Season's deletings

Yard Sale. Christmas and New Years, just one big yard sale. You intend to dump all the stuff you don't need and make your next year's journey lighter. You can start with the obvious physical stuff; the front Mavic cosmic with the bent skewer that can't be removed without a blow torch. Or the tools that can't fix anything post-1999 in the bike industry. Or you can get rid of the eight punctured tubes in a biscuit tin, the MTB tyres with ripped sidewalls and memories. Perhaps its time to jettison the hacksaw blades worn flat, the rounded allen keys, bludgeoned mallet and six and a half Aldi rear lights that refuse to flash. Someone else will surely make use of the two musty helmets, wheel bags with mouse droppings or the 42-chain ring that has no home. Once you have cleared that space and set up the turbo its time to clear the mental stuff. Kinda like unfriending on Facebook, the mental yard sale is a state of mind where you offload the negatives without actually, physically removing anything. I guess if my brain is a hard-drive then clearing my head is just putting things into the waste basket. There is always people that need removing. But better still is creating space in your own head by opening your mind. This time of year is to create room for positivity and giving the negative stuff the cold-shoulder. I, for example, have to persuade my head to compete again. Despite more hair-growth in my ears, nose and back than on my head, I have to park my own inner-ageist to one side. No easy task when you have 50 shades of grey without the sexy bits. Similarly, I must coax an old body into a young sport. My Dad, God rest him, used to groan as he stood up in later years. I am beginning that trend again. Therefore I need to create a happy space in my head that ignores arthritic conditions, and permanent tiredness. I ain't no Lemmy from Motorhead. Then theres the happy places to create. An educational psychologist asked a group of us in 2001 to draw our happiest place. I drew the road to Kilkenny, criss-crossing the serpentine Nore all the way. Most of the other's had drawn their house or a park. Kilkenny is still my favourite solo cycle. I need to create a few more of these bolt-holes. Harvey.'s coffee shop. The La Concha bar. Sliabh Coillte in the rain. The ramp after Dunbrody Abbey. Ronda. Any of those places are positive. Places in time where the detritus of ordinary life can be shook off. Places in my psyche. Similarly, there are objects I carry around with me that could be cast aside. A phone. At present I only ever am away from my phone when I race. Imagine just putting it...down. Blasphemy! The Garmin. I don't get it all. I know I'd be a better cyclist with a power meter but how many are not? I like gathering the elevation stats and knowing the temperature or distance but recently my 500 has started to read uphill as a minus gradient and I'm pissed off seeing 13 degrees in mid-December. Time to leave it at home. Natural intervals. Love 'em. Anyway, there's that dude that shows up at open races with an old steel bike, nothing electronic in his possession and can't be got rid of. Watts, me cellulite-engraved ass! And what would I keep, not put out in the yard for sale? The Zondas that seem built for Belgium, my happy Ridley built like a brick shithouse. The amalgam of components I call a groupset that seem like a cycle jumble but never let me down despite our abusive relationship. The race wheels that contain an unquantifiable substance called FGF that boosts performance. That's Feel Good Factor. And a framed photo from around 14 years ago [I was a Princely 33 years old] riding a storming 56 minute 25 mile TT while hungover and humming. Don't know many that would want to buy that photo of me anyway as there is no carbon or electronics or yaw factor in it. Its a keeper. So there you have it. Time to empty out the unused stuff and clear the ether for your next big adventure. Its worth it. I might even pop around and grab a bargain. Got any old oval ball-bearings or left-hand cranks in need of a home?!

Christmas caution.

