Russet

I'm cutting into Winter in rude health, mobile, willing and motivated. Of course I'd rather be peering into a wine bottle but you can't have it every way. Isn't it an odd time though? In the last weeks bringing home pumpkins, soon to be Jack o' lanterns, surrounded by the sweet kick of huge apples in the background. Or enjoying the multi-rust carnage of the woods, watching as it all falls. I could do a poor-man's Shakespeare and compare the slow and beautiful decay to our own; of how I watched my Mother watching me as I climbed the ladder to harvest the crab apple tree at her house, feeling the moment slip by in total irony. But there is nothing in that scene that can't be better said in silence. It's not a season, it's a sense. And it should be a sense of your own self worth, as well as a timely reminder. I don't see it as a chance for one last cigarette as I sweep up the leaves in the gathering howl of dusk. I can't help but drink in the light and the chance to slow down a little imposed on us by nature. It's only a short, beautiful season, not long in the scheme of things. The mathematical buckos [first Irish builders] that knocked Newgrange together knew what it all meant. From December 21st it all widens out from quiet to a Springtime and Summer riot and then all the way back in again. Reeled in like a Marlin in the Gulf Stream. Its a beautiful, slowing time. Listen to what it says. Regroup, re-examine, relive, return.

The Art of Cycling

Kunst is the German word for art. Cycle racing is an art too. Its no wonder I try to cycle early on Saturday mornings with Kunst Racing Klub. It's simple really. In fact so simple its sublime. You throw a bunch of like-minded cyclists together, they cycle at a common speed with a common goal and go home smiling a couple of hours later. Simple. Except its not. What it takes to bring said like-minded cyclists together is, like Roald Dahl's short story about Hitler's birth, a combination of genesis and catastrophe. Happily the genesis is coffee. Cyclists like coffee. Lipid mobilisation is what the boffins call it. A good buzz is what cyclists want. And stimulated by coffee we spill the metaphorical beans about how we feel. Turns out there's always a common cause. Over the last few years of my life a bunch of us have discovered that cycling is a tough game. Tough and time-consuming. It requires inordinate amounts of patience and understanding from loved ones too. In order not to waste that time, cyclists knock back espressos [Never trust a cyclist that doesn't consume coffee], shake hands and make moves. The genesis of discontent therefore, can often be found in coffee grounds.########################## Then the catastrophe. We all think rapid disasters, multiple deaths, carnage.... In reality catastrophe can be change. Or more accurately, lack of it. Catastrophe on a slow, psychological, wear-you-down-in-a-Gulag kinda way. More coffee is consumed. Nerve-ends, once frayed, become exposed. Catastrophe leads to taking things into your own hands.############################# Saturdays after dawn. Like-minded souls congregate. Not everyone is of the same ability but everyone IS singing off the same hymn sheet. Park the ego, ride the same as your fellow cyclists, sameish effort, same endgame. Banter, and towards the end, a canter. No fascists allowed [yes cycling Nazis do exist], no rosey groups of elite that were introduced to cycling through the friendly patience of club members only for that kindness to be instantly forgotten. A plague on well meaning clubs. Jam novice/A4/A3 and A2 together into a functional assembly and get the work done. Cut out the middle man, meet when you can, ride your bike. Don't impact on your own club in any way. What happens at kunst Racing Klub, stays on the road.################### Kunst. You are thinking very apt. A right bunch. You are thinking of a crowd of no-hopers playing silly-buggers with the local club scene. Actually it's a concept full of hope. We have a hope by doing it right from the start. Anyone like-minded can come along. Just be warned, your say is only worth the same as each of it's participants. And thats the art of Kunst. This bunch, Kunst Racing, are a beauty to behold. Not because of the self-deprecating club name. Not the hairy, knarly racers themselves, just the concept. There's a fluidity, form and function to it, a joy too. I'm not claiming to be part of a moving art installation. I'm just happy to cycle unimpeded by psuedo alpha male codology, with a sound bunch of no-nonsense friends.

