Reasons why I still cycle

Why on earth do I love to go cycling? I mean, lets face it, it would be easier to quit, wouldn't it? The odds are stacked, the world has changed, I've put in enough pedal revolutions.... Yes it would be easy. And there's probably a lot of people that would rather I went away, took up hill-walking or watched Coronation street. 

There are 1059 wheel bearings that would be relieved. Some are crushed, rusted old things after horrible winters, others mere victims of my ViseGrip. They lie in the dust of the shed now, corpses... killed by my ignorance. Add egg-shaped wheels, buckled rims that move like drunken fools, or chains that have been worn to the texture of tinfoil by my inability to care for a bicycle. The shed is a graveyard to beaten bikes. My old friend Adrian used to be wide-eyed when I'd wheel my racer into his workshop. Odd-sized bearings, overtightened nuts and perished cables were the starter for him, the main course was often catastrophic. 🤦‍♂️ Yes, even my bikes would thank me now if I left them in the shed to chat with the split tyres, bent chainrings and pieces of lurid bar tape with the oily smell of GT80 and WD40 for company. 

 

As regards people, sure it is impossible not to annoy someone on life's journey. Apparently I don't mind falling out with people. I'd imagine there's a queue wishing that I'd go away. That's why I post cycling pics on social media and keep showing up. Why I un-retire a lot. Those I call friends now, after almost 35 years in cycling, are awesome. They understand our fragile place in the world. I have friends still with me from the start. And yet some of the best chats and biggest smiles I've had in cycling are in the last few years. 21 year-olds spur me on with their enthusiasm; 75 year-olds share nuggets of wisdom I'd never have bothered with way back when. 

I have calmed over the years and know I belong. But cycling hasn't always been a welcoming experience. Now newbies to the sport laugh at the old rules. Back in the day you had to do something like an apprenticeship to be accepted. You shouldn't have to do an apprenticeship to earn respect. I am an oldie but I've always liked a healthy helping of disregard for old rules, usually made up by old fools. We all have a bad side to us and as long as everyone realises that then we can get along. Doesn't matter if its the GAA or soccer or chess.

 And lets not forget life on the road. When I cycled in the '80s fluoro, hi-viz colours were a fashion statement, not a lifeline. Drivers actually respected us; There's a thought! I now have my lights charged and quiet roads planned for my Sunday spin. I'll still encounter countless head cases trying to remind me who is boss even though the fight isn't quite equal. I may be a tad overweight but I'm not a car. So hang on a minute! If I haven't as many friends (and no spare parts) willing to keep me going, let alone safe roads, then why cycle? I suppose I could just scroll Instagram and stare at the impossibly beautiful, unlikely, fit, happy, lucky, wrinkle-free and colourful people. I could Netflix myself into a ball or drink wine until I'd forgotten where I'd come from or where I was supposed to be headed. But that isn't real. Real is real. Ups and downs and the in-betweens. I have a love of the outdoors and the people I find in it. I have a love for the road and what it teaches me. I have a love for nature and my place in it, as I have a love of those that have joined me along the way. If you shared that with me over the last 35 years then thank you. Life throws us all curve balls but the one thing that has kept me together is that road. My counsellor, my coach, my friend of 35 wholesome years. I'm not about to give up on it any time soon.

Black cats

There is no easy way to social distance on a bike unless you cycle on your own. And that is just what I've done for three months. I have a lot to lose. Covid would kill half my household faster than Mike Myers in the movie 'Halloween'. And I didn't want to be thinking of what being asymptomatic would do to anyone else that I love. So I stayed apart. Didn't fool myself that a spin with my mates couldn't wait. Got as clever as a cartographer with my two kilometre limit, so much so that the five kilometre thing felt like opening the door to Middle Earth. And the twenty kilometres was just sublime. Mentally I got used to the constrictions. I'm a social person, totally stoked on occasional spins with mad-cap friends that share the lunatic love of cycling. It was tough but I adapted, and I sure wasn't alone. People I greatly admire did the ring road shuffle, or stayed indoors and got on to Zwift, or ran the whole Camino de Santiago virtually on a thread mill, or just walked the road outside. Some at least took the MTB and hid in the woods. Good God, Mizgajski rode the 300m of his housing estate over and over to climb Everest rather than pick an easier climb outside the restrictions. It wasn't fun but it was done.

