My internal thermometer has a favourite song. It goes something like this, "I'm gonna make you sweat, sweat till you can sweat no more..." and when I cry out, I know it's gonna make me sweat some more. Sweating has become as much a part of me as my accent (who am I kidding, I don't have an accent), my hair (who am I kidding...) and my impeccable dress sense.
It's been embarrassing, funny, frustrating, humiliating and at times alienating (not always a bad thing). I first recall my sweat ducts making a proper impact on my life during my Leaving Cert exams and ever since then I have lived with the knowledge an unquenchable water source was ready and willing to pour forward at any moment.
Looking back, every moment is laced with humour. At the time, not so much. I have learned to laugh or pass it off with a blase comment, although try being blase when the shirt you walked into the bar in has turned to a darker shade of blue from the light blue you started off with. Sometimes, there's nothing you can do other than squirm and frantically wipe your brow while pretending to fix your hair. Although try convincing someone you're fixing your hair when there's not much to fix.
I was on work experience with a local radio station. I was working with the promotions team doing events. I was 16. I was self conscious. There were girls. I was having trouble hiding the sweat patches. These kind of conditions hone resourcefulness in young males. I decided that the best approach was to wear a t shirt over my t shirt. Genius. Until the extra layer caused my body temperature to rise, resulting in the inevitable. I couldn't take off a layer because that would leave me back at a wetter square one, so the obvious solution was to add a layer. I remember wearing eight t shirts one day. I looked like I was built like a brick shit house, with all the hygiene of one too.
Sport opens the flood gates. Two minutes into any game and I will be drenched. It just starts and doesn't stop. It could be the coldest day, lashing rain with intermittent snow storms and I will still sweat. Brilliant when you head up for a corner and the opposition defender gets a little too close and then immediately recoils in horror. "Holy f^ck, what the f&ck is wrong with you?!" is one of my favourite reactions, "Hard work, you should try it!", is my favourite response, if we're winning. That is of course if I am playing football against men.
Tag rugby against a mixture of men and women... a little different. It's generally a non-contact sport, but contact is inevitable. When my t shirt feels like it has just come out of the wash, the girl I run into will not thank me. Generally she will be polite and won't say anything... verbally that is. She will, however, communicate. Her face contorts slowly, she grimaces for about five seconds and her eyes burn through me. We're never gonna be friends, which is great because it's harder to grab my tag while avoiding droplets of projectile sweat!
The slightest changes in temperature have an astronomical impact. My previous employers had two offices. I worked in the freezing one and often made the trip over to the sauna version. One morning I arrived in the office to set up my laptop. The unthinkable happened, I couldn't find a socket for my machine. I began to panic. I was on all fours, fumbling around on the floor. I couldn't get the image of my crack on show for all to see out of my head. I got myself into a wild frenzy, imagining my emergence from the undergrowth being met by every colleague I had ever met staring at me.
Obviously this didn't happen, but I was in such a tizzy my sweat glands reacted like never before. My hair was soaked through, my shirt was stuck to my back, my crack was probably being eroded by the river of sweat pouring south. I was literally having a meltdown, when up pops the resident comic "Are you alright there, I didn't think showers were forecast?". I'd almost convinced myself it was barely noticeable.
Recently I was called to a meeting to have some new responsibilities and changes to my job explained. Nothing to worry about just a few more obligations. This is how it panned out:
Manager: How is your current workload?
Me: Fine, manageable, I'm not under too much stress.
My thoughts: Wow, it's warmer in here than I thought.
Manager: Obviously with the recent changes you will need to take on extra workload.
Me: That's no bother
My thoughts: Am I sweating? Ah for f*ck sake, this is awkward
Manager: So we will need you to blah... blah..
Me: ....
My thoughts: What is going on?! I'm not even listening, a drop of sweat just jumped from my forehead onto the desk.
Manager: Is that going to be a problem?
Me: I can't think why it would be
My thoughts: Is what going to be a problem?! Oh shit I haven't been listening!
