The newest member to the f*cking eejits club

November, not a month synonymous with cycling. Only the committed (or should be committed) will put on their gear and head out in the cold and dark.

I read a very good article recently, about an elite athlete. He trained for the Rás this year, completed it and then took some time out. Once he resumed training, the loss of fitness and form was huge. The article was of special interest to the likes of me. If a proper athlete loses that much form, what hope is there for us, the mere mortals of the sport. I decided to keep training for the winter. Not mad stuff now, just a few training spins “every” week, regardless of the weather. Hopefully, once the new year beckoned, I’d have a solid base to work from. It’s less than 6 months to my first “Gran Fondo” in Belfast next June.

So, it’s November, I rush in home from work. The usual madness, as in most houses. The hoover is going, there’s a dinner being cooked, Kian is on a 10 kill streak on Starwars Battlefront and Lucy, the dog, seems a bit excited, running around the place. “I’m just going out the road for an hour”, I mention, testing the waters, “Kilbehenny and back”. I think at this stage the lads have given up and just seem to put it down as a mid-life crisis. It could be over at any moment, but it’s lasting longer than they expected.

So, on with the gear, no expense spared on this stuff. Connect up my Garmin (remember, if it’s not on Strava, it didn’t happen), hook up the lights, out the door and away.

It’s freezing, as I head down through the town, there’s a severe wind chill, but my fancy gear has me feeling snug as a bug. Out the Cork road and I’m clipping along at a steady pace. That chilly wind is behind me, so it’ll be a little more difficult on the way back. Still, it’s only 45km, out and back. In the summer, you’d be doing that, just to warm up. So, happy out, I cycle along with just my thoughts for company.

The old Cork road is ideal for this kind of training. It’s straight, very flat, has a good surface, has a wide hard shoulder and as locals, we know it like the back of our hands.

I reach Kilbehenny in just over 45 minutes. Just turn around now and head back. I’ll be done and dusted by 7.30pm.

I use the Garmin “Live Track”, for added safety. The lads at home can keep an eye on my progress and whereabouts. Any problems, they can be out in a few minutes to pick me up. Mr Sensibility, that’s me. So, a quick check on my phone and all is ok. However, there’s a message from my lighting system. (Yep, no expense spared on lights either). One of my lights is down to 26% battery life, it’s not going to get me home. I reach in my pocket to take out the spare “Aldi, get me home lights”. I’ve forgotten them. All that rushing out the door, the hoover, Starwars, the dog, the cold. It’s everybody’s fault, but my own.

I turn into the headwind and ride hard to make it home before the lights go out. Skeheenarinky, all is good. Kilcoran, I can see the lights of Cahir, 8km away (5 miles in old money), Tincurry and I look down. My heart stops, it’s my tail light that was low on juice and now, where there should be a flashing beacon, there’s nothing. Pitch black, on the darkest part of the road. A few cars are coming behind me, so I pull over onto the grass margin to let them pass. A few more pass and finally, I make it to the bypass in Cahir. It’s cycle lane down into the town and it’s well lit up, so I’ll be ok. A coach from Bus Éireann passes me and I wonder what the driver is thinking. If it was me, I’d be like a lunatic. I make it home in one piece and I’ll be honest here, I’m pretty ashamed and embarrassed with myself.

I thought of everything. My lovely warm gear, my winter training bike, my fancy Garmin and my even fancier lighting system. However, I forgot that simplest and most vital of things, a €20 spare light from Aldi.

If I saw somebody else doing something as stupid as what I did yesterday, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops, so a bollocking would be well due, as I would deserve it. I was lucky, I got away with it and it’s a lesson well learned.

Winter training is completely different in more ways than you would think. Next time, I’ll be taking a few more minutes to get ready and ensure that I have everything that I need to get back safely.

In the meantime, my newest cycling achievement is an unwanted membership to “The F*cking eejits Club”

 

 

But it’s not me talking.