And yet the undercurrent was of isolated people [particularly on STRAVA] just doing what they wanted. And as the pandemic picked up pace, that more sinister plague took off. A dose went around of acute narcissism. And I watched as too many of my comradeships in cycling died daily all over the county. Restrictions? They aren't for me! And not all of them were STRAVA jockeys. I'd stuck close to home under ridiculous stress while 'friends' shared pictures of hill-walks and barbecues. Ever felt like a fool? I'm sure many people just silenced their apps and did what they wanted. Others did 100k rides as far from home as they could get even though the 2k/5k rule still applied to the rest of us. Have you any idea the lengths most people have gone to NOT to break the rules or to stay as close as possible? Blurring the lines is one thing, being ignorant about it, another. We might have a vaccine soon for Covid-19 but not for stupid.

I understand that restrictions are lifting. I understand people like a chat. I don't understand how I'm not gonna get someone's breath/ snot/ Covid droplets in their slipstream. And there are still cases out there. I'd rather be paranoid a while longer thanks very much.

So on Sunday I ploughed into a cat that was obviously just getting me back for being a dog lover. I went over the bars and took skin off my left side while snapping my collarbone and cracking a rib. I'd spent the morning socially distancing in splendour, riding the lanes and getting lost as I really love to do. It took me a long time to get off the ground. I'd never been winded like that before. I couldn't do the usual, you know the craic, get up sprightly and check the bike. Actually I did a Renton in Trainspotting when he had the adrenaline shot. It had been a close run thing. I got a fright. Nothing felt broken at the time so I rode home and felt bad for the hassle I was gonna cause my family by being cranky and slow for the day.

As I rode into town I beat myself up over not being in a secure cycling group earlier. And then in A+E I got to thinking the truth. What I'd been doing for quarter of a year hadn't gone to waste. The masks, the gloves, the loneliness, the irrational nature of isolation in itself was the right thing to do. I might have looked like a mug to some, but hadn't I protected my wife and kids? The voice in my head whispered 'fair play Joe, you are better off adjusting your life to somebody's absence than adjusting your boundaries to accommodate their disrespect'.

Quick thoughts on a pandemic.

Where to start? This isn't a lot of fun is it? We are all scared of dire consequences or repercussions from idiots. We are in the dark although we've lots of daylight at our disposal. This is our war. A real one. Let's face it, we've never had a war before. Sure, my parents lived through 'The Emergency' but there wasn't tangible loss of life. And of course a hundred years ago there was a few skirmishes. But a real war? How many of our European brothers had their countries levelled and their families decimated? You can't say we have anything to compare? Emigration maybe? Everyone in Europe living in a medium sized economy has faced the same. No, this is our first war that we will fight on our turf, our first war with catastrophic consequences on our own island.
So in those big wars fought on foreign shores, people took sides. Some people made a fortune from other's misfortune. Some people put their lives on the line. Some were too shocked to respond. Some died before they knew what hit them. Some just did the right thing. So it's our actions that will define us. The able-bodied and selfish people that emptied their local supermarket are those opportunists of any war, thinking of themselves. And their kids are hanging out with friends, sharing a toke or a slab of beer. They are the post Celtic Tiger kids, the generation that believe there are no consequences. Why? Their parents have accepted them as free and superior and entitled. And now they are inadvertently killing their grandparents.

Those that do the right thing? In the previous wars they fought. Lived or died in unpronouncable places. Lived life on the moral high ground until they were put six feet below it. And if we want to live like that we just have to stay at home as much as possible. Are you telling me we can't do that? Can't not meet for a month, hug, touch or stand close to someone? Late on in World War two around 20,000 citizens in Dresden were burned alive or blown up in one night. We knew nothing of it. Ignorance was bliss. As an island nation we just went about our business at the time. Not now. Now we are hyper aware. Never mind the Facebook crazies that try to heighten the tension. No, us global citizens have only three things to do. Clean our hands. Steer clear of others. Share what little love is left in whatever way we can.
Fairly simple, right? We can't blame ignorance or if we do then Dresden will be small change compared to our own losses.

