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.
Saturday, March 21, 2020
Thursday, January 9, 2020
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.
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.
Sunday, December 8, 2019
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
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!!
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!!
Sunday, September 22, 2019
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.
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.
Friday, March 15, 2019
Racing cyclist survival guide.
Surviving the bike races this season is simple once you follow my fool-proof guide. Trust me, there's nothing to fear with a little planning! I aught to know, I was a successful A4 for nearly a decade!
1)Plan your planning. Stress uses energy. To avoid stress and therefore you losing a race, plan ahead. Where is the race? When do I have to leave home? So, you should also; put your money/licence/shoes/helmet in the bag the night before. Likewise... bike washed/lubed/shoved in car the night before. Petrol tank full the night before. Track pump in boot. The night before. And a loo roll. Don't ask.
3)Put your gear (in order of putting on) out too. Socks on top of a pile with shorts, vest and arm warmers underneath.
1)Plan your planning. Stress uses energy. To avoid stress and therefore you losing a race, plan ahead. Where is the race? When do I have to leave home? So, you should also; put your money/licence/shoes/helmet in the bag the night before. Likewise... bike washed/lubed/shoved in car the night before. Petrol tank full the night before. Track pump in boot. The night before. And a loo roll. Don't ask.
3)Put your gear (in order of putting on) out too. Socks on top of a pile with shorts, vest and arm warmers underneath.
4) You should by now have emptied a supermarket of bananas and dragon shots in the preceding days. There's nothing more satisfying than placing 14 bananas and 8 dragon shots on the conveyor in Centra and watching the bespectacled auld one trying to figure out what it's all for? A chimp sanctuary? A rave?
5)Morning of race; Flahavan's factory bowl-full of God's laxative along with the obligatory double shot from the Sage Barista. The coffee is not performance enhancing, it's merely to amp the banter in the car with your mates.
6) Jersey!!!!! Don't pin on your numbers while waiting on the microwave/ coffee machine. Get it done last night and always use too many pins too.
7)Too many bottles filled. Don't just think of getting through the race! You must drink on the way there and on the return journey or you'll resemble an old turtle the following day. You might wee in a bin at every rest stop on the M9 but the alternative, leg-locking-in-the-middle-of-a-sprint, is more embarrassing.
8)Get there early. Something always gets in the way. That could be; A] A sign on queue longer than your losing streak. B] 250 racing/ 3 toilet cubicles/ one sodden jax roll now worth more than a piece of the Berlin wall. C] An Untimely puncture. D] Changing clothes coz its colder than you thought. E] No parking available because someone read these suggestions and beat you to it. You see, you want to psyche out your frenemies by being in a healthy sweat on prominently displayed rollers as they arrive late, unable to park or poo or sign on without crying.
9)Put 20 psi less than it says on the tyre. (Note, the same does not apply to the car.)
10)Start at the front, ride at the back. You need to see who is keen/there and easing back to the last ten will give you the inventory you need. It usually goes from fittest and feisty at the front but usually not winners, through dangerous tri-athletes new to the sport, with the spatial awareness of a brick (see what I did there??) to the auld cagey ones in with a chance, all the way down to the Belgian mix. That's the last ten that either can sprint like a rocket, want to wait until the eager gits wear themselves out thinking they are at the Giro doing it for the Tifosi, or the barrel-bottomed boys that have the physique of a rugby player crossed with the strength of a sumo wrestler and a 0-60 of a dragster for that last quarter mile. Why ride at the back? Ever watch a pilot fish follow a great white? Now you have it.
11)Wear mirror lenses. So you're fecked? Nobody can see it. Blood vessels have exploded with the eye-popping intensity? Not visible. You cry tears of blood? Same. Cross-eyed from Russian pre-workout? Likewise.
12)Elbows and butt power; Ah bunch riding. Realistically you can ride any race hanging off the back like a native of Calcutta taking the train as long as you get your sh*t together for the last kilometre. Then you need tunnel vision. Keep the elbows out, don't apologise for baulking that 15-stone Neanderthal silver-back that you sat at the rear with for the last 2 hours. Yes he can bench press your Ma but can he weave like a hornet through a meadow? Hell no. Keep your butt clenched for the 90 seconds it takes to cover that last K. You will experience handlebars, fists, mitts and gear levers trying to jostle you for position but hold firm. Pucker up. You belong there. Darwin mentioned you in 'Origin of the species'.
13)Wait. And wait. Maybe wait a while. You may think you have the power output of an antelope but don't forget A4 racing is akin to the Serengeti at the height of Summer. And those 10 at the back represent Leopards, Lions and Jackals . Let them off, view them as a lead-out train and follow them to victory. Hopefully the rasher sandwiches or barrel of ale they consumed last night will release just enough cholesterol to slow them in the last 30 metres. Then, out of the slipstream like a surfer on the bow wave of the fast ferry... You jostle through for victory.