Remember your first bike? Bet you it was Christmas. Shiney steed taking your breath away. You couldn't wait to take it outside and be instantly fast, skilled and superhuman. But it was still dark out. In the meantime you pulled the brake levers over and over, watched the cam action of the brake on the still rim. Or wheeled it backwards to hear it click. Oh joy. Then we all grew up. Gone is that President BMX. But the freedom and independence associated with it has stayed with us. We don't wait for Christmas anymore to buy cycling jewellery, however, Christmas is a super time for cyclists. Its a pivot point. We've either done the donkey work of late Autumn and early Winter and are looking forward to a gulp of claret and a gob-full of Turkey as a well deserved bonus for going training to bank miles. OR...we are going to put in a huge training camp over the Christmas holidays, see the kids at bed time and stagger into January with a thousand k in the legs and our hopes still alive. Either way its central to a racing cyclists life. We will hope to sneak out and put in a Tinkoff training camp. Just not in the Canaries. But its similar, if you leave out the tan-lines, subtract the warmth, the different scenery and of course the care of a professional squad. Here in Ireland over Christmas we can have the same-ish, complete with muck spots in our ears, raw skin from exposure, the same dead roads as always and a quick rub from the village idiot with the poteen for 'medicinal' purposes. Almost pro. And the food; low-loaders full of sprouts,[gotta have the greens] ample turkey, [great protein and good fats], spuds [enuf said], mince pies, [perfect rear-pocket ,mid-ride fillers], pudding with custard, [no good reason but to hell with it!]. All great fitness foods. Its the chocolates, the biscuits, the Catholic guilt of our youth that says we will let the mammy down by not eating our children's weight in toffee/ fudge/ quality street or Christmas cake that does the damage. No point having the post-fasted-Christmas-morning-ride followed by a infant-sized fistful of perfectly wrapped little toffee bowel-blockers. I blame the church. Being good to your neighbour, treating everyone equally is what its all about. Last year's sherry, tumblers of whiskey, vineyard's of wine, six packs of Galahad. We all just want to make everyone welcome at our door. Its in our Irish nature to force our Muslim neighbours two doors up to 'try' Jameson. To cajole diabetic Aunty Bidser into a few handfuls of Heroes [few being code for a kilo]. God help your vegetarian friend being fed a nut-roast drowned in meat gravy 'to make it feel real' or anyone in your kitchen without a plate/glass/platter/bottle/magnum in their hand to busy them. And this is where us cyclists blur the edges between lean and gristle. We have to look out for ourselves. Its not cool to hear our arteries hardening as we eat a supper of foie gras and port, even if we think we have trained hard enough for it. Its nice to try tipples without actually meeting Santa Maria in person, moving to live at Chateau Neuf du Pape, settling in Bordeaux, having Sangre de Toro running in your veins or drinking Prosecco coz it has 'Pro' in the title. No, we have to abstain, watch others develop Bisto for blood, believe that Fergus down the road will be doing his annual Ullrich X-mas while you imagine yourself as a svelte little elf in the off-season. To nail it altogether you need to cycle on Christmas Day. Get up early, tell the inconsolable kids that you won't be long and get the hell out the door. I remember a few years ago cycling near Culmullin in Meath and seeing a kid open his presents on the kitchen table as I went by in the half light. Bah humbug, I really wanted the scalp of the racer dude that lived in Kilcloon, the village that time forgot. He always beat me. I passed his house in the 53, hoping he would see me and feel very threatened for the upcoming events. He was not there. I spent the return leg thinking about where he could be. I persuaded myself he was in Lanzarote. Ba***rd! Ruined my Christmas. In hindsight he was probably just around at the Ma's. But miles done on Christmas day are sacred. Not for the feint-hearted. Men have been destroyed by those miles. Or at least the psychotic partners they face upon their return! So you get in the miles, hopefully with company and hit New Year's humming like a fridge in the middle of the night. You have avoided the hamper-porn, the brandy butter that nobody compus mentus would touch, you won't even kiss anyone under a mistletoe in case you pick up a bug. You have done it! Survived your body's neanderthal want to shut down and hibernate like a shaven-legged brown bear. You have in fact, dodged nature's strength at it's best. You are a survivor of the most vicious season of all, an Irish Christmas and it's lead-up. Only a cyclist could have the stubbornness to go against the tide of pub-goers, Winter-pound-putter-on-ers and voracity of a rampant Granny forcing cake onto your plate. But really, balance is the key. Not trying to balance your drunken physique up a stairs, not balancing a plate of sprouts in one hand and as many Ferrero Rocher in the other. Just balance. One mince pie = one hour on the bike. Half a Turkey's arse with stuffing = two hours of Sufferfest. Bottle of vino = 100km steady. But isn't it nice to pig out in order to justify more time out on your bike? Season's Greetings fellow tight-rope walkers!