My thoughts: Of course you haven't been, you're covered in sweat and probably turning pale, stop wiping your face! Wipe your face for God's sake! Don't make eye contact.
My thoughts: Just make reference to it with a joke and be done with it
Manager: So are you happy with all those changes?
Me: Yeah, sounds good.
My thoughts: She better send a mail detailing what we have just been talking about because I have been fighting an internal tsunami.
Mass... I used to dread the sign of the peace. A teenagers limp handshake is made all the more pathetic when a good grip is nigh impossible.
I once had to leave an interview I was sweating that much. I wasn't being interviewed, I wasn't even the one leading the interview. I dropped out for a glass of water and spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom with my shirt under the hand dryer!
So next time I walk into a room, subtly ratch up the radiator a couple of notches, sit back and enjoy the show. Shamu ain't got nothing on this splash zone! Just make sure you have enough of those yellow "slippery when wet" signs at the ready.
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
Monday, 27 July 2015
An engine, a search engine and an adventure
Myself and Google were in a happy place last night, as I left my tablet beside my bed I said, 'your destination is on the left', we both chuckled.
Google is like a good friend, it really knows how to wreck your head but it'll be there for you when you need it. This morning we headed off on normal terrain, quickly followed by a slight left onto random farmland, nothing new there. The next left brought unchartered territory. I was now cycling up what could only be described as a cross between a dirt track and a stream.
My hiking holiday was just about to start and I was very inappropriately dressed. We powered on through and arrived back in Carcassonne to the warmth of the hotel Ibis budget hotel.
What started off as a cracked idea grew legs, then wings and eventually wheels and became a reality. A sometimes grim but mostly a challenging, rewarding, sweaty reality. One that made me realize you don't have to be particularly organized to succeed, sometimes desire will get you there.
I used to think you could say what you liked about the French, but their English has gotten a lot better!
I was beeped at three times on my trip, once for popping out into the road before the oncoming vehicle thought safe to do so and twice when bent over at the side of the road. Obviously my arse is of greater concern to passing traffic than anything else!
My water bottle has 'you're stronger than you think' written on it.
This journey came to pass because my final destination had no public transport links, rent a car they said. Massive train station at said destination I see, oops!
Let's end with a little medley...
His palms are sweaty, knee weak, two bags are heavy, there's sun cream on his sweater already, his mom's P 20. He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and sweaty. He keeps on forgetting what Google wrote down, the whole cars go so loud. It opens its mouth but the words won't come out, GPS is broken now, no joking now. Lose yourself.
And I'm glad I crashed the wedding, it's better than regretting. I could have been a loser kid and ran away and hid. But memories last forever and the sun burn will get better, so I'm glad I crashed the wedding.
I just get on the bike and spin it and whether you like to admit it, this actually worked out quite well.
Keep on rolling baby!
You can't spell bride without ride!
Before we start, the church and venue were incredibly stunning, bettered only by the immaculate bride. Well worth the hair brained idea to see her smile light up the night!
I said my goodbyes to my new wedding pals and bid France's version of Basil and Sybil adieu. 100 km of sun soaked, French countryside lay ahead of me. Preparation was fast becoming my middle name, as my tablet was charged to within an inch of its battery obsessed life. I wasn't going to be left high and dry this time.
And so it proved, as myself and Google reprised our roles of mutual appreciation. Soaring along perfectly laid national roads and purpose built cycle tracks. Obviously there were a few random requests to head into farmer Francois' sunflower field, which I generously acquiesced to and by Bing, Google was spot on!
As the wheels continued to turn and I moved deeper into the unknown, two things struck me. France is closed on Sundays and I was rapidly running out of water. The effects of which were made more stark by the previous night's festivities.
Shade was at a premium and I would slow to soak up the cool air when it did appear. On one occasion, not only did I slow, but I took it one step further and brought myself to a full stop. That's probably a contradiction in terms but once you hear what happened next you'll forget about it.