Disclaimer:
* Events may not pan out as outlined above.
**A hand of bananas and a quart of Dragon Shots may have a detrimental effect on your colon post-event.
***No responsibility is accepted for penalty points/ fines incurred while pooping like a waste-pipe in a bin on the M9.
****Read instructions carefully.
5)Morning of race; Flahavan's factory bowl-full of God's laxative along with the obligatory double shot from the Sage Barista. The coffee is not performance enhancing, it's merely to amp the banter in the car with your mates.
6) Jersey!!!!! Don't pin on your numbers while waiting on the microwave/ coffee machine. Get it done last night and always use too many pins too.
7)Too many bottles filled. Don't just think of getting through the race! You must drink on the way there and on the return journey or you'll resemble an old turtle the following day. You might wee in a bin at every rest stop on the M9 but the alternative, leg-locking-in-the-middle-of-a-sprint, is more embarrassing.
8)Get there early. Something always gets in the way. That could be; A] A sign on queue longer than your losing streak. B] 250 racing/ 3 toilet cubicles/ one sodden jax roll now worth more than a piece of the Berlin wall. C] An Untimely puncture. D] Changing clothes coz its colder than you thought. E] No parking available because someone read these suggestions and beat you to it. You see, you want to psyche out your frenemies by being in a healthy sweat on prominently displayed rollers as they arrive late, unable to park or poo or sign on without crying.
9)Put 20 psi less than it says on the tyre. (Note, the same does not apply to the car.)
10)Start at the front, ride at the back. You need to see who is keen/there and easing back to the last ten will give you the inventory you need. It usually goes from fittest and feisty at the front but usually not winners, through dangerous tri-athletes new to the sport, with the spatial awareness of a brick (see what I did there??) to the auld cagey ones in with a chance, all the way down to the Belgian mix. That's the last ten that either can sprint like a rocket, want to wait until the eager gits wear themselves out thinking they are at the Giro doing it for the Tifosi, or the barrel-bottomed boys that have the physique of a rugby player crossed with the strength of a sumo wrestler and a 0-60 of a dragster for that last quarter mile. Why ride at the back? Ever watch a pilot fish follow a great white? Now you have it.
11)Wear mirror lenses. So you're fecked? Nobody can see it. Blood vessels have exploded with the eye-popping intensity? Not visible. You cry tears of blood? Same. Cross-eyed from Russian pre-workout? Likewise.
12)Elbows and butt power; Ah bunch riding. Realistically you can ride any race hanging off the back like a native of Calcutta taking the train as long as you get your sh*t together for the last kilometre. Then you need tunnel vision. Keep the elbows out, don't apologise for baulking that 15-stone Neanderthal silver-back that you sat at the rear with for the last 2 hours. Yes he can bench press your Ma but can he weave like a hornet through a meadow? Hell no. Keep your butt clenched for the 90 seconds it takes to cover that last K. You will experience handlebars, fists, mitts and gear levers trying to jostle you for position but hold firm. Pucker up. You belong there. Darwin mentioned you in 'Origin of the species'.
13)Wait. And wait. Maybe wait a while. You may think you have the power output of an antelope but don't forget A4 racing is akin to the Serengeti at the height of Summer. And those 10 at the back represent Leopards, Lions and Jackals . Let them off, view them as a lead-out train and follow them to victory. Hopefully the rasher sandwiches or barrel of ale they consumed last night will release just enough cholesterol to slow them in the last 30 metres. Then, out of the slipstream like a surfer on the bow wave of the fast ferry... You jostle through for victory.
Disclaimer:
* Events may not pan out as outlined above.
**A hand of bananas and a quart of Dragon Shots may have a detrimental effect on your colon post-event.
***No responsibility is accepted for penalty points/ fines incurred while pooping like a waste-pipe in a bin on the M9.
****Read instructions carefully.
Thursday, February 21, 2019
The great escape
Ah the olive groves... thousands of acres of symmetric trees glistening in sun-speckled solitude. It must be the Tour of Andalusia that appears to burst from my tv.
Beautiful. But not reality. No indeed, while a whole bunch of mad Spaniards juiced to the gills flung themselves around the B roads of southern Spain real life was being played out on an insignificant piece of blacktop between Enniscorthy and Wexford.
Back story. Cue the music....
I brought my daughter to enniscorthy for a tennis camp. I planned to go cycling whilst she belted backhands and drank Robinsons. The missus wanted a fitbit from a shop in Wexford so I thought I'd kill two birds and enjoy the spin. Little did I know....