Staking pain

What do you put yourself through? I'm only asking because I'm not long off my physio's plinth. It's all been worthwhile, I've learned what I'm doing wrong and stupid habits I need to change, you know, mutate or die. But laying there it struck me that I'm not the only person putting myself through hardship to stay afloat in sport. Physio is one thing, however that's only tickling the underbelly of the beast. When Ciaran Power had his op years back to sort out a blood flow issue in his leg I thought to myself there's a man that won't let anything stop him. I know it was part of his professional progression, but it was some sacrifice. But he is a God. Us plebs do lesser things in our lesser worlds. If for example you have kids, you'll know the thin-line forced on you by Catholic guilt, the type that makes you question your ability at parenting as you slip out the door in all weathers and times to pursue your goals. You hope you are leading by example, showing them that dedication is good, nothing should stop you. But it is some sacrifice. Time doesn't stop.############## There's always someone who'll hydrate on Pre-Workout formulas just to get psyched for a gym session or intervals. Motivation-in-a-bottle can't be beneficial long-term but that doesn't stop the Gym-juicers. But wouldn't a double espresso from your favourite café do the same job?!!############# Silver Nitrate. Even mentioning it sends shivers up my nostrils. I now know a few people who've had their sinuses treated by this process, basically a sprong stuck up your nose followed with silver nitrate to unblock any recurring sinus/ allergy problems. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Always the sprong. That takes cojones to willingly let someone do that.############ Ever tried cryotherapy? The Royal Marines have a segment in Basic where a squad, all dressed in Arctic clothing, full rucksacks and rifles, plunge individually into a ten-foot long hole cut out of the ice above a lake. As they enter, their chests are assaulted by the cold to the point of panic. They are cajoled by their fellow recruits to swim the ten feet and not drown. You see, cryo sounds similar to me. Forcing your body to do something completely alien to it's needs. Shock solution. Would I do it? Yes. Would I have got into the Marines? No!############### Similarly I've seen all kinds of hip and knee replacements although I only know of one athlete that came back so fast from the knee op, ignoring all the protocols in order to be ready for the next season that he can't compete at all now. But there's the broken ankles from soccer, the cruciate ligament damage that is rehab-inducing, all things that people fight to come back from. Even Pantani was pictured after shattering his leg in Milan-Turin, leg wrapped in plastic to keep it dry, walking lengths of a swimming pool in utter agony.Alright, it's not Alex Zanardi but in our mere mortal world it's big. Like Ciaran, some people are just Gods.############# Add to that the 'normal' conversation I had where two beer-bellied sportif riders were telling me all about there Nurofen consumption prior to events to 'get them through' Seriously? Just to get through? To stay functioning?############# And yet we keep going. To rail against the alternative, to back away from the abyss. That could be the couch, the regret, the physical decline, the denial and disappointment.... Don't get me wrong, it's in the offing, in the post, but...hopefully not next season. If an op or procedure or time spent on a physio's plinth can keep you trucking a little longer then the outcome far outweighs the trouble you put yourself through in the first place. Memories fade, the body has a way of kicking pain into touch over time. Like the hacker clearing the hard drive. Pain, procedures, sickening worry, hopes and prayers are removed. You hope to switch on your computer one day and see, finally, an empty file waiting for your new thoughts [hopefully pain-free]. A slot in the chiropractor, a cortisone shot, yes it seems as though we are addicted to staying ahead as long as possible. In essence, nobody wants to witness their own inevitable physical decline, where their strength is gradually retarded because soon follows the feeling of being discarded.

