Becoming a Man of the Rás

As I sat on the edge of my bed in my room looking at my overpacked, overweight bag I thought about what lay ahead for me. The Rás yes. But what is the Rás? Only the longest and hardest race in all of Ireland. Or so I'd heard. Not having any previous Rás experience I was going in solely on hearsay. I was, in essence, a Rás virgin. 

Hauling my bulging bag down the 14 steps of my stairs was the first effort of the Rás, but in no means the last or the hardest. On the Rás Richter Scale it measured a mere 2. In the car was 2 bikes, 2 sets of wheels and a spare set ICH, (in case of Hahessy), and a gear bag to end all gear bags. The rendezvous for Team Comeragh Race The Rás was the Plaza Hotel in Tallaght. It was there that I met up with my team-mates, manager, mechanic and soigneur for the 8 days. On the team was Stephen Murray and Robin Kelly, both from Waterford, as well as Rás legends Mike McNena and Andy Roche. Andy won the Rás when I was but 3 years old, which was before I could even ride a bike. I didn't notice much about this hotel as I had too much nervous energy floating about and couldn't sit still. Nothing much happened the night before Stage 1, we sat around the hotel room talking about bike components, played with Robin's Di2 shifters, which by the way emit a sound of pure porn, and watched a bit of Jennifer Lawrence in X-Men. At least I think it was X-Men, all I know is that my homegirl J-Law was in it. 

The next morning I was well and truly awake before breakfast time. And I had literally nothing to do. All my gear was laid out and organised into what I would be wearing going to sign-on, during the stage and after the stage. All four of my numbers had been meticulously pinned on the night before. My helmet was clean. As were my shoes. My frame number was bolted on. Even my wi-fi wouldn't connect, so my daily fix of Twitter was going unfed. Having said that though, not having wi-fi wasn't such a tragedy, as the vast majority of my time on the internet is spent by watching people fall over on YouTube. 

The hour between breakfast and time to go seemed eternal. Packing the van was like a Christy Moore song, as rider's preferences clashed with everyone else's. There would definitely be a line about Wine Gums in there as well. I don't remember much about the drive to the start in Dunboyne either for one reason or another, normally I'm good at taking in my surroundings. Maybe I was still thinking about the Wine Gums. As we waited in Team Car 2 for Team Car 1 and the van to fuel up I could hear the names of riders being read out. There were a lot of names I didn't recognise, but I assumed that they were all complete animals regardless. Signing on up the podium was a strange feeling. It gives a sort of celebrity-like feeling. Just as you're enjoying the celebrity-like feeling though, you nearly fall down the steps in front of the crowd that were just applauding you. That tends to bring you back down to Earth like a shot. Getting the legs rubbed and warmed before the start brought about a dose of either the cold shakes or the nervous shakes. Probably both. As we waited to line up on the start line, the feeling that I was doubtful to get a tan in the 10 degree rain began to sink in. Speaking to guys around me passed the time, the gist of the conversation was that I was Gabba-less. And it looked like it was gonna be a wet one. The stage kicked off as it always does, in earnest. It's a funny to think that you can be that calm on two square centimetres of wet rubber on greasy roads at 40mph without a hint of brakes with nothing but a millimetre of lycra to protect your body. It's crazy. The stage passed without incident for me, although I had to dodge a couple of crashes, cars, dogs, riders and streams of urine. Just your typical Rás stage. We were now in Roscommon, the town that everyone pronounces wrong except the people who are actually from there. The stats for the day were 92 miles in under 3 hours and 20 minutes, averaging just a nose under 28mph. Even so, the general consensus was that I got lucky with my first Rás stage, that it was one of the easier ones.

On the podium before Stage 1.

We stayed in the Sheraton that night, which is by far the best hotel I've ever been in. It's a hotel that even Ron Burgundy would feel privileged to stay in. My mind switched immediately to Team Sky mode, staying in top notch hotels. The doors were decked in mahogany and the shower had a window that led to nowhere. I even played around with the nozzle on the shower to find the best cleaning/power ratio. Marginal gains. We all had dinner with the guys on the Race the Rás sportive, as we did every night in fact, which was good for morale throughout the entire race as they're the nicest group of people you could hope to come across.