And the bastards that cashed in on our misfortune? When this is over I'll remember the coal merchant that pushed up his prices, the big store that trebled the price of latex gloves and we'll all remember someone that let us down. Payback isn't too far off.

Of course we can hope the oafs that went to Cheltenham self isolate but I have a feeling thats a sector of society that don't do much for the common man at the best of times. We can hope that anyone that flew to sunny climes in full knowledge of the pandemic and now has had to return will use their smarts. But I'm asking too much. No, the only people I can trust, and perhaps I'll have to put my life in their trust, are those that stayed at home and those that went to work to keep us ticking over. So its a shocking thought in my mind that in facing Ireland's first ever all out war, I'm more afraid of a selection of my fellow man than the pandemic itself.

But I'm a glass half full fella. I believe in us. I believe there are more brave and selfless people on this rock than there are fools. Now we'll find out if I am right.

The Spring Migration.

Tomorrow sees a true force of nature. Not a starling murmuration, not wildebeest herds crossing the great rift valley. Nope. Just the first local road cycling sportif of 2022. No, I'm not joking. The first one hundred kilometre sportif is an act of nature, a true migration in the stature of Emperor penguins marching, or chinook salmon swimming thousands of miles to the spawning grounds. The only thing missing from this great feat of nature will be David Attenborough's voice as narrator, due to budget constraints.

What on earth makes me think this cycling event is one of the earth's true wonders? The colour of course! Neither flamingoes, parrots, nor flying fish have anything on one hundred neon cyclists hurtling down an annual flight path towards their goal. After a long winter hidden from nature, often locked behind closed doors preparing for a new year, it is time to leave the safety of the nest.
And the creatures involved consist of a varied array, all with a different purpose within the herd.
Amongst them will be the sleekest creatures, stealthy carnivores eyeing their meaty prey and waiting for the first sign of weakness. These cheetah-like animals wear black, signifying their stealth and accentuating their lean condition after a winter of malnutrition. They sport no flashing rear lights and their machines are licked clean for speed.
Their soon-to-be-devoured brethren however are easy to spot, brandishing day-glo jackets, overshoes and gloves. Yes, they often look like they fell over in the offer aisles of ALDI, that their clothes inflate at higher speeds or that the hand of bananas they carry in sagging pockets will cause a crash. But they are an integral part of this two-wheeled spring migration. They are the newbies, large creatures that fell into the sport between Junior B and a mid-life crisis. They have never known the bella figura of Roche. They are easy prey as they talk loud, allow bits of pocketed jackets to hang out of their jerseys flapping, and shout directions too loud.
In tasteful club colours you'll find the main herd of animals. Some have spent their winter eating their own weight in HEROES believing the consumption of said rare fodder will turn them into it's namesake. They look tailored in their gear but chafe marks around their lycra bottoms give away their weight and indeed their sad-fate in the hills ahead. The rest can be a subdued bunch, hardly speaking lest they burn the precious calories required later. Or ignoring their fellow cyclist due to notions of superiority. When they do speak it is in reverential, incomprehensible codes. FTP. Watts. Stages. V02. Their language subliminally signals to their rivals just how close to a killing machine they have become.
Next come the old animals known as the 'ex-racers'. They have tans, an almost unheard of pigmentation in springtime here. They have come from sunnier climes in anticipation of the migration. They have the muscle-definition of Alpha-male pack leaders. In their fifties they know about positioning, wind directions and energy conservation. They are waiting, relying on a vast past knowledge to get them through to the end.
Sometimes in this great migration there are the creatures known as tri-athletes. These are not quite fully formed cyclists that as yet must develop stability and acceleration. They are shunned.😉
Lets not forget the cubs. Affectionately known by the over-45s as 'Bloody Juniors' in this rapid migration, their job is to frustrate their elders. They are not fully fledged yet, have a condition known as noodle legs, yet they seem to have the strength of the sleekest, the smiles of the newbies and the staying-power of everyone combined. Once let loose in the herd [under adult supervision] they will circulate full of enthusiasm and cunning, never tiring as they wait for the finale. They are a colourful bunch to watch.
Also in this superb, fast-moving migration we have the Gordos. Foragers whose whole reason for being is to rifle CIRCLE-Ks along the route for their chocolate, fake-coffee and FIG ROLLS. By the end of this great day they will have gained weight, yet in a strange twist of fate they will survive the onslaught of the sleek ones and those in club colours for they will probably be gathered around a Cadburys display somewhere far behind, as the nasty, animalistic action starts further along the route.
Finally we have the 'juicers'. Startled animals that are far too alert to danger to hide in the herd for safety. Feasting all January on caffeine/taurine/beta-alanine and DMAA, they are so stimmed to the hilt that they attack when there is no actual threat, talk to themselves up the road for company and are so paranoid as the hairs stand up on the back of their necks that they don't know their own herd from a predator. They are fun to watch and easy to converse with 'coz they'll do all the talking.
Ah yes, such a wonderful, colourful, eclectic mix in one of nature's true breathtaking events. A trek across two whole counties in early April through the grass and beet lands of southeast Ireland. It truly is one of the world's wonders.