Every morning, I afford myself a quick read of the newspaper headlines. Then, I take a quick look through the “opinion” pieces, admittedly, avoiding the “celebrity” nonsense, followed by a quick look at the sport and weather. Afterwards, I’m ready to face the day ahead.

This morning however, another piece on The Indo caught my eye. Written by Paul Kimmage, he wrote about how two individuals, both fighting addictions, are accepted in Ireland.

(Bear in mind now, that we like to see ourselves as a progressive country. We accept different cultures, people and religions. Talking of religion, we like to think that we have cast off the shackles of the Catholic Church and have moved on)

Anyway, Kimmage’s piece is about former Republic of Ireland footballer, Paul McGrath and the Tyrone Gaelic Footballer, Cathal McCarron. Both men are heroes, to legions of sportsfans, but both men also suffer from addictions. In McGrath’s case, it’s alcohol, McCarron’s demons are confronted in his gambling. It’s a fascinating piece, and well worth a read.

I posted the following story on FB a few months ago. It’s a true story and happened as described.

We were sitting in a fast food restaurant in Dublin. Minding our own business, a young man approached us, looking for a few quid. He was well under the influence of something, that was obvious, but he posed no risk to us and never threatened us one little bit. In seconds, a small army of security men rushed in, shouting at us not to give him anything. The man was manhandled away from us, god only knows where he is tonight.

We were upset and to my eternal shame, I sat down and did nothing. Did I mention that the man was most likely an addict.

Now, I’ve heard all the arguments from people. “He would rob the eye out of your head if he got a chance”, (he didn’t),”f*ckin junkies (in modern progressive Ireland, everybody has a label), should be all shot”, (they are human beings too), “poor eejit, up from the country, looking at the world through his rose tinted glasses, (I have seen plenty of the world and believe me, my glasses are not rose tinted. It goes on and on and on. In the end, I stopped reading the comments.

As labels go, the following is important to remember:

• Alcohol addiction:  (that’s okay, very good, he’s a great man with a few jars in him).
• Any other addiction, sex, gambling, shopping and the newest one, according to the “meeja”, social media, (what the f*ck is wrong with him, there must be a cure).
• Drug addiction (not acceptable, shoot them).

So, what do we do with a drug addict? Fill them with methodone, put them back out onto the streets,(they are cured now), where their addiction drives them to crime, where they end up in prison, where they try to stay clean, to end up out on the streets again, using again, committing more crime to fuel their addiction. A revolving door, with death the most likely outcome and the comment in most social circles (in modern progressive Ireland, you have to be in a class or circle too, that’s very important), that they are small loss.

I’m no Paul Kimmage, or any other journalist at that, but I’m trying to understand addiction. This isn’t the place, or the time, to talk at length about it, but I have a few conclusions made.

If you’re a famous personality in Ireland, whatever havoc you cause through alcohol, it’s acceptable. Nothing to see here, move on. If you have any other addiction, you’re an oddball and need to cop on to yourself. If you’re addicted to drugs, come from a poor area or class (that word again), you’re not even welcome in a kip of a fast food restaurant.

All the while, the person behind the addiction screams “but it’s not me talking………….”

Thanks.

The Nire Valley Drop

Photo Credit: Luke O’Brien

A few months ago, I got an email. A retailer was selling their stock of mountain bikes, with massive discounts and might I be interested in one. To cut a long story short, that evening, I was unwrapping a large box at home in the garage, building my first mountain bike.

My first few spins were a welcome change from the road. The freedom out on the mountains and forests is something to behold and is something that I would recommend to anybody. A few trips through Killarney National Park during our holidays in August followed. “Good for the soul”, as one friend remarked.

One morning, over coffee with a good friend, the subject of The Nire Valley Drop came up in conversation. Wouldn’t it be something to aim for, to shorten the winter, something to keep the fitness up, a bit of craic in October, when the bikes are normally in storage for the winter.