I woke up on Stage 2, and could definitely feel Stage 1 in the legs. And worse still, it was tipping it down outside. Seeing croissants at breakfast brightened me up, and the porridge was good. I'm more of a porridge connoisseur than Goldilocks was. As I peered through the windscreen of the rented Hyundai i30 Estate rented team car as the wipers continuously cleared it of rain, I contemplated swapping my front carbon 50mm wheel for an aluminium instead to give me better brakes in the wet. Minutely better brakes. It like falling up the stairs instead of falling down the stairs. Better, but still pretty shit. As I found out later that day. Roughly 60km into the stage there was a crash two riders in front of me and somehow my brakes managed to actually accelerate me into the carnage. As we all got up and did the shortest body check ever I realised that I had broken both my shifters and had turned my front wheel into the shape of Pacman. As the race tore off up the road, I was waiting for a bike change. And then as I had broken my helmet I had to get a quick roadside check by the race doctor as I waited. Asking me maths questions is a dangerous and perilous action at the best of times, but at the roadside with blood streaming down my leg didn't prove too successful either. If I get this question wrong, it doesn't mean I'm concussed, it just means I'm not a human calculator. I chased, and kept chasing. I made up about 5 of the minutes I had spent at the roadside sitting on the bumper of car, and trying my best not to tear lumps out of it with my front tyre. After all, it was a rental. The rolly, twisting roads were a nightmare to ride the cavalcade in however. I never made it past Car No. 10. I went from Car 12 to Car 32 in one go at one point. And then I blew up. The adrenaline from the crash had worn off and now my right leg had gone dead. Game over. At this point I only had about another 65km to go before I made it to the finish in Lisdoonvarna, which Christy Moore actually had written a song about. Maybe I'd meet my future wife there, and she'd clean the blood from my calf. And feed me chicken. I recognised most of the roads from the Junior Tour of Ireland. The route went up over Castle Hill, which I could big ring over the top in the Junior Tour. I did no such thing on that day. 39x25 is my friend and I spent some quality time with him that day. 

Day 3. Oooooooohh Lisdoonvarna. It was a headwind, so once the break went, it would be quite easy to sit in, if a Rás stage can ever be easy. The break went early, which was good because Seánie needed a piano day. My back muscles had tightened up, which meant breathing deep was hard, and my neck was sore from when I hit my head in the crash. But everyone had there own little problems, just like mine. My good bike was roadworthy after the crash, so I rode Stage 3 on my winter warrior which has a dirty big weld mark around the bottom bracket from where it split in half two winters ago. Just don't tell the pros. At least Madison-Genesis weren't the only ones riding bikes with weld marks on them. We took in yet more Junior Tour roads, which were heavy and rolly, but very controlled. And then I punctured. Front wheel, downhill, off camber right hander, on clinchers. Proper clench moment. It was a quick change and there were plenty of kilometres left in the stage so I didn't panic. Again it was a relatively relaxed stage, the day's break stayed away but only just thanks to some careful riding by the yellow jersey's New Zealand team. 

Post Stage 3 photo (by Karen Edwards)

Stage 4 from Charleville to Cahersiveen was the longest of the 2014 An Post Rás at 183km. Before the Rás I could count on one hand the amount of times I had ridden 160km, but 180km was totally unknown territory. I was expecting the distance to get to me and sure enough in the last 30km my legs fell off. What I wasn't expecting was the newly renamed Devil's Road. Coomanaspic. 2.5km long and averaging 8% only tells a fraction of the story. It rises to 28% for about 10 metres in one place, and then up to 25% again at the top. My front wheel was lifting going up it. Some local ran alongside me with a fig roll and a can of coke. It was the best fig roll I've ever had in my life, it was like a scene from a movie. Harry Potter and the Fig Roll of Life. But what goes up, must come down and the descent down the other side was savagely fast. I came down the other side at 105kph, sitting on the crossbar with my shoulders on the hoods Sagan style. If I had come down I'd still be out there. Normally to go that fast on a bike you have to wear leathers. That hill had won me over completely. First thing I did when I got back to the hotel in Sneem that night was look up the hill. I knew it had something to do with a bishop, as it's irish name is Coom an Easpaig, Easpaig is the Irish word for bishop, and Coom is the name of the place. The story goes that there was a couple way back when, the mother had just given birth to 7 children. For whatever reason, they decided to get rid of the children, and set out to drown them. Along the way to the sea, they met a woman on top of said hill, who saw that they were carrying a sack with what appeared to be living things moving inside it. The couple merely told her that all that was in the bag was 7 newborn pups. The passing woman offered to take the pups off the couple, meaning the lives would be spared. It wasn't until she returned home that she found out that it was in fact 7 infant boys. Those 7 boys all grew up to be bishops, and that's where the hill gets its name, so the story goes.