I'd hopped off the bike and was chewing on a few cola bottles, the Haribo variety, not the glass kind, when seemingly out of nowhere I heard a rustle at my feet. I glanced down expecting to see a bird but instead I was greeted by a snake, nothing new on a cycle one night venture, but this one was devoid of any Lycra!
He took one look at me and slithered of into the bush, figuring from the smell he'd come across something well past is sell by date.
Once back on the bike I soon realized my water levels were dangerously low, short of taking off my clothes and ringing the sweat into my bottles I was running out of ideas. Flying through villages I began craning my neck to try and spot outdoor taps, with no luck at all. Then I passed a man in his garden who looked like just the man to help a thirsty thirty something.
I diverted into his driveway and followed up my request to fill my bottles of water with 'I didn't realize everything in France closed on Sundays', cue 'oh you're not from here?' I didn't have to be asked twice to play the Ireland card and magically my bottles were full to the brim with lemon flavored water. I was so grateful, this man breathed new life into my final 20 km.
Before I left I wanted to make sure he knew how appreciative I was, but as I write, it just sounds creepy. You can be the judge. I asked if I could give him my number, in case he is ever in Ireland and I'd get him something stronger than water. If it was Antoinette, the rural French beauty longing to escape to Dublin, the snake and the dehydration made me do it Your Honour!
I arrived back in my campsite and slipped into my trigano, safe in the knowledge my adventure had only 40 km left to run.
Saturday, 25 July 2015
Keep on rolling!
Just so we're clear, this little adventure owes nothing to the fact the moon was unavailable and the next most remote spot the happy couple could find was Larroque. This adventure came about because I didn't book my flight in time and didn't ask for a lift, but mostly because I thought it would be fun!
'Fail to prepare, prepare to fail', someone once said, while abandoning ship. I think 'fail to prepare, prepare for adventure' is better suited to today's meander!
I sweat, when I wear a bag on my back the bag becomes sweaty. When I put the bag on my trigano floor and head off to sleep, I wake up to a bag covered in ants. Of course I'd left my clothes for today's trip neatly piled on the floor... Ants in my pants!
Having painstakingly removed every ant I could find from bag and cycling shorts I set about tucking into my complimentary breakfast. Ninety seconds later I was set up for the day having devoured a pain au chocolate and a glass of orange juice.
Owing to the lack of a charger I was down to Google's finest printed directions. All 'head south' here, 'turn right' there and 'in 500 meters take the second exit on the round about'! I'm gliding out of Soreze, the early morning air is still fresh, the motorists are polite and best of all the directions are actually making sense. Then I come to a 'passage interdit' smack bang in the middle of where I'm meant to be heading. I stop in my tracks, or in this case clearly someone else's tracks and dig out my tablet.
Go tobann, a wise woman's voice ventures authoritatively, 'continue straight, then slight left'... My Google maps doesn't need the internet to give me directions! I'm in heaven, the next twenty or so kilometers are bliss, Google can do no wrong, even when it brings me along a grass verge on the side of a river. Then almost inevitably it comes to a crushing halt as it prompts me to head down a road that literally doesn't exist. Oh and the battery is about to die.
Halfway through a five hour cycle and some educated guesses later I end up in a little village, chomping on a quiche and drowning a can of coke. It's 1 pm and I decide to be sensible and take a nap on a bench under the shade of some trees, in a vacant playground.
Falling asleep in cycling shorts, with a cycling vest on is acceptable I would say. Waking up in tight shorts, a sleeveless top, in a playground when a mother and child arrive, is uncomfortable for everyone concerned. I sit up, take a swig of my water and then casually open a bag of sweets... You're right your honor, it doesn't look good! Time to get back in the saddle.
I made a quick pit stop at a local bar to ask for directions to my final destination, I end up with a piece of paper with four village names and a couple of lefts and rights. That piece of paper got me to where I am now. In case you're wondering, I'm in the hotel, the right hotel. So next time Google, four words on a scrap of paper, yeah!
The hotel shower? Unbelievable, picture the scene.
