on target for sure.
I've been reliving my healthy appetite fiascos and favourites over the last few days as I've emptied a (quality) street and single-handedly drained an EU wine lake. Ah yes, the memories. A loaf of Quinnsworth bread and a pound of luncheon sausage every couple of days in college. You remember luncheon sausage? Pink meat with no actual meat. Abattoir floor's finest. It was rumoured to be able to walk by itself if not refrigerated. Or tinned aubergine in vinegar, my fave treat in Spain. My stomach did somersaults but my pupils dilated. And a bottle of wine with a midday meal. And now I drink coffee like a bean fiend. Indeed, none of that freeze dried Kenco nonsense in my house! And it's all slipping down into the swill barrel.
So there I am trying to go cycling over Christmas and doing the dog with my diet at the same time. But what's different is that I'm reading a mindfulness book. One that speaks my language. Don't be offended with the title or some of the concepts. It's called The Life Changing Magic of not Giving a F**k. I'm not going to go all Chi and Pilates on you. But I've learned a simple truth. I CANNOT CHANGE HOW PEOPLE THINK. How does that fit in with this blog? Well, as a cyclist I am susceptible to outside influence. Be it what training others are doing, what they post on the internet, what (when they get together in covens) they are saying. Or worst of all the racehorse that tells everyone that No, they are training like a donkey. This stuff used to bother me. But I've read some of the book and spliced it with some cycling buddy's advice and now, to paraphrase that book..." I no longer give a f**k".
And the changes don't stop there. If I can't change what people think then I can't change what they might say or feel towards me. But I can remove them from Facebook or from taking up my TIME. And time is more precious to me than an aubergine/luncheon roll sandwich washed down with dirty red wine. The book urges me to make out a 'F**k budget'. I have a finite number of f**Ks to give about people/situations/activities. If I exceed my budget then I'll be tired, caught for time or thinking about stuff that stresses me for zero gain. So I've started the budget. There are situations and people and activities that are no longer getting my attention simply because they are too complicated. Joe doesn't believe in complicated. Be straight with me or be gone. Of course there are items that I must budget for. Things too important. People that have to have a share. And there are those that don't.
Sarah Knight's book has arrived in my life just in time to watch me turn over a new leaf. I am training for myself instead of what people expect of me or assume of me. My exterior may resemble second trimester but my mind is expectant of nothing but change. Yes all that sludge of Yule tide gluttony will have to be removed but I'm not thinking of doing that for some short-ass ignoramus who would like to wheel-suck me to within sniffing distance of a finish line. I'm just going to train for Joe. I'm a good guy. After all, I may not use L'Oreal but I'm worth it. I'm not going to try harder to impress other cyclist's or clubs either. What's the point? I read a pertinent line on Facebook recently. "The grass is sometimes greener on the other side because it's fertilized with bullshit." I love that. I only need to impress myself in cycling now.
Something was broken in me in recent times. Not giving a f**k about some parts of my over-extended, candle-burning-at-both-ends life will help repair some of the scar tissue.
Of course it's not all bad. I climbed 80,000 metres last year in under 6,500 kilometres. Not bad in what was for me an exhausted car-wreck in cycling terms. I never trained hard. I feel already as though I'm turning a corner.
I'd like to skip off into the sunset; alas my rheumatoid, stretch-marked and muscle-depleted body won't allow it. But mentally I'm jumping and high-fiving every molecule of serotonin that is fuelling me at this very moment. After all it's not what I eat between Christmas day and New year's but what is consumed between New year's and Christmas day that counts. My midriff is broadening but only in line with my smile. See you on the road in 2019. I'm the one that always waves.
I've been reliving my healthy appetite fiascos and favourites over the last few days as I've emptied a (quality) street and single-handedly drained an EU wine lake. Ah yes, the memories. A loaf of Quinnsworth bread and a pound of luncheon sausage every couple of days in college. You remember luncheon sausage? Pink meat with no actual meat. Abattoir floor's finest. It was rumoured to be able to walk by itself if not refrigerated. Or tinned aubergine in vinegar, my fave treat in Spain. My stomach did somersaults but my pupils dilated. And a bottle of wine with a midday meal. And now I drink coffee like a bean fiend. Indeed, none of that freeze dried Kenco nonsense in my house! And it's all slipping down into the swill barrel.
So there I am trying to go cycling over Christmas and doing the dog with my diet at the same time. But what's different is that I'm reading a mindfulness book. One that speaks my language. Don't be offended with the title or some of the concepts. It's called The Life Changing Magic of not Giving a F**k. I'm not going to go all Chi and Pilates on you. But I've learned a simple truth. I CANNOT CHANGE HOW PEOPLE THINK. How does that fit in with this blog? Well, as a cyclist I am susceptible to outside influence. Be it what training others are doing, what they post on the internet, what (when they get together in covens) they are saying. Or worst of all the racehorse that tells everyone that No, they are training like a donkey. This stuff used to bother me. But I've read some of the book and spliced it with some cycling buddy's advice and now, to paraphrase that book..." I no longer give a f**k".