Mr Byrne

We are reliably informed that there's two things we just can't avoid in life, those being death and taxes. Whilst being Irish and resident here leads me to know the latter is often still not always true thanks to portly, duplicitous bastards, devoid of any scruples, I am however, only too well aware, especially this past week, that death still has the upper-hand, levelling it's often unexpected focus at all and sundry. Its easy get philosophical about how short life is, you never know your time etc. However that clichéd faff just doesn't do it. Rather like the heroin suppositories Renton gets to help him come off the gear in Trainspotting, most of those sentimental, Facebook-sage sayings are, to paraphrase, well, "You may as well stick 'em up your arse...!". I've lost a friend in the last week and I can't find the words or the wherewithal to express that loss. It's only through listening to others that I've heard anything near to what helps. You see, I'm contradicting myself publicly here because, well, words are all I have. But I usually don't listen. Yet all I've heard are stories, anecdotes, tales and truths. Lets not bullshit here I only met Richie Byrne once, yonks ago at a race. To be honest in the mid-nineties I was always on an MTB and I can't remember exactly where I met him. I think it was a champs somewhere but my brain plays tricks. I don't remember the venue but I remember the man. He was just someone that stood out as being strong. He was to me even then a sentinel. He was hairy and lairy, heard but not part of the herd. And that was ok in the 90's because it seemed we, as a nation, had got our shit together. When you came of age in the 90's you had a sense that you were leaving a cancer behind; that cancer being a lack of freedom, or a grey personality that never stood out truly, or the religious bigotry that saw Anne Lovett die in 1984 in a grotto while trying to give birth without 'shaming' her family and community. The cancer of emigration due to systemic political failures too,was being reversed. In short, the tide was coming in and lifting the nation out of ignorance and monochrome. And I had got a sense of that. I was couriering around Dublin and there was an atmosphere...a palpable something.... But Richie stuck in my mind because there was an assuredness and can-do about him. He just was, what everyone else might be. I hung around with a bunch of nuts-come-bike-messengers that had so much energy they would hit the trails at the weekend after a full weeks cycling so I always heard some occasional story of Richie. But I guess there's lots more people that knew him for real whereas I went on to my own adventures elsewhere. Getting in touch with him since his diagnosis and following his pure, explosive positivity, I was blown away by how little had changed. Over time he had not become, just reinforced his status as a God of cycling whilst I was still, in relative terms an atheist, ghosting along in the shadows. Roger McGough's poem 'Let me die a young man's death' begged for an exciting death, far from the angelic passing of some old man. He wanted a red sports car to mow him down when he was 73 and 'in constant good tumour'. And that was Richie, in constant good tumour, smiling and encouraging to the last. He may not have been hit by the red sports car but sure wasn't he himself the red sports car? Didn't everyone notice him? Wasn't he loud, and fast, and beautiful and not for the faint-hearted? And the cancer came back to visit. On a grand scale all the sheer propulsion of the ninetie's and noughtie's that saw me being offered a mortgage whilst I waited for a delivery signature bathed in sweat and snot in a bank on Baggot Street came to a grinding halt. We were all lost again. It would take a mesomorph of epic vigour to overcome it all. Whilst the concrete cancer knaws away at our souls, Richie rose above the chasm and fought back with true punches and a spirit that most of us know we'd never, ever muster. Eight million people will be robbed of life by cancer this year but Richie won't be a number. He'll be the supernova that was destined to light our world but, ultimately burn out too soon.

Twilight

Banking miles and effort before the end of September is nothing new. However, this time around I'm doing it with proper purpose. I have good reasoning behind each effort, I know what I should achieve as a result and I welcome the specifics. My coach knows what he is doing and has made the training fun. I need to concentrate and work hard. The old 'use-it-or-lose-it' thing at my age looms large.I used to sit down every Autumn and work out what I needed to work on [a long list!], look at the time I had to do that in [never enough], try to find novel ways of achieving targets [ever-moving targets] and then use some vague concepts to bury myself all winter long with sprints, hills and intervals. Malcolm Elliott without the talent.The only way I seem to have survived that carnage approach to training was by tagging along with more talented cyclists than I and reaping the benefits. I've been damn lucky in the last six years to have cycled alongside two of the best. But I ain't as talented or fit. I figure I've survived at a decent level of fitness for my age and time constraints because while those talented dudes could tie themselves in a knot and then do it all again the next day, I didn't have the time to go out the next day so I'd recover and reload and be fresh for the next onslaught. The only thing I seemed to do right in all those years was arrive at a race ready to race. I can't get to races regularly but even if there's a month in-between events I know what to do to get there. I actually like the challenge. I have no idea where next year will take me but I really want to hit the races that meant something to me, that would be the couple of gallops in Meath at season's opening, the Frank O'Rourke and county champs for the rose-tinted nostalgia and the Eddie Tobin because I know I can win it if ridden right. Meantime, as the 2017 season doesn't start for another 20 WEEKS, I'll just keep the head down, chin up and do what I'm told.