I stopped to ask an old lady for directions to the hotel. She said she didn't know but there was a cheap hotel round the corner. I told her I had a reservation, she offered to get her van to drop me to this mystery hotel. I said I was fine and would plough on cycling, she winked and said 'you're lucky your young and muscular' and walked off delighted with her bit of candy for the day.
Now to put the feet up à la wedding Francaise!
'Fail to prepare, prepare to fail', someone once said, while abandoning ship. I think 'fail to prepare, prepare for adventure' is better suited to today's meander!
I sweat, when I wear a bag on my back the bag becomes sweaty. When I put the bag on my trigano floor and head off to sleep, I wake up to a bag covered in ants. Of course I'd left my clothes for today's trip neatly piled on the floor... Ants in my pants!
Having painstakingly removed every ant I could find from bag and cycling shorts I set about tucking into my complimentary breakfast. Ninety seconds later I was set up for the day having devoured a pain au chocolate and a glass of orange juice.
Owing to the lack of a charger I was down to Google's finest printed directions. All 'head south' here, 'turn right' there and 'in 500 meters take the second exit on the round about'! I'm gliding out of Soreze, the early morning air is still fresh, the motorists are polite and best of all the directions are actually making sense. Then I come to a 'passage interdit' smack bang in the middle of where I'm meant to be heading. I stop in my tracks, or in this case clearly someone else's tracks and dig out my tablet.
Go tobann, a wise woman's voice ventures authoritatively, 'continue straight, then slight left'... My Google maps doesn't need the internet to give me directions! I'm in heaven, the next twenty or so kilometers are bliss, Google can do no wrong, even when it brings me along a grass verge on the side of a river. Then almost inevitably it comes to a crushing halt as it prompts me to head down a road that literally doesn't exist. Oh and the battery is about to die.
Halfway through a five hour cycle and some educated guesses later I end up in a little village, chomping on a quiche and drowning a can of coke. It's 1 pm and I decide to be sensible and take a nap on a bench under the shade of some trees, in a vacant playground.
Falling asleep in cycling shorts, with a cycling vest on is acceptable I would say. Waking up in tight shorts, a sleeveless top, in a playground when a mother and child arrive, is uncomfortable for everyone concerned. I sit up, take a swig of my water and then casually open a bag of sweets... You're right your honor, it doesn't look good! Time to get back in the saddle.
I made a quick pit stop at a local bar to ask for directions to my final destination, I end up with a piece of paper with four village names and a couple of lefts and rights. That piece of paper got me to where I am now. In case you're wondering, I'm in the hotel, the right hotel. So next time Google, four words on a scrap of paper, yeah!
The hotel shower? Unbelievable, picture the scene.
I stopped to ask an old lady for directions to the hotel. She said she didn't know but there was a cheap hotel round the corner. I told her I had a reservation, she offered to get her van to drop me to this mystery hotel. I said I was fine and would plough on cycling, she winked and said 'you're lucky your young and muscular' and walked off delighted with her bit of candy for the day.
Now to put the feet up à la wedding Francaise!
Thursday, 23 July 2015
Riding to a wedding in France
I have a long established reputation for being horrendously under prepared, outside of the office (keep shut!), and for hair brained ideas that I am determined to see come to fruition. Luckily part one means the majority of part twos never see the light of day.
Except one cracked idea is currently basking in the French summer sun! It all started when I shared the troubles I was having getting to a wedding in the south of France. Bunclody's finest piped up with, 'why don't you cycle?' So there I was standing in Carcassonne airport with my bike in a travel case belonging one of life's inspirations, my clothes in a dear friend's bag and a handful of Google map printouts to get me the 150km to Larroque.
Ten steps later I lost the bag, an expert shot from a nearby sniper taking out a key strap or I failed to travel as light as I had 'planned', you decide.
Ten minutes later... I'll set a scene that was always gonna end in disaster. It's 1 PM and I am in the capital of my hotel. The sun is high in the sky, searching out and burning every available, exposed piece of my skin. My internal cooling system reacts accordingly by drenching every inch of my body. This is before one of the locks on the fort Knox holding my bike hostage refuses to budge.