And the changes don't stop there. If I can't change what people think then I can't change what they might say or feel towards me. But I can remove them from Facebook or from taking up my TIME. And time is more precious to me than an aubergine/luncheon roll sandwich washed down with dirty red wine. The book urges me to make out a 'F**k budget'. I have a finite number of f**Ks to give about people/situations/activities. If I exceed my budget then I'll be tired, caught for time or thinking about stuff that stresses me for zero gain. So I've started the budget. There are situations and people and activities that are no longer getting my attention simply because they are too complicated. Joe doesn't believe in complicated. Be straight with me or be gone. Of course there are items that I must budget for. Things too important. People that have to have a share. And there are those that don't.
Sarah Knight's book has arrived in my life just in time to watch me turn over a new leaf. I am training for myself instead of what people expect of me or assume of me. My exterior may resemble second trimester but my mind is expectant of nothing but change. Yes all that sludge of Yule tide gluttony will have to be removed but I'm not thinking of doing that for some short-ass ignoramus who would like to wheel-suck me to within sniffing distance of a finish line. I'm just going to train for Joe. I'm a good guy. After all, I may not use L'Oreal but I'm worth it. I'm not going to try harder to impress other cyclist's or clubs either. What's the point? I read a pertinent line on Facebook recently. "The grass is sometimes greener on the other side because it's fertilized with bullshit." I love that. I only need to impress myself in cycling now.
Something was broken in me in recent times. Not giving a f**k about some parts of my over-extended, candle-burning-at-both-ends life will help repair some of the scar tissue.
Of course it's not all bad. I climbed 80,000 metres last year in under 6,500 kilometres. Not bad in what was for me an exhausted car-wreck in cycling terms. I never trained hard. I feel already as though I'm turning a corner.
I'd like to skip off into the sunset; alas my rheumatoid, stretch-marked and muscle-depleted body won't allow it. But mentally I'm jumping and high-fiving every molecule of serotonin that is fuelling me at this very moment. After all it's not what I eat between Christmas day and New year's but what is consumed between New year's and Christmas day that counts. My midriff is broadening but only in line with my smile. See you on the road in 2019. I'm the one that always waves.
Saturday, December 8, 2018
Random thoughts on how to approach life.
By all means eat the meatballs in IKEA but don't kid yourself that flat pack is good craic. 😥😥😥😥😥😥😥😥😥
Don't judge anyone by creed, colour or DNA. Judge by how comfortable they make you feel.🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔
Understand that the past can't last. Turn the page and act your age.🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓
Read. A lot. Don't apologise for preferring to turn pages rather than turn up.👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
Wearing Superdry and Hollister to stand out and be different is irony at work.🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈
Not walking in the rain or wind is a sin against nature. Breathe in the ozone. Feel droplets in your ears and shiver.👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀
Eat cake, drink espresso. Reward yourself for some achievement unimagined yet.🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗
Make mistakes. But learn from them. Don't regret but don't repeat.😕😕😕😕😕😕😕😕
Unless you've fought in a war it's gonna take a long time to realise waking up in the morning shouldn't be taken for granted. ☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠
Love, luck and losers come in threes.😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍
Terrific highs are followed by horrific lows. Try to be the tea-light, not the flare.🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅
We all have faith. It could be faith in your lack of faith. It could be a sense of a god in everything around you or a faith in yourself. But none of us are truly faithless. 🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐
Life levels. Hardship comes to all. Often the pauper possesses riches in their hearts that no millionaires will experience. 🏰🏰🏰🏰🏰🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡
No one has it all. The supermodel won't like her toes, the streetsweeper will have a six-pack, the mogul might need stack-heels or the refugee's smile might light up a ship's deck.😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁
Death is a tarot card. Sometimes its carrying a scythe, sometimes its ending something in your way to a brighter future.💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀
Be prepared to be judged by people stupid enough not to get to know you. Expect to be accepted by the least likely of souls.😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈
Trust your gut. Its never wrong. 💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪
Three things in life bring out the truth. Alcohol. Children. Leather pants. Thankfully it's only possible to mix two of those at a time. 🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣
Manners aren't negotiable. Some people treat them like ancient runes yet to be deciphered. Others speak them fluently. 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡
Be prepared to take your own advice eventually. You may have avoided it for decades, it may taste like ear wax... But you'll have to do it. 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝
We all turn into our parents. Or a previous generation we didn't even know. Could be a bumpy ride. Could be a pleasure boat cruise. 🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖
Say thanks. There's bad s##t that passed us by we didn't even know about. Thanks. Thanks some more.
👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼
Pick and choose what twee life advice you take. And from what source. Could be a well meaning cherub hoping to change the world one person at a time. Could be the random brain farts of a total melt, more in need of advice than giving it out.😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎
Don't judge anyone by creed, colour or DNA. Judge by how comfortable they make you feel.🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔
Understand that the past can't last. Turn the page and act your age.🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓
Read. A lot. Don't apologise for preferring to turn pages rather than turn up.👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
Wearing Superdry and Hollister to stand out and be different is irony at work.🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈
Not walking in the rain or wind is a sin against nature. Breathe in the ozone. Feel droplets in your ears and shiver.👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀
Eat cake, drink espresso. Reward yourself for some achievement unimagined yet.🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗
Make mistakes. But learn from them. Don't regret but don't repeat.😕😕😕😕😕😕😕😕
Unless you've fought in a war it's gonna take a long time to realise waking up in the morning shouldn't be taken for granted. ☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠
Love, luck and losers come in threes.😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍
Terrific highs are followed by horrific lows. Try to be the tea-light, not the flare.🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅
We all have faith. It could be faith in your lack of faith. It could be a sense of a god in everything around you or a faith in yourself. But none of us are truly faithless. 🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐
Life levels. Hardship comes to all. Often the pauper possesses riches in their hearts that no millionaires will experience. 🏰🏰🏰🏰🏰🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡
No one has it all. The supermodel won't like her toes, the streetsweeper will have a six-pack, the mogul might need stack-heels or the refugee's smile might light up a ship's deck.😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁
Death is a tarot card. Sometimes its carrying a scythe, sometimes its ending something in your way to a brighter future.💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀
Be prepared to be judged by people stupid enough not to get to know you. Expect to be accepted by the least likely of souls.😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈
Trust your gut. Its never wrong. 💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪
Three things in life bring out the truth. Alcohol. Children. Leather pants. Thankfully it's only possible to mix two of those at a time. 🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣
Manners aren't negotiable. Some people treat them like ancient runes yet to be deciphered. Others speak them fluently. 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡
Be prepared to take your own advice eventually. You may have avoided it for decades, it may taste like ear wax... But you'll have to do it. 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝
We all turn into our parents. Or a previous generation we didn't even know. Could be a bumpy ride. Could be a pleasure boat cruise. 🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖
Say thanks. There's bad s##t that passed us by we didn't even know about. Thanks. Thanks some more.
👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼
Pick and choose what twee life advice you take. And from what source. Could be a well meaning cherub hoping to change the world one person at a time. Could be the random brain farts of a total melt, more in need of advice than giving it out.😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Love ya back
Where to start? Why at the beginning of course!! Twenty years ago I rode up to oylegate to a five mile time trial with my best mate Adrian and won the bloody thing! It was only five miles but.... Well there's a lot of buts. But it began a sequence of local and national races that were my happy times. Today I rode the same event as a last hurrah but in the intervening years my life has been enriched beyond belief by cycling's incredible people and events. Stuff I remember in the wee hours. Up to that point two decades ago I was a drifter. Emotionally and physically I did what felt right rather than what was just right. A couple of years as a bike messenger for example, meant more than years of cycling dreams and lack of direction.
It took until three or four years ago to stop dreaming about my courier days. I wonder now will I spend midnight hours thinking over races? Maybe. But it's more the people isn't it? We've all met those that had a profound effect on us. I don't have enough space in a blog to scribe a list from my life. How about a sample?
Pat Dobbs is someone I'll always have affection for. Some may have seen us as rivals but I only remember both of us getting down to work and killing everyone around us from start line to finish line. I can't recall both of us ever contesting the sharp end of a race with many left around us. Full gas, to my mind was invented by myself and Pat. I don't think we knew that southeast cycling was taking off as we raced but I know there's a cohort of damn fine cyclists still knocking about from those times. Pat threw everything at me. He would attack anywhere. It was like he had read the manual on 'how to break your rival's'. He taught me a lot about unpredictability and the element of surprise. And that has won me races.
Mizgajski. My Polish mate is a triple espresso in life. He'll get your heart rate up through effort or laughter or a coffee stop. That Eastern European no-bullshit frame of mind is something I relate to. And the sarcasm. In the ten years we randomly trained or raced together he helped me develop as a rider. We shared awesome training rides... white outs in the snow, job-risking recon rides in far-flung counties and raids on races (with one-day licences) I'll never forget. Dominating league races or training for awesome things... Miz has the vision. And training NEVER got cancelled. Boonen said "sometimes you don't need a plan you just need big balls". He was talking about Marcin Mizgajski.