Against the tide

Lately I have become a warrior. I have successfully beaten the rain gods through ignorance and perseverance. I have in fact ignored EVERYTHING in my quest for 100 hours of training between 1st Sept and now. And I felt like a God of my own destiny in the last few weeks, overcoming injury and illness too in my quest. But life has a way of chastening you when you think you've solved it all. Sleep deprivation is a wonderful addition to any family, throwing irritability, inability to function normally, lack of appetite and lowering physical strength in along the way. Due to family circumstance I found myself on the start line of the Wexford Wheelers Hamper race on Sunday having brought my daughter back from Caredoc 90 minutes earlier and not having had a full nights sleep in ten days. Enthusiasm is a wonderful drug. I really didn't want to miss this event after missing Garrett McCabe's super organised race the previous weekend. But you have to take your chances. I hadn't stayed in the bed, I had felt under the weather but shown up. You have to thank people for running events for little reward, year in, year out. You must thank them for putting up with many the odd diva, grommit or tantrum-thrower down through the seasons. As murky days go, Sunday was a humdinger! Sloppy, slippy, gloopy...that carpark was a nightmare. The twisty/ fast nature of the short lap in Ferrycarrig meant that you could glide over any 'bumps'. With David Maguire duly taking the mickey out of us on the startline, it was shaping up to be a chariot race of epic proportions. And then it started. Which was unfortunate for me. I know what I am capable of in training and put it all into practice for the first lap. But the body was tired. But who wants to hear about my wonderful race? What I love about crazy local races, especially Hamper races, is that theres always a few turkeys.... What I mean is those that will stick their necks out and those that have some neck! Those that stick there necks out seem to enliven any race, one for a hamper being no exception! Its grand if you want to glide around like a ghost but its better to get involved. Better for your fitness. Thats where the ones that stick their necks out come in, forcing a change, forcing the pace. Unfortunately, like the pros with scantilly clad girls, I'm sure there are people that have pictures of hampers attached to their stems as motivation. Lets call it 'hamper-porn'. They want to hide away to 'save' themselves for that sprint. Obviously the graphic image of a pudding or chutney, mince pies or a juicy ham will spur them on to a fine gallop . The French have a word for them; Le Scrubbeur. If you show up to race, you really should do so. But the sharp end of a race is a better place to be. Lo and behold, the action took off, leaving the A4s up front driving it on, closely pursued by two from the scratch group working like one...smoothly cutting a swathe through that murk, akin to a duo riding out of the apocalypse. And behind, the rest worked hard, pushing it on, doing it right, not wasting a Sunday in the trenches. I didn't see the finish, I was so far behind I was in my car getting changed. But those that were still in, rode like they stole it. I know you are wondering...what about those you said had some neck? Apart from the hiders above, saving themselves,I really can't stand cyclists that have no spatial awareness. If you are blissfully unaware of the carnage that can be wrought by switching in the bunch then you don't even recognise yourself in this blog. I don't want to be a domino in someone else's game. Nor do I want to go home carrying an A3 size envelope with my x-rays inside thank you very much. And its not that people don't tell you. Cyclists let you know. Maybe its time to stop ignoring your name or number being called out, or indeed the fists being shook at you. Its not coz they love you. I suppose what angers me is that a hamper race is good fun and a microcosm of every race. By December you have forgotten about those that make cycling dangerous through their lack of ability and then it floods back. But of course, Sunday was more fun than any one eejit can erase. A marvellous crew surrounds my local cycling and there's always more smiles than anything else. Even the lads with chest infections are cracking jokes and making everyone smile. Its just that I don't want anyone to spoil my party... after all, I want to get home to the crazy kids that stop me from sleeping, the wife that puts up with my cycling psychosis and the madness of my beautiful life.