So when that duly takes place I look like I've stepped out of the shower fully clothed. I push and pull at the box for another ten minutes to no avail. Giving up I wander inside with the box to see if I can procure a screwdriver to free my steed... As I begin said wander the box springs open! I assemble the bike like a man determined to show the world he's been assembling a bike... Black oil everywhere! 2.30 pm I am ready to go.
500m up the road and having rounded the same roundabout twice I give up on my Google maps sheets and invest in my phone's GPS. It quickly pays off as what looks like a dead end turns into a cheeky short cut onto a main road. Google is a genius.
If I'm not on some French candid camera show filming idiots in traffic from the sky, I have had a lucky escape! I spent twenty minutes on three different roads trying to figure out where Google was trying to send me, each time getting to the end of the road and being told to do a U turn. Google is an idiot!
But there's two of us in it, I forgot to bring my phone charger. So with 99 km to travel en velo demain it's back to Google maps that Columbus would struggle to find land with.
The sunflowers are amazing here, the more I pass them, the more of they seemed to turn their backs on me! To be fair I stank by the end of the day.
I have drank four litres today... and still counting.
It's 22.41 at night and it's 27° C. I'm not made for this!
I asked a local for directions today and he ignored me... Even after he had responded to my greeting. Apparently feigning interest in your derailer is acceptable when the sweatiest, dirtiest man Ireland could provide at short notice asks for directions.
The shower at the end of today's festivities was insane. Picture the scene, I'm completely named.
I fell asleep on the plane over and woke up halfway through a conversation with the woman beside me about her scones!
Possibly more of the same tomorrow!
Except one cracked idea is currently basking in the French summer sun! It all started when I shared the troubles I was having getting to a wedding in the south of France. Bunclody's finest piped up with, 'why don't you cycle?' So there I was standing in Carcassonne airport with my bike in a travel case belonging one of life's inspirations, my clothes in a dear friend's bag and a handful of Google map printouts to get me the 150km to Larroque.
Ten steps later I lost the bag, an expert shot from a nearby sniper taking out a key strap or I failed to travel as light as I had 'planned', you decide.
Ten minutes later... I'll set a scene that was always gonna end in disaster. It's 1 PM and I am in the capital of my hotel. The sun is high in the sky, searching out and burning every available, exposed piece of my skin. My internal cooling system reacts accordingly by drenching every inch of my body. This is before one of the locks on the fort Knox holding my bike hostage refuses to budge.
So when that duly takes place I look like I've stepped out of the shower fully clothed. I push and pull at the box for another ten minutes to no avail. Giving up I wander inside with the box to see if I can procure a screwdriver to free my steed... As I begin said wander the box springs open! I assemble the bike like a man determined to show the world he's been assembling a bike... Black oil everywhere! 2.30 pm I am ready to go.
500m up the road and having rounded the same roundabout twice I give up on my Google maps sheets and invest in my phone's GPS. It quickly pays off as what looks like a dead end turns into a cheeky short cut onto a main road. Google is a genius.
If I'm not on some French candid camera show filming idiots in traffic from the sky, I have had a lucky escape! I spent twenty minutes on three different roads trying to figure out where Google was trying to send me, each time getting to the end of the road and being told to do a U turn. Google is an idiot!
But there's two of us in it, I forgot to bring my phone charger. So with 99 km to travel en velo demain it's back to Google maps that Columbus would struggle to find land with.
The sunflowers are amazing here, the more I pass them, the more of they seemed to turn their backs on me! To be fair I stank by the end of the day.
I have drank four litres today... and still counting.
It's 22.41 at night and it's 27° C. I'm not made for this!
I asked a local for directions today and he ignored me... Even after he had responded to my greeting. Apparently feigning interest in your derailer is acceptable when the sweatiest, dirtiest man Ireland could provide at short notice asks for directions.