I love headwinds. When you turn around they become your friends. There I was having my eyebrows reshaped by a howling hoor of a southerly and making as much headway as a brexit negotiator when I ran into roadworks. This wasn't some farty old few yards of tar or line-painting. Oh no, this was a one mile stretch of crazy one-way-only that had me ringing my psychologist before the biscuit-eating, hipster-bearded Neanderthal sign-man turned the lollipop to 'Go'. I was now time crunched. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a creamery truck, now set free and pedalled like a gurning goat in it's slipstream at 71km/h.
So far so good. I turned in towards Wexford town and hit the Flandrien concrete roads along by the river with panache. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum for an eternity.
Drew Barrymore. She was the spit of Drew Barrymore. In looks anyway. Alas the good-time, girl-next-door Drew had been replaced by a humourless kid with the people skills of freddie Kruger. She didn't like that I had vouchers. Didn't like that I had a laser card too.Didn't like that I refused the insurance I could have with the product. I was the only customer in Argos but I wasn't feeling the love. It still needed a calendar to time the fitbit coming from the storeroom to front of shop. Like they were busy. Once outside and with a quick glance at the Garmin I knew it was serious. Would I make it to enniscorthy on time to pick up my daughter? Cue tense music....
I retraced my pedal strokes. Concrete roads. Check. Traffic lights. Check. Jump a truck? Check. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a concrete delivery truck and maxed out my gears at 73km/h. Avoided a suicidal pensioner in Oylegate. She only seemed to look left. French I assume. Shimmied a shite-fest of epic proportions thanks to a slurry carrying farmer and rode into enniscorthy with 3 minutes to spare. And brown in colour. Pretty.
My daughter beamed as I rolled in just as she finished up. My heart soared. Because I'd timetrialled like an animal for 40 minutes and felt like vomiting.
Lidl car park New Ross. 30 minutes later. Exit the car. Get a cramp akin to childbirth. Lean against the car screaming. All in a day's work. Kill two birds? Enjoy the spin? D'ya know what? I Did!!🤣😣
Beautiful. But not reality. No indeed, while a whole bunch of mad Spaniards juiced to the gills flung themselves around the B roads of southern Spain real life was being played out on an insignificant piece of blacktop between Enniscorthy and Wexford.
Back story. Cue the music....
I brought my daughter to enniscorthy for a tennis camp. I planned to go cycling whilst she belted backhands and drank Robinsons. The missus wanted a fitbit from a shop in Wexford so I thought I'd kill two birds and enjoy the spin. Little did I know....
I love headwinds. When you turn around they become your friends. There I was having my eyebrows reshaped by a howling hoor of a southerly and making as much headway as a brexit negotiator when I ran into roadworks. This wasn't some farty old few yards of tar or line-painting. Oh no, this was a one mile stretch of crazy one-way-only that had me ringing my psychologist before the biscuit-eating, hipster-bearded Neanderthal sign-man turned the lollipop to 'Go'. I was now time crunched. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a creamery truck, now set free and pedalled like a gurning goat in it's slipstream at 71km/h.
So far so good. I turned in towards Wexford town and hit the Flandrien concrete roads along by the river with panache. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum for an eternity.
Drew Barrymore. She was the spit of Drew Barrymore. In looks anyway. Alas the good-time, girl-next-door Drew had been replaced by a humourless kid with the people skills of freddie Kruger. She didn't like that I had vouchers. Didn't like that I had a laser card too.Didn't like that I refused the insurance I could have with the product. I was the only customer in Argos but I wasn't feeling the love. It still needed a calendar to time the fitbit coming from the storeroom to front of shop. Like they were busy. Once outside and with a quick glance at the Garmin I knew it was serious. Would I make it to enniscorthy on time to pick up my daughter? Cue tense music....
I retraced my pedal strokes. Concrete roads. Check. Traffic lights. Check. Jump a truck? Check. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a concrete delivery truck and maxed out my gears at 73km/h. Avoided a suicidal pensioner in Oylegate. She only seemed to look left. French I assume. Shimmied a shite-fest of epic proportions thanks to a slurry carrying farmer and rode into enniscorthy with 3 minutes to spare. And brown in colour. Pretty.
My daughter beamed as I rolled in just as she finished up. My heart soared. Because I'd timetrialled like an animal for 40 minutes and felt like vomiting.
Lidl car park New Ross. 30 minutes later. Exit the car. Get a cramp akin to childbirth. Lean against the car screaming. All in a day's work. Kill two birds? Enjoy the spin? D'ya know what? I Did!!🤣😣
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