Noah

I wonder did Noah ever go to the rail on his rather large roll-on, roll-off ark, peer through the murk at the biblical monsoon that was flooding his whole world and utter the famous words "What the f**k?". Surely he was fairly sick of having pairs of every creature stuck in the hold going berserk at the drumming cacophony of rain above decks, squawking, howling, roaring and snorting their discontent? Until today when I saw the code red warning for rain over the weekend, I had never really thought about Noah's headache. He couldn't moor his ship of creatures anywhere because the water was still rising. And its no different around here. I was running like a Viet Cong soldier in the woods yesterday, the trails one large, never ending paddy field. Brown water cascaded down the roads and stream and as I ran, it just got heavier and heavier until it seemed to be the end of everything. But it wasn't. I have washed my bike after every spin for weeks, a rime of grit and shit there each time. I feel sorry for my kit, my components, my mental well-being. All of them have taken a sound beating from the weather. Three hours last Sunday just got progressively nastier. If I hadn't had good company I'd have scooted home and hit the claret. But to be honest, rain is rain. They won't cancel a bike race cause its raining. Bad weather is good. Rode to Wexford with Miz in the snow this time five years ago. No problem. There wasn't a sinner out. It was cold. Rode the Madrono climb out of Puerto Banus in 38 degree heat years ago. So it was hot. Have ridden 9 hour epics in pouring rain. It was wet. You just have to suck it up. Weather is weather. Theres a lot of it around. What makes weather bad is non-cyclist's attitude to it. Irish drivers don't slow down unless a cop waves a blue light at them. They won't see you cycle or run despite wearing a shed load of fluoro, believe that driving fast is the only answer to a deluge. Cars are cocoons, drivers believe they are safe inside and nothing can hurt them. Not even a dude on a push bike going over the bonnet. When I cycled to Wexford in the snow with Miz that time there was a foot of snow banked in the laybys and centre line, yet a Nolan's artic still passed us at 60mph, slid the trailer and made us change our collective underpants. That was in a virtual white-out. As a bicycle messenger we all had one day, black Wednesday, that was sleet, gales and pneumonic. Generic November day gone wrong. I had lost the feeling in my hands by 10 a.m. The forecast had got it wrong. I stole rubber gloves from the base's kitchen, cut old socks as hand warmers and still couldn't radio in signatures or open doors. A wheelie-bin blew across a deserted Leeson street and just about wiped me out. Nobody smiled. When envelopes got delivered, Receptionists gasped and muttered 'holy f**k' in disbelief. And when I got home to my gaff in Fairview I defrosted in the shower for the evening. And life went on. Descending into Bunclody off Mount Leinster in a May monsoon, watching my hat peak slowly dip downwards until it blocked my line of sight was some craic. I had to cycle like a meerkat for 35 more miles. And the sun came out about a mile from home. And that blustery day not two years ago I did my intervals up the hill to the Brandon House Hotel ten times and then watched 15 minutes later as the roof peeled off the local swimming pool and frightened ten bells of sh*t out of everybody. Its all relative ain't it? Some of us will be wound around a log fire for the coming Winter season, some others will be ice-climbing in Scotland. Everybody deals with it their own way. But those of us out in the worst of it will usually be smiling at our fortune. Clearing our heads or getting one over on our imagined rivals or putting in the miles because indoors is akin to heartache. I love those that venture outdoors. Pema Chodron puts it nicely..."You are the sky. Everything else-its just the weather."