My fitness was good, following a very successful (by my standards) summer season. I really didn’t want to waste all that fitness, so yeah, The Nire Valley Drop, let’s do it, it’s a short distance, a piece of pee.

The first thing I learned in MTB (Mountain Biking), is that everything you have learned on the road, goes out the window. You will crash a lot, you will get hurt a lot, you’re going to be covered in shite a lot, you will learn very quickly, how to patch up and repair a bike and most of all, it’s the hardest thing you will ever do on two wheels.

Training spins were on the mountains behind Kilcoran and Glengarra. Up till now, I had never heard of a “single track” or a “fire trail”. I know what they are now though, as I’ve left my blood out there, quite literally. Safety gear is paramount, mainly because there’s no sick pay in the music business. (I’m also coming towards the end of my contract at work. Any hope of having it extended is out the window, if a sick cert lands on the manager’s desk).

Picking your way through a track, littered with rocks, mud, tree roots, water, deer shit and critters is about the size of it. All this, at speed (momentum is vital), as you spot the upcoming rock with your name written on it. First my gear and brake positions were wrong, then my seating position was wrong, then my suspension settings were wrong and then, my tyres were wrong. Everything was adjusted and I started to improve.

A week before the big event, I was out practicing / training on my own. I cycled to the top of a hill outside Cahir. Then, 4 single tracks the entire way down, on every type of terrain imaginable. Ensuring that my Gopro was recording, I headed down the hill, adamant that I’d make it to the bottom, without putting down a foot and I’d have a film to prove it. Three of the tracks complete (actually the hardest bits), I approached the last bit. A local dog was out for a ramble, he didn’t put in or out on me, but I slowed a little to get past him, just as we entered the track. Then, bang, I hit a tree stump, I wasn’t travelling fast enough to clear it, so I put out my hand to break my fall. There was a thud as I hit the ground and I felt the pain immediately. I was convinced that my arm was in two halves. (I have the video at home and it actually hurts to watch it). After a few moments I composed myself and scrambled home. The pain was excruciating and I was seeing double at times. I had a severe sprain and tendon damage. Lesson learned about the dangers of going out alone. Over a week later, my arm still isn’t healed and I realise now, that I was lucky, very lucky. So, my last week training is on the road and my Nire Valley Drop plans will be to complete the course at best.

The Nire Valley Drop. Sunday October 30th 2016.

Arriving in Ballymacarbery, the first thing I noticed was the sheer volume of people taking part and the amount of volunteers, marshalls and helpers. The community center is an excellent base, with loads of parking, showers, changing rooms and some food when we return.

I have been warned about the dangers of going out too fast, but there’s no need to worry about that. With my sporting pedigree and ability (or lack 0f), that won’t be an issue.

The first 14km is up hill, there are a few little bits of relief where the tracks are flatter, but overall it’s a climb. “Does The Drop begin any time soon?”, I enquire from one man standing at a junction. Eventually, we get to what I thought was the top of the hill. A team meeting with Tom follows, where we decide what distance we’re doing. “When I blow up, it’s going to be big” I explain, so ever by my side, Tom and myself decide to complete the shortest 30km route. I have travelled well so far and I’m happy with myself. I’m over half way around already. My arm is very sore but adrenaline and momentum can be natural pain killers to keep you going.

“Halpins Drop”, says the sign and by jesus, is it a drop. Everything I had rehearsed / practiced / fallen on, all cobbled together. If there’s a “Strava” for the slowest time through it, I can claim it. Next up is “The Coffin Drop”. Oh my god, I got through it, mainly thanks to the young children standing there, cheering us on. (It’s not very macho to chicken out in front of children. It’s a man thing).