Country Byroad Dreaming (CBD)

Lanes are my friends. In the last year I've moved gradually away from racing and into the realm of a leisure cyclist. 'Leisure' conjures a strawberries and cream, cider in the sun approach to life. Of course it's not straightforward. Some of my friends jump out of planes or paraglide. Some race motorbikes and others push themselves beyond physical capabilities. When do they do this? In their leisure time! So leisure cycling for me is trying to stay properly fit but avoiding racing. Racing got too stressful for me. Balance had become more time in the car than on a saddle. But training hard is paramount. My anxiety needs a distraction and cycling is it. So I still have objectives but the main-road mile eating is gone. Now I seek peace and nature and a little bit of zen. I might still be turning myself inside out but now its in the lanes. I have a handful of sexy loops of one, two and three hours that avoid main roads. And I'm smiling more. Nature and focus have become my counsellors.
Of course I miss the good people of racing but race days became a race of two halves and the calm of the peloton (I usually felt calm racing) was destroyed by manic Fast + the Furious drives home. No point in getting penalty points instead of winners points. Now I pick an event away and bring the family or do a local sportif i can ride to.
I dream of byways and boreens and find challenges in the everyday. A year ago that would have given me palpitations.
And I'm lucky theres a group of good guys around to put in some miles with too.
I think I paid my dues. Did the years and shed the tears, did the miles and won some smiles. Of course there are those I know newer to the game in similar circumstances that can juggle it all and I admire them. But they didn't crash with me in 1989 or do the 200k thing regularly or train with Carrick in the nineties or do the weekend doubles when I was doing them. They didn't hammer me when the leagues were awesome either. My miles are on the clock and I don't need to apologise. And to those few that were there then and are still evergreen, my hat is off to you! You are a better person than I.

Positive negatives.

I sat at the kitchen table at 6.30A.M. on Sunday morning munching cardboard muesli to a Matin chorus of chilling rain. It was biblical. And I knew I wouldn't cycle. I mean, I'd done everything right: bike ready, tyres pumped, bottles filled, clothing in order, bananas/Garmin/C02 cartridge/key on the counter. But I munched and read CYCLIST cover to cover and stayed home.

