Going back

They say you should never meet your heroes but that's a lie. Bear with me and I'll explain.
30 months. 30 months of my life. I'd pretty much gotten over the psychosis I'd developed from that time; 22 months straight as a cycle messenger in Dublin, spanning '95-'97 and subsequently two Summers and a Winter. I just could not get that life out of my head for more than a decade after I'd walked away from it. You see it wasn't a job, or at least, it started out as a job but wound up as an identity that shaped me and made me grow up fast. And it was a great escape.
Like a stereotypical Californian I needed to find myself in '95. Unbeknownst to my inner-self I was totally lost. My Dad had died a few years earlier, my attempts at serial monogamy were crashing and burning regular as clockwork. I was in college but as a mature student I felt like an outsider even though I was developing incredible friendships. I needed to deal with my issues. I'd even been dealt the death card in a tarot reading resulting in the clear-cut message that a section of my life was passing and I needed to lay a wreath and move on.
I somehow got a job despite my lack of knowledge of Dublin and soon became part of a community of cycle-messengers. A murder of couriers. All of them bar none possessed exuberant personalities that more than matched that type of work. You had to have boundless energy and focus. And then off the bike that would continue. Most were musical...either DJs or playing in a band. Some were writers. Many just bounced from one party to the next. Or double/ triple-jobbed. It didn't matter, there was always energy to do more. During that time I made a lot of friends and as is my thing, I spent a lot of time on the periphery. A couple of these people were absolute heroes of mine, icons, people for whom nothing would prevent their stars from burning, infusing everyone about them with vivid energy.
And so it came to pass that a couple of days ago I shook hands with Tom McDonald here in the provincial town I call home. He was back from Australia. Tom had always looked out for me and we'd instantly connected on Stephen's Green. He had stuck in my head for nigh on 20 years and when I sat opposite himself and his lovely wife and child nothing had changed. We've both moved on, through adulthood and responsibility, family and strife but it seemed to me as if we'd met like any other Friday in Bruxelles and just got on with being us. That healthy irreverence and quick wit had gone nowhere. The red dredz are long gone but the same smile and depth of feeling stood out. Nearly two decades apart and the small matter of 10,000 miles... but otherwise....
Funnily enough we both identify and deal with teenagers and young adults coming from tough backgrounds. Later my brother would point out that we probably deal with and identify with those people because we were surrounded by them in the mid-noughties or we were in fact one of those troubled young adults ourselves, albeit skittering around Dublin's warren of streets on bicycles stopping at nothing. Having coffee with Tom just seemed to give clarity and function to all that time on the streets. I know most of my family saw what I was doing as a waste, a lower-caste way of making ends meet. But I just wasn't able, wasn't grown up enough by my mid-twenties. By the time I was spat out the other side of that life-path as if I was surfing a giant, killer wave under the cliffs of Moher, I had graduated. Not just college but I felt I could deal with things, anything at all. I'd been part of something very important to me, a scene or cohort of like-minded people. Funny that most people don't get it, don't see it for what it was, and that makes it a little more special for me. For the craic you should try, just like I did, to explain to middle-aged yokels in your home town that being a bike-messenger was the experience that influenced you the most in your life. Guarantee they stare at you like you have two heads.
I just loved the freedom. Yes I was working long hours on long jobs and spent lonely hours traversing Dublin but the beers and banter in between were phenomenal. Yes it was minimum wage when you took everything into account. And yes it sometimes sucked. But BurgerKing would have been the death of me. So many of the bit-players were transients, between 'proper' jobs but I didn't care. They coloured in everything for me, influenced me with their world view and I seemed to do the same for them. I had my niche, even moving on to a bigger, better company. And I felt valued. You can unearth negatives everywhere but I just know I was very very happy at that time. For all intents and purposes it was like an extended gap year that taught me well. Mostly that I had a value way higher than I'd previously believed. I don't remember half of what I did but I'm extremely proud of my time in Quickstream and Cyclone. Tom, all the way back from Oz, helped to put a cap on the bottle, to place people and things seen and done and put it away for once, maybe labelled as vintage.
Of course the other side of that is that we could meet and have a coffee, Tom and I. We came out of that scene and kept it together. There are the dead and the broken-forever back there.Some people's psychosis [for I really do believe being involved in that world affects your cerebrum for years afterwards] kept on giving. They may have searched out other highs to get them through or travelled a lot rather than sit still, or been paranoid or friendless in the vacuum left by road-hunger. But we escaped. No broken bones, little road rash, less road-rage. A lot of cold and sleet and bucket's of rain. Maybe some arthritis but few betrayals. Meeting Tom was a good thing for me, that catharsis I'd been dreaming of, the closure of a door two decades swinging on it's hinges. They say you shouldn't meet your heroes but I disagree.