Scotty

F Scott Fitzgerald reminds us from the grave that it's never too late to start. Start living or start something new. He knew more than most what life could throw at a man, having lived it and lost it over and over in a vain attempt to be the epitome of the lost generation. Despite all his crazy capers and hanging with the lunatic fringe he left us that message; Start. Its never that simple but what can I say? We all have it in us. Putting down the bottle, binning the burger, smiling at our own reflection, thinking twice, apologising, grovelling, opening that book, slowing down, going back, regretting. Or, if we were to be honest, being unapologetic, raising our voices, breaking a plateau or setting the bar higher. I'm not so naïve to think that its so easy. Obstacles are there. Sometimes the move off the couch is the biggest, most crippling effort. And the bar is lower for some it seems, more than others. I know that sometimes we park projects never to return despite our best intentions. There's barns full of rusting husks of cars that will never get that TLC they deserve, there's places that will never get the dreamed-of-visit from the man who was saving for it. Hopes and good wishes and intent die too with time. But imagine starting.... Just the simplest thing, anything. Starting towards the tiniest goal but yet something YOU want, not what people want for you. Or even better, starting, like I did today, towards something you regretted doing and needed badly to rectify. Human beings often want but forget or stop dreaming. A small incidental step is all it requires. Soon a minor alteration can become a world shattering re-boot of huge proportions. Even Fitzgerald's Great Gatsby had two characters that succeeded and, ultimately, failed. Gats blew it all for a dream but was amazing while his sun shone. Nick tried to follow suit but ended up back home in the mid-west a broken man. Both men started. Get it? They changed something, a frame of mind or a pattern or a geographical position in order to go and achieve something different. To start.... Just try. The smallest thing to begin with. Fitzgerald's flawed heroes did not make it but they were ALIVE as they tried to. So there's a simple letter Fitzgerald left, despite his brilliant novels, some unfinished, his poems, his film-scripts his short stories such as Benjamin button, a simple letter that brings it all back to a basic, no frills beginning. He said it's never too late to be whoever you want to be, or too late to start again. But start!

Fall

Don't you love it? Autumn has arrived like a wounded animal, snarling overhead and through the trees. Rain sits over the country like a dark-lord's shroud of hate. I love it, the dash from building to building, the warmth in the heavy air still healthy. It's a significant signal of change. Gutters full of leaves, contorting apple-tree branches straining to hold on and bear fruit. Heaving hedgerows braced for an annual cull. Horizontal rain encourages the windscreen wipers to quicken, conversations are short and curt, one eye skywards. Even though its 'inside' weather its too beautiful to be so. And the farmer's lucky run has fallen short, the final dice-throw wins muddy drills and laboured work. But it's been good. Nice, rose-tinted memories to recall over wine and a lit stove. Sun-stretched evenings in May and June, children playing into the dark, smiles and ochre burnt folk still around in August. It's been a healthy, beautiful toy of a Summer and early Autumn, a joy, a Bullfighter's run of passes and veronicas and adulation intercepted by a cornada in the last bullfight of the season in the faded light and glimmer of early September. Yes it has been a damn good run of growth and ripeness but now the Atlantic claws at us, reminding us who is really in charge for half the year.