Why? Well I see myself as a positive guy and can turn most situations into a positive experience.
* Stay at home? It's mid-October. Who cares if I miss a spin? The first of November is my cut-off point for Doritos/ shiraz/ lazy approaches. Does it matter a damn if I'm not getting one over on other club-members/ frenemies/ Winter warriors? HELL NO!
* I get to go pumpkin picking when the rain clears. I owe my family that much. They put up with me not being there on Sunday mornings to watch EVAN TUBE or Horrid Henry repeats at 8A.M. because I'm hurtling down a back lane lying to myself about how I could be a contender when the reality is a far uglier truth.
* Darkness? I don't cycle in Dante's Inferno. Nor do I pedal some ill-lit hobbit Erebor. I stick on enough lights so even the drunkest Troll behind the wheel of a Golf at 6.30A.M. will get spooked. I wear enough high-viz to be mistaken for a breathalyser check-point and carry on.
* Snow? I get to do a flat out hour on the mountain bike in the eerily silenced woods without fear of injury. Yes indeed, I can dress like a demented IRA member, covered head to foot, balaclava included, as I frighten squirrels in my path. Then I get to go home and light the fire and laugh.
* Ice? I get to head for the coast after checking a dozen apps to see what the ground temps are. I love the coast. It laughs at my inertia and changes daily. The air is salty and invariably warmer. Going to the sea in Winter is what my neighbours only attempt in Summer.
* Mechanicals? I don't have them. My spannerman George, never lets my bike get that far. I sail the lanes and snort at the thought of a squeak or a rough bearing. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.
* Illness? Rarely happens. If I go out into a downpour I'll probably get sinusitis. I don't have ephedrine to unblock my nose. So what's positive? A bit of sympathy from the missus? Couch time watching Cyclocross? How bad!
* The hunger knock? These bloody fasted rides are a double-edged sword. I may lose weight over time but it can be tricky. Wanting to climb off and sleep in the ditch/ mirages and dizziness sound cool depending on where you are coming from. Personally if I get the bonk and teeter home like a drunk sloth I treat it as a life-lesson. 35 years of biking can still teach me something. I am human.
* Winter training? Soak it up. Once you've had a good break, givin' yourself a good talking to and committed, Winter training takes care of itself. It's not rocket science. Invest the miles, withdraw the smiles.
* A crash? Something positive? Sure! We all need a reminder that we are breakable. When Mexicans gather at their loved-one's graves for the day of the dead it isn't just to say hello and share a drink. It reminds those above ground that they won't always have that privilege. A crash is a nudge from the Gods to wake us up, to remind us that we have loved ones and jobs and are part of a world beyond cycling. Sometimes it takes a broken bone, ripped muscle or damage to wake us up to what we have as opposed to what we want.
* There you have it. Positivity. I'm sure there's more but I don't want to bore you with stuff you already know. Besides... there's a glass of Shiraz and a hedonistic mix of tortilla chips and custard creams in the house.

Relax, 'tis but October!!

Relax and recharge.

Autumn finally caught a flight to Ireland yesterday and I've had to park wearing shorts around town until late spring. Better for the locals.But I feel like I've gotten away with something. 22nd of September and the rain was warm on today's spin. The lanes (I'm a lanes man) welcomed me with a carpet of beech nuts, defeated leaves and a handful of chestnuts. I felt like a hunter-gatherer on two wheels, searching for challenges and dancing in different directions avoiding incoming showers and outgoing energy.
I didn't get out yesterday when the Fall arrived and instantly did what it promised. No point slinging my leg over my whip and heading out into lightening, flash floods and pounding thunder. I love bad weather but I didn't have to go out and I'm glad i didn't. I welcome snow and ice, hail and heat, wind and downpours. But electricity isn't in any way predictable. Like going hiking in bear country, I fail to see why you might purposefully head into a risk zone. I was afraid to lose more than a Marbella tan.
Not bad, not bad at all that we've gotten to now with short sleeve and suncream spins. Time for the Gods of unpredictability to take hold. It's ok, the windfall apples and sun-tanned blackberries are baked up or preserved, those chestnuts beaten down off bruised trees are in corners fending off spiders. Fruit presses squeeze the life out of harvests and bottle it to keep us in the months ahead, those days of
eight hours of light. My plan is to savour the delights of this autumn time and later, filled with stewed apple or rosehip and chilli dip I'll go out again and breath the frosted air and smell the turned soil. Yup, after the day of the dead I'll go find life in the lanes and indeed in me again.
You see you can't ignore your DNA. Somewhere in those cells that built you up into what you are lies but a few atoms of your ancestors that settled in for a winter of rest and supplies to wait for better days. They showed you the way. You may now be chronically barbered, wear hide for shoes and not underwear, Lidl could be your larder instead of dried meat and I suppose killing your breakfast might be off the cards but really most of us are just one step removed from that flint-wielding, hut-dwelling visceral forerunner of ourselves. They took a break and watched the botched sunsets of chronic weather fronts and galloping winter storms and just rested. Enjoy the break. Never mind your coach. Listen to the tiniest echo of your distant past.