Hampers

As I sit here at midnight nursing a clicky knee and hip like an old, faithful Labrador long past it's best before date, I'm trying to be upbeat. Another murky day rolls away to make room for more of the same but I won't allow myself to wallow in self-pity considering all the bad stuff that could befall me or mine.In a week's time the first of two Hamper races I hope to enter this year is on. Gammy joints or not and as I'm relatively cycling fit, I feel it's my duty to race them. You see, memories always quicken the pulse, harden your resolve and make you think you can re-live those times again. You know, the older I get the better I was. And for me, the Hamper races I have entered down through the years have always been eventful. So when I click in for the Conor McCabe next week on the 6th of December or the Wexford Wheelers hamper race on the 13th I'll be half living in the now and half in a land of nostalgia. As a young fella of twenty I won my first hamper race around the Barrowland circuit in New Ross in a two-up sprint. That was at the end of a devil-take-the-hindmost. I beat Dessie Kent up the drag to where Tesco is now and I thought I'd be turning pro soon after.It was one of only two hamper races I won! But it wasn't my best. That was 1994. King Kelly had just retired, seeing out his last season with Catavana, and to celebrate, the town of Carrick put on a neutralised sportif with over a thousand riders in it, the last 20-30km being a free-for-all. But it wasn't just a bunch of freds and trolls out for a Sunday spin. There was ICONS in the mix....Fignon, DaSilva, Stephen and Laurence Roche and a certain Mister Merckx. And I rode out of my skin. But its funny, it was BMX that got me to the finishing circuit in Carrick that day. When I hung out with a bunch of bike-nuts as a 14-year-old, a young lad called Val Dunne showed me how to wheelie and bunny-hop. I got the wheelie up to 200 metres and the bunny-hop routinely up to a foot. I'd like to say my skills got me all the girls but they didn't. Why do I digress? Well, it was that bunny-hop, learned in an empty Swimming Pool car park after dark as a kid that got me to the circuit in Carrick many years later. As soon as the flag went down it was chaos. For some reason, 998 cyclists that day thought they too were fleet Gods. When the pace went up, the uninitiated went down. Hard. There was a touch of wheels as a big split occurred and a frantic scraping of metal on tarmac. And, in a line-out, I looked up to see some guy flat on his back, his bike hell bent on blocking my path and without a second thought I was back in the swimming-pool car park clearing a chunk of wood that we used for practice. I thought I wouldn't clear the bike and I touched it's rear wheel as I went over. Yet I stayed up and was last man in the selection that made the circuit before the barriers locked us in to that furious rat-run around the river. I probably got 25th. And I was a good kilometre off the fight for the win but I do remember passing Laurence Roche up the drag off the bridge on the back of the circuit each lap and he returning the favour in spades on the flat. He was riding for TonTon Tapis as a pro and I was riding for the ham sandwiches in the hotel afterwards.I stood up to sprint for the craic and I smiled for a week after it. So I returned many times. When Mark Scanlon was World Champ he raced for the hamper in Carrick the week before Christmas and it was a shit-fest on a windy circuit [a couple of kilometres had grass down the middle and more bends than a yoga instructor on difene]. He disappeared up the road and made us all look like grannies shopping in Supervalu. Another year I was passed by Cassidy and Kelly. I had a HRM for the first time and knew when they went through our group and chatted that I was in for it. My heart-rate with 15km to go was 198. The Slaney guys ran a race based on Scarawalsh maybe 15-16 years ago in the middle of a big freeze.I won an uphill sprint against Johnny Carroll from Dublin and remember feeling bad because he had mudguards and all the winter gear just shy of a yeti. And my feet and hands were so cold I placed them in the fridge to thaw out. That last fact may not be actually true. But I thought about it. My brother Stephen rode bloody well that day. We loved hard races.And then Wexford Wheelers started having extraordinary events in the back lanes of Ferrycarrig. Fast and furious as no doubt the one on the 13th of December will be. Twenty years ago people would race with tinsel on their bars or helmet, perhaps a santa hat. Now its break out the carbon finery, catch up with your local peleton and dig deep. A real race with the fun afterwards over a cup of tea. I don't quite know what it is about their appeal. A mid-Winter test? A rehearsal for two months later? A chance to taste Belgian toothpaste and get stubborn dirt into your jersey? Funny, but whatever the reason I don't know anyone who races for a hamper!

Hydrate or die

Being manipulated like a slab of beef on a physio's plinth can be a wonderful experience. Sometimes. Being turned over like a pig on a spit with an orange in it's mouth, kneaded, beaten, stretched to breaking point and beyond, all in the name of sport is a little unfair. My Patella tendon, something I didn't know I possessed, is giving me grief. But I knew something was wrong because I was weeing like Brussel's Mannequin Piss for the last week. Apparently with my quads tighter than a snare drum, they were refusing to absorb water. I drink a minimum of 2 litres of water a day, so instead of being absorbed it was looking for a way out. My patella is being pulled unceremoniously upwards like a guide wire on the Golden Gate bridge by my tight quad. And as the only time I usually stretch is for the vinegar in a chippers, its got to the point where something has to give. Ice, foam roller, stretches. Forty Seven years old next month and I've only been to a physio five times in my life. I am the lucky chap. But if I don't change, starting yesterday, I'll be living on a plinth by age forty eight! Add to this my Carpal Tunnell'ed wrists and tendonitis-prone feet, sure you may as well turn me to glue today! But I am going to embrace change. I used never do intervals. Wondered why I got dropped. I changed training and got better. I used never put in miles, never had endurance. Changed that too. Funny as it may seem, I would rather do uber-hard intervals now, would rather come back shook, than wander aimlessly around the roads calling myself a cyclist. Age has another effect though. Its made me conservative in how I expend my energy. It may just be that I am stubborn but I know in a race or event, I have X amount to give and I'm not going to throw it away. Its probably an awareness that I am not twenty years younger too. A young lad has a whole box of matches to burn in a race, Maguire and Patterson couldn't keep up with a twenty-year-old in a race. But I'm more aware of what my body is capable than ever. For example, a two-day race is beyond me now. I cannot recover, despite wearing everything but a compression willy-warmer, bathing in a vat of protein shakes', getting a rub from ten Turks, sleeping at altitude on Glenmore hill, eating chicken with my porridge and being carried around on a litter by a bunch of Lilliputians. No matter what I do to stay fresh I'll wake the next day with someone else's legs, notably an eighty-year-old smoker's. Oh, and I need sleep. Six hours does it but any less and I become a fist-dragging troll muttering monosyllables. Can't ride a bike if the bags under your eyes get caught in the spokes. Oh, and I need wine, a glass or two-ish. Swear by it! So don't feel sorry for me as I roll my wrinkled limbs like Mary Berry arsing around with dough. Please don't laugh as I walk like Captain Ahab without his white nemesis, or shop in circles in the supermarket because my tracking is off. I'll be right as rain when I get some sleep after a dinner of wine, stretch my quads like playdoh, beat my patella down to a measly bit of gristle, ice the offending limb 'til its colder than an Eskimo's chest freezer and find my way down the stairs for tomorrow's bike ride like a king crab with saddle sores.