Then, through a wood and I hear a bang. My seat pin has sheared off and my saddle is on the ground. Thankfully, I’m standing up or I could be singing soprano for a while. It looks like curtains for me. A few young lads come over and offer to take me home in the van. The first time ever in the “broom wagon” beckons for me and it’s not a nice thought. It’s horrendous in fact. As I always say, would Kelly quit, would Sam Bennett quit?. Not on your life, is the answer. Tom Dalton arrives back to me, wondering what’s gone wrong. (Having gone through the wood, he cycled back through it again, to help me through. You don’t get many friends like that in life. I hope someday I can repay the compliment).

I have 18km done and I decide that my number is up. There’s nothing that can be done. The problem is, people like Tom Dalton don’t let you quit. There’s always a solution, even if it’s not perfect. I struggle along to the next road section. A Garda on duty gets on his walkie talkie looking for cable ties or anything we can hold a saddle on with. A young local lad, Stephen Shiels heads off to track down a bolt. The Broom Wagon sits in the background, waiting ominously. The Garda offers to take me back to the finish, in the Paddy Wagon, but if my mother sees me arriving home with the Gardaí, she will have a fit, so I decline. Stephen arrives back, he has a bolt but it’s too short. “Too many people have gone out of their way to help you now, you must stay going”, says Tom. Cable ties are located and I’m back in the game, albeit very very badly. A damaged arm and now a damaged bike. It will be a struggle. The next hour and a half is the hardest, most trying, difficult and ultimately satisfying time of my sporting life.

The only word I can find to describe the next 16km (10 miles in old money) is torture. Every bump is a nightmare. You get through one drop and there is another steeper one waiting. One hill leads to a bigger hill and it’s non stop pain on already tired legs. “Chicken George” tries to claim me. I don’t know how I stayed up on my bike. The painkillers are now wearing off and my arm is hanging. I’m in a wood, every root and branch is trying to knock me off. I get out of the wood and onto another trail. I miss a line and I’m heading for another fall. I manage to save it, but I’ve had enough. I throw my bike and helmet into the bushes and I’m close to tears. It’s too hard and I’m just not able to complete it. “Take a break for a few minutes” says a young lad as he passes. A can of energy drink goes down well. I compose myself, tighten up my cable ties and try again.

Struggle, cycle, struggle, walk, ignore the pain, pray the cable ties hold. I’m out onto another road, “only 3 miles to go”, says the cheery marshall on duty. It’s like a kick in the you know what’s to me. Another trail, a field, a stream, a bridge (I walked it. It’s too narrow. I only have one hand), a river, another field, a wood and eventually, out at “The Lodge” near Ballymacarbery. I know this area and I can easily go home on the road. Problem is, I have suffered enough, what’s another bit. Kelly and Bennett come to mind again.

Left it is, back into the woods again, for the last bit. We used play here as children and as I pass through “Sleepy Hollow”, many childhood memories come back. Across another field and through the “Mill Inch”, past the old mill, over the bridge and I’m through it. A few hundred meters to the finish and as I roll under the finish line, I allow myself a bit of self praise.

I’ve proven to myself that I’m a tough basta*d, who just refuses to quit and I have friends like Tom Dalton who stands by to make sure I don’t. I have proven that you are capable of performance way beyond what you think possible. Never let adversity stop you.

Will I do the Nire Valley Drop again? You can bet your life on it. It’s one of the toughest events there is, but the sense of achievement once you finish is overwhelming.

It’s for a great cause too, for the people in Haiti. A few hours suffering on a push bike for us, is nothing to the suffering those people contend with.

Huge credit and chapeau to Beanie Byrne, Paudie Halpin, Ger Walsh, Michael Desmond and everybody else associated with the NVD. To all the people whjo stood out in the woods or the top of mountains assisting, thank you. To the Gardaí, Civil Defence and Coillte, thank you. To the caterers at the finish, thank you.

Finally, there’s a saying, “Go Hard or Go Home”. It encapsulates the Nire Valley Drop completely. If you think you’re tough, give it a go, I dare you.

Training for NVD 2017 begins immediately, because this is one event that I wouldn’t miss for the world. .