Coomanaspic @25%, Seánie @100%. (Photo by Stephen Kelleghan)

 The glorious sunshine of Stage 4 was replaced with strong winds, cold temperatures and rain. It may as well have been winter. But on the bright side the legs didn't feel bad at all. Robin had come down with the stomach bug that plagued the Rás field and didn't start that morning, it was the first Rás he hadn't finished so he was obviously disappointed, he had been riding really aggressively up until that too. The biggest problem I had was bunch riding, made worse by my crash on Stage 2, but the early on climb of Coomakista would see riders scattered anyway. We would be taking in a little bit of the Waterville-Valentia stage of Rás Mumhan in the early parts of the stage as well. Valentia still haunts me. I waited on the start line, shivering and shooting the breeze, yet again Gabba-less. It was like the line from a bad song, not a Christy Moore one this time though. Pros to the left of me, Valentia to the right ...  and so on. Over the top of Coomakista, having started way too far back, I was in a group about 40 seconds behind the lead group. We got back on coming through Sneem passing by our hotel for the night before. I contemplated the differences between a Fizik Arione saddle that I was now on, and the big bed that I was on just a few hours beforehand. Nothing much happened then until coming through Kenmare, apart from some ferocious eating and drinking, when the road started to pull up towards the Caha Pass. Just as we passed the KOM Start sign, even though we had been going uphill at 50kph for 2km beforehand, my saddle started coming loose. Never a dull moment. That saddle hasn't moved in two whole years and it just happened to move at the precise moment when An Post decided to practice lead outs on a Cat. 1 climb. Long story short, it couldn't be fixed on the move, so I had to swap onto my spare bike, wait until the saddle was fixed on the good bike and then swap back. I descended like a stone, caught the next group on the road, chased back onto the main group, and then proceeded to die for the next 50km. Thankfully the break was well and truly gone so nobody was chasing. Bunch finish, 10 minutes down and grateful. 

We were now in Clonakilty, home of pudding and the sausages I was reared on. I was always told stories of riders with the stare. The thousand yard stare that it is a good indicator of a rider's fatigue level. I didn't however, get the stare. Instead what I got was a complete and utter ingnorance of the laws of physics. Getting my gear bag out of the van that evening, there was a box of race food in the way. and instead of moving out of the way, I thought to myself "Maybe if I pull harder, somehow friction will be reduced, and I will prove science wrong"  Predictably this didn't happen, but this was my version of the stare.

Full Team Photo, with Eamon Ó Muircheartaigh included on the far left. That's not Stephen's helmet by the way, his head is just incredibly aerodynamic.

Stage 6 into Carrick started well, legs were good so I started sniffing around the front looking to get into the break that was sure to go. I missed it, which meant that yet again I would have to sit in for at least the next hour or so. I stopped for a nature break on the way into Cork with dozens of others, and as I was making my way up through the cars I had my Sam Bennett  Tour of Britain moment. I was riding about a centimetre off the back of the Mayo Centra Team Car, when the car braked hard. I didn't even have time to react, I went into the back of it, my back wheel came up about a foot in the air and was pretty much out beside me at one point. But I didn't come down. Great success! On the road to Youghal the crosswinds were strong, but nowhere near as strong as they were into Dungarvan. The bunch split into 5 groups, all echeloned out across the road from gutter to gutter. Once again I was too far back and ended up in group 5, mainly because I didn't have the cojones on the very inside of the gutter. Even still, when we got to Carrick, to feeling was pretty special. I've never been a fan of Seskin Hill but that day I was its biggest fan. The welcome the Rás gets in every town is amazing, but riding into my hometown tops all of them, even if I was 10 minutes down on the stage winner. Having a shower in my own house was much nicer than any hotel too. It was like being back in the womb. We lost Andy that day as well, he didn't finish. He too had been struggling with the bug for a few days.

Thank you Carrick. (Photo by Joe Cashin)

The penultimate stage was anything but easy, and we were greeted with yet more rain. I spoke to Eoin Morton as we followed the brass band up the main street in Carrick. He said it was like going to war following the band. It was like going to war for me too, only I got that feeling at the start of every stage. It pretty much was war. Again I missed both the break, and the last boat across to it. And then I realised that I had forgotten all my race food. I waited for the pace to knock off and then went back and topped up. The fact that I was looking to get into breaks was a sign that my legs were recovered, the fact that I forgot my race food meant my mind wasn't. My body was feeling better though, it was loosening up nicely after the crash thanks to the hours of physio Peter was giving it. If you're reading this Ken, that does mean that I've been seeing another physio behind your back. Sorry you had to find out like this. Corrabutt is where all the damage was done that stage, it split to pieces and by the time we got over Mt. Leinster there was just 5 county riders left in the front group of 50. And that was it for the stage, apart from when I broke another shifter (borrowed shifter!), nothing else happened after that. 

Over the top of Corrabutt. (Photo by Gary McIlroy)

The final stage was anything but a procession. Having missed the breaks the few days before I still wanted to get into it. We did 50km in the first hour into a strong headwind, and I didn't have the horsepower to get into moves. I needed to think stealthily. I needed to sneak into it, but someone who's 6ft 5" dressed entirely in pink doesn't tend to do much sneaking. Sure enough I missed it again, it didn't go fully until the 50km mark. The norm for the previous