Soggy bottoms

Ya wouldn't want to get your hopes up these days. The forecast on TV seems to have bad news even when its good news. Any chance of sun is laughed off as though we are stupid for getting our hopes up. 9.30 every evening I see more isobars than before, the lows seem to have lows and if I see more fronts I'll think I've woken up at Spring break in Miami. My opportunities for escape [sorry, I mean windows for training] are tighter than Cavendish's stem bolts and whatever the weather is firing down I have to get out. Use it or lose it. Train or go insane. Athlete or fatlete. But this time-management nonsense needs planning. My house is a combination of a Fire Station and Wallace and Grommit's "The Wrong Trousers". Five minutes from work I'm in the door. The bike is ready from 7A.M. with a full bidon, kit is waiting turned right-side out and ready to put on. Puncture canister, gel and glasses are all in the helmet in the bag, beside the shoes. Shut the door, turn on Nespresso, dress, wheel bike to door, drink espresso, instantly stoked and gone down the road. And today was no different. Muck, leaves, wind, rain. How I love being Belgian. Well, I must be, revelling in what most people think is a sh**e day. Up to the Sky-road through farmyards, scutter, clay, branches and silence. I wouldn't change it for anything. Except that the sun came out as I returned over by Listerlin and I'm sure I heard a laugh, or a scoff coming from the fading, low-lying clouds. But I don't have the luxury of waiting for the better part of the day as Tony Ryan once did. Gotta make do. An 80km/h descent off the BallyMartin ridge in the rain isn't as cool as the dry but it still rocks. Sliding on off-camber bends is a seasonal bonus, Moorhens and gurgling water a better soundtrack than sticky tar. Each to their own. And hosing the bike white again, filling the washing machine with some of the days labour and some farmer's soil is cathartic. Shower faster than a Gypsy's card trick and back in work on time, blood flowing, stronger, faster, smarter. Of course that all sounds like a Bollywood production...perfect choreography, colour, smoothness and a little magic. What actually happens is a discombobulated clusterf**k of mayhem behind closed doors. CCTV would reveal a struggling idiot fighting with every sleeve, leg, ratchet and piece of Velcro until he resembles a lycra-clad tumbleweed rolling towards and out through the front door and down the hill. My bottle probably empty, chain a forgotten amalgam of ginger rust, odd socks or inside outs, time already running so low I may as well just return to the house and hose the bike already. Who needs an espresso when your heart rate is already 185 from the lunatic escape routine you just performed while getting your Velotoze wrong again? Seriously, if my neighbours only knew! Although they might,considering I live in a semi-detached and I regularly curse the world and it's mother in a high-pitched whine while desperately trying to dress myself mimicking a break-dancer. Ah yes,I look good out there, flick through town like the local pro, giving off the vibes of a winner. Just look closer and you'll see a chamois on in reverse, left overshoe on right foot and you'll hear a squeeking chain and the wheeze of an old, overwhelmed git on borrowed time....