The shower at the end of today's festivities was insane. Picture the scene, I'm completely named.
I fell asleep on the plane over and woke up halfway through a conversation with the woman beside me about her scones!
Possibly more of the same tomorrow!
Monday, 1 September 2014
Wicklow 200
With less than 90 days to go to the start of our Paris2Nice odyssey, things are getting serious.
For years I played football, training twice a week, playing once at the weekend. It consumed me. I lived for the feeling of absolute tiredness after another 90 minute battle, sometimes made easier by the sweet smell of success. Even in defeat, the physical exhaustion that came with the games was something I enjoyed; I knew I had been in a battle. I eventually gave up competitive football but that desire to be challenged never left.
Thank God for the “Wicklow 200”. My grasp of distance is poor to say the least so I gladly signed up for 200km through the hills of Wicklow. I shrugged aside the idea that after three months intermittent training I might not be ready for 200km and signed up. Life is for living after all.
I knew that it would take in excess of eight hours, that there would be ferocious hills and that 200km was a long way, but I concentrated on the fact I had not seen a disclaimer discouraging me from taking on the challenge. If someone else can do it, why can’t I? In hindsight, I was erring more on the side of stupidity than bravery.
Arlene (another member of the Hays Paris2Nice team) and I set off to take on the two Wicklow courses. Arlene was ready to conquer the “Wicklow 100” and I was ready to keep cycling till the pedals stopped turning, hopefully 200km after the start line.
The first couple of kilometres were manageable, a nice gradient accompanied by plenty of lush scenery. Suddenly things changed. The heavens opened and we were pelted with rain. It smashed against our helmets as visibility became less and less. Within seconds I was drenched and could see only yards in front of me. This was going to be a long day.
I had underestimated the mental side of this cycle. I was pretty sure I could physically continue for 200km but looking back I realise I had not thought about what ten hours on a bike would do to my mind. The urge to get off and quit grew and grew with every passing kilometre. At first it was easy to dismiss as I smiled to myself thinking I had not come far enough to even think about quitting. But with 25km left all I could think about was giving up. My most frequent thought was “what am I doing?” I didn’t have an answer so I just kept on pushing the thought away.
I couldn’t give up, not because of my desire to finish what I had started, or because I would be letting my sponsors down or even because of the Barretstown children. The main reason I kept going was because we were in the middle of nowhere and it was the only way home.
Getting off the bike after 200km of torture was an amazing feeling. I was exhausted. The little things became a chore, sitting down, standing up, walking; I had become an old man in the space of 10 hours. I think it was worth it though.
My standout memory from the Wicklow 200 is two awful climbs, one pretty much after the other. The bike felt like it was going backwards as I pounded the pedals, willing myself forward. This continued for what seemed like an age as pain shot through my calves, my hamstrings began to scream and my gluteus maximus seized up.
The desire to make the suffering end drove me to the top of each hill. I was acutely aware that stopping on either hill would be a disaster, trying to get back on the bike would be nigh on impossible. So I told myself - I am fit, healthy and happy. I am in the perfect position to conquer the physical challenge that these ascents pose.
It was incredibly difficult. Yet the pain subsides at the same time as the feeling of accomplishment and your mind wanders towards the next challenge. Although one thing remains - a sense of perspective.
The children that Barretstown provide care for have experienced pain few of us can imagine, they have climbed hills 1,000 times higher than anything I will ever climb, experienced excruciating muscle pain and unimaginable fatigue. We need to make sure that when they reach the top of their climb we are there for them, that if they stop at any stage we can help them get back on their bikes. We are cycling to help Barretstown continue their incredible work with these children. You can help too.
We really need your support, our goal is to raise €15,000 for Barretstown and we can’t do it by ourselves. As little as €5 will go a long way to put a smile on a child’s face.
For years I played football, training twice a week, playing once at the weekend. It consumed me. I lived for the feeling of absolute tiredness after another 90 minute battle, sometimes made easier by the sweet smell of success. Even in defeat, the physical exhaustion that came with the games was something I enjoyed; I knew I had been in a battle. I eventually gave up competitive football but that desire to be challenged never left.