And what about that Adrian from the time trial? We used to cycle in school. Not TO school. IN school! And while the years may have come and gone Adrian has been a cycling icon. The first to have a power-meter. First to build bikes too. He is a mechanic too, with more than 30 years experience. He has taken his spannering with him to international races on road and track. Oh, and he has cycled in just about any European terrain you might dream about. He is an icon because holistically he has achieved more than any cyclist I know. If he wasn't riding in it he was mechanic at it or organising it or integral in some way. The time might be long gone when we shared his Mum's Christmas cake on Mt Leinster in the Spring or tackled the Muur in Geraardsbergen together but if there's someone in my cycling sphere that has done it all while under the radar, it's Adrian.
And there's the anonymous. Anyone that waved at me while headed the other way on lonesome country roads. Anyone that let my handlebars into spaces in races that a surgeon couldn't work with. The old people that spoke to me while they herded cattle across the road or said something nice at a shop counter instead of reverting too easily to hurling/football/ignorance mode. I have to remember the countless faces that looked disappointed in bars and restaurants, on buses and in shops when they asked me what my favourite sport happened to be. Favourite??? And I'd have to explain how my heart rate rose and my serotonin spiked when I even thought about cycling. And then I lost them.... Funny that. Countless dead conversations.And I guess I have to think of those that gave me space on the road instead of a space in a graveyard.
Of course there's a cast of characters that made my time in cycle racing a truly awesome production; The protagonists [both heroes and villains alike] and the background staff that often got me ready for my role with a focussed sound bite or wardrobe change. All I know as I get older is that behind most of us that share that road-hunger lie incredible stories. Some awesome, some harrowing, some from the darkest places. All awe-inspiring. Those who shared the stories behind the race face I salute. Those that listened to mine, Chapeau! You know who you are.
It took until three or four years ago to stop dreaming about my courier days. I wonder now will I spend midnight hours thinking over races? Maybe. But it's more the people isn't it? We've all met those that had a profound effect on us. I don't have enough space in a blog to scribe a list from my life. How about a sample?
Pat Dobbs is someone I'll always have affection for. Some may have seen us as rivals but I only remember both of us getting down to work and killing everyone around us from start line to finish line. I can't recall both of us ever contesting the sharp end of a race with many left around us. Full gas, to my mind was invented by myself and Pat. I don't think we knew that southeast cycling was taking off as we raced but I know there's a cohort of damn fine cyclists still knocking about from those times. Pat threw everything at me. He would attack anywhere. It was like he had read the manual on 'how to break your rival's'. He taught me a lot about unpredictability and the element of surprise. And that has won me races.
Mizgajski. My Polish mate is a triple espresso in life. He'll get your heart rate up through effort or laughter or a coffee stop. That Eastern European no-bullshit frame of mind is something I relate to. And the sarcasm. In the ten years we randomly trained or raced together he helped me develop as a rider. We shared awesome training rides... white outs in the snow, job-risking recon rides in far-flung counties and raids on races (with one-day licences) I'll never forget. Dominating league races or training for awesome things... Miz has the vision. And training NEVER got cancelled. Boonen said "sometimes you don't need a plan you just need big balls". He was talking about Marcin Mizgajski.
And what about that Adrian from the time trial? We used to cycle in school. Not TO school. IN school! And while the years may have come and gone Adrian has been a cycling icon. The first to have a power-meter. First to build bikes too. He is a mechanic too, with more than 30 years experience. He has taken his spannering with him to international races on road and track. Oh, and he has cycled in just about any European terrain you might dream about. He is an icon because holistically he has achieved more than any cyclist I know. If he wasn't riding in it he was mechanic at it or organising it or integral in some way. The time might be long gone when we shared his Mum's Christmas cake on Mt Leinster in the Spring or tackled the Muur in Geraardsbergen together but if there's someone in my cycling sphere that has done it all while under the radar, it's Adrian.
And there's the anonymous. Anyone that waved at me while headed the other way on lonesome country roads. Anyone that let my handlebars into spaces in races that a surgeon couldn't work with. The old people that spoke to me while they herded cattle across the road or said something nice at a shop counter instead of reverting too easily to hurling/football/ignorance mode. I have to remember the countless faces that looked disappointed in bars and restaurants, on buses and in shops when they asked me what my favourite sport happened to be. Favourite??? And I'd have to explain how my heart rate rose and my serotonin spiked when I even thought about cycling. And then I lost them.... Funny that. Countless dead conversations.And I guess I have to think of those that gave me space on the road instead of a space in a graveyard.
Of course there's a cast of characters that made my time in cycle racing a truly awesome production; The protagonists [both heroes and villains alike] and the background staff that often got me ready for my role with a focussed sound bite or wardrobe change. All I know as I get older is that behind most of us that share that road-hunger lie incredible stories. Some awesome, some harrowing, some from the darkest places. All awe-inspiring. Those who shared the stories behind the race face I salute. Those that listened to mine, Chapeau! You know who you are.
Sunday, October 7, 2018
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.
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.
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