Aplausos

Bullfighting is a metaphor for life. Its in the struggle, the beauty, the torment and excellence before the inevitable. On the yellow yellow sand of the bullring the torero only sees the bull, the beautiful creature he will do the dance of death with. He doesn't see or hear the crowd, doesn't absorb the adulation or jeers. He only thinks of the domain of the bull and the domain of the bullfighter. Like life, the outcome isn't pretty but sometimes the living of it is a thing to behold.#################################### Yesterday was one of those days. I wasn't ever gonna be a bullfighter. I was always gonna be ordinary. Yet yesterday, for an hour, everything was sublime. I wasn't hoisted on the shoulders of the crowd and whisked out the main gate, flowers and hats floating past on the breeze...but I won a race after being in the wilderness for such a long time. To be surrounded by such a welcoming team of friendly faces and fierce team-workers made it special. And the cuadrilla at home...friends and mentors and my coach seemed a huge part of it too.############################### Yesterday we clipped in and sped away into the domain of the bull. Moving ever closer to the creature that could make us or slay us. And it was beautiful, symmetric, controlled. Mick and Albert contained everyone's effort inside an infernal metronomic pace that became the creature's undoing. The bull charged and stood, charged and stood and in doing so wore itself out. Us toreros pressed home our advantage. A sublime day where everything went right.################### The last few movements played out quickly. Pressing on, the late last surge, an energy emptying effort from the beast behind and it was over. I planted my feet in the sand, dug in for grip and for less than a second myself and the beast were one as the sword went in and the creature went down. I had finished what everyone around me had begun, getting to the line first, getting the kill for the first time in six years. It felt beautiful covering my gold and purple cape in the sweat of effort, the dust of the ring. And better still the handshakes and messages from good people who'd stuck with me during the poor times.

Alien

December. The Omens are good. I am healthy. I am motivated. Somewhere out there is a new cycling season waiting to swallow me up. As I trundle through training sessions I feel like I'm back playing Space Invaders as a sixteen year old, in the basement of what is now Ephesus Kebab in the New Ross old town. A bunch of us used to run down Goat's Hill during morning break in school, play video games for a few minutes and finally run back up the hill in time for whatever subject was up next. Askew adolescents. Anyhoo...Space Invaders...you see, you keep moving, don't slow up even for a moment, back and forth blasting the baddies off the screen. Consistently avoiding the explosion that heralds your demise, your last life spiralling into deep space.####################################I've been locked into the tractor beam of training since September and I'm loving it. 48 in a few weeks time and I've never been more motivated. Yes the roads are slippy. Yup the air is cool. Of course I could be curled up on the couch drinking port and watching Fast and Loud re-runs. I just can't. What was Grace Jone's tune from the same era as I played Space Invaders? 'Slave to the Rhythm'? That's it. That's me. Kit laid out, bottles full, tyres hard. Sometimes daylight, sometimes not. It doesn't matter to me. Out the door to stop the thoughts or sort them out. Attack the imaginary rival or watch the numbers defy my age or ability. Always a glimmer. Just a glimmer. Probably shortening my life but justifying it in the process. I've come a long way from Space Invaders down the town but I'm still trying to escape the mechanical humdrum of my greatest fears; The white noise awaiting me if I ever stand still. So don't think or blink, just keep moving.

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.