Thank God for the “Wicklow 200”. My grasp of distance is poor to say the least so I gladly signed up for 200km through the hills of Wicklow. I shrugged aside the idea that after three months intermittent training I might not be ready for 200km and signed up. Life is for living after all.
I knew that it would take in excess of eight hours, that there would be ferocious hills and that 200km was a long way, but I concentrated on the fact I had not seen a disclaimer discouraging me from taking on the challenge. If someone else can do it, why can’t I? In hindsight, I was erring more on the side of stupidity than bravery.
Arlene (another member of the Hays Paris2Nice team) and I set off to take on the two Wicklow courses. Arlene was ready to conquer the “Wicklow 100” and I was ready to keep cycling till the pedals stopped turning, hopefully 200km after the start line.
The first couple of kilometres were manageable, a nice gradient accompanied by plenty of lush scenery. Suddenly things changed. The heavens opened and we were pelted with rain. It smashed against our helmets as visibility became less and less. Within seconds I was drenched and could see only yards in front of me. This was going to be a long day.
I had underestimated the mental side of this cycle. I was pretty sure I could physically continue for 200km but looking back I realise I had not thought about what ten hours on a bike would do to my mind. The urge to get off and quit grew and grew with every passing kilometre. At first it was easy to dismiss as I smiled to myself thinking I had not come far enough to even think about quitting. But with 25km left all I could think about was giving up. My most frequent thought was “what am I doing?” I didn’t have an answer so I just kept on pushing the thought away.
I couldn’t give up, not because of my desire to finish what I had started, or because I would be letting my sponsors down or even because of the Barretstown children. The main reason I kept going was because we were in the middle of nowhere and it was the only way home.
Getting off the bike after 200km of torture was an amazing feeling. I was exhausted. The little things became a chore, sitting down, standing up, walking; I had become an old man in the space of 10 hours. I think it was worth it though.
My standout memory from the Wicklow 200 is two awful climbs, one pretty much after the other. The bike felt like it was going backwards as I pounded the pedals, willing myself forward. This continued for what seemed like an age as pain shot through my calves, my hamstrings began to scream and my gluteus maximus seized up.
The desire to make the suffering end drove me to the top of each hill. I was acutely aware that stopping on either hill would be a disaster, trying to get back on the bike would be nigh on impossible. So I told myself - I am fit, healthy and happy. I am in the perfect position to conquer the physical challenge that these ascents pose.
It was incredibly difficult. Yet the pain subsides at the same time as the feeling of accomplishment and your mind wanders towards the next challenge. Although one thing remains - a sense of perspective.
The children that Barretstown provide care for have experienced pain few of us can imagine, they have climbed hills 1,000 times higher than anything I will ever climb, experienced excruciating muscle pain and unimaginable fatigue. We need to make sure that when they reach the top of their climb we are there for them, that if they stop at any stage we can help them get back on their bikes. We are cycling to help Barretstown continue their incredible work with these children. You can help too.
We really need your support, our goal is to raise €15,000 for Barretstown and we can’t do it by ourselves. As little as €5 will go a long way to put a smile on a child’s face.
Coping with Connemara
The Hays Paris2Nice team started training in March. Three months later we felt sufficiently prepared to take on the Tour de Connemara, one of a number of cycles we signed up to before taking on six days and 700km of French countryside. Mike, Arlene, Anne-Marie, Kelly and myself were heading west for what we knew was going to be between three and six hours in the saddle.
With two bikes attached to the back of the car, Anne-Marie and I bounced towards Clifden. As the road got worse, images flew through my head of our bikes smashing to pieces as bike rack and Ford Focus suffered an awkward break up. Thankfully, this didn’t come to pass and we arrived safely into Clifden, where the welcoming committee consisted of a few flickering street lights and a hostel owner who seemed more interested in the relationship between myself and my cycling partner than actually putting us up. The clock was ticking towards midnight.
This conversation was the only delay we suffered in the race to get the top bunk before midnight. The same could not be said for the rest of our cycling party. Arlene and Kelly arrived an hour or so later, oil trouble the reason for their tardiness. Mike arrived at his Galwegian aunt’s place rather deflated, a flat tyre the reason for his poor time keeping. So with six hours to our wake up call, myself, Arlene, Kelly and Anne-Marie chose our bunk beds and let sleep take hold. The harsh reality of a 7am alarm on a Saturday morning was tempered by the glorious aromas that filled the room as the girls readied themselves for the day ahead.
This conversation was the only delay we suffered in the race to get the top bunk before midnight. The same could not be said for the rest of our cycling party. Arlene and Kelly arrived an hour or so later, oil trouble the reason for their tardiness. Mike arrived at his Galwegian aunt’s place rather deflated, a flat tyre the reason for his poor time keeping. So with six hours to our wake up call, myself, Arlene, Kelly and Anne-Marie chose our bunk beds and let sleep take hold. The harsh reality of a 7am alarm on a Saturday morning was tempered by the glorious aromas that filled the room as the girls readied themselves for the day ahead.
We headed off to register with hundreds of other cyclists. I began to wonder what we were getting ourselves into. Every other cyclist seemed to have the name of a cycling club emblazoned across their back, modesty was not high on the agenda as they strutted confidently through town and their calves… wow, bigger than my thighs in some cases. I had woken up in a room full of ladies, now I was ogling men in Lycra. Cycling was doing strange things to me.
There were two courses to choose from, 80km and 140km. I had decided to do the 140km while Mike, Arlene, Anne-Marie and Kelly signed up for the 80km. The 140km ride began half an hour before the 80km version so I set off knowing that it would be over six hours before I saw their friendly faces again.
During the opening section of the cycle I was unsure of cycling etiquette, I felt every inch the novice I was. I started pedalling but didn’t seem to be going anywhere as I was engulfed by groups of men with the bulging calves. I felt like Simba during the stampede in the gorge.
There was some beauty, the hum of hundreds of pairs of wheels powering away from the start line is magical. It is the soundtrack that plays out as the strongest surge to the front and the rest of us find our natural position somewhere in the group. It is not difficult to spot the strongest cyclists; they are the dots on the horizon that were beside you not long before.
As the crowd scene dissipated I became mesmerised by the spectacular scenery. Gold sandy beaches, pretty bridges made from rocks and a landscape to blow any tourist’s mind, Clifden was making some impression. I was cycling through a postcard.
I can’t count, so at 90km I initially thought I had 30km left. Then I thought about it and came to the conclusion that I had 40km left. I had probably knocked off another 10km before I realised I had closer to 50km left to cycle!
Each time a group of cyclists appeared on my shoulder I would drop into their formation and fly along with them, until my energy sapped and I would be spat out. Like a hamster who had taken one too many turns on his wheel. The twenty minutes that followed was torture as I tried to regain some pace.
Having dragged myself uphill for what felt like an age I finally came to the last descent into Clifden. Drifting down the slope and turning the corner into the Station House Hotel was a brilliant feeling. I was tired, wet and sore. When my feet hit terra firma I instantly felt my leg muscles scream. This scream was drowned out by another seconds later.
“PHILIP!!!” I looked up and I was greeted by Anne-Marie, Arlene and Kelly* with a massive hug. Everything was right with the world again.
“PHILIP!!!” I looked up and I was greeted by Anne-Marie, Arlene and Kelly* with a massive hug. Everything was right with the world again.
Next up I’ll let you know what 200km across Wicklow feels like. We are putting ourselves through these physical challenges to prepare for the charity cycle from Paris to Nice in aid of Barretstown, the seriously fun camp for children recovering from childhood illnesses. Meet the team here and don’t hesitate to make a donation and give us a much needed lift.
*Poor Mike had to go and sort out the car’s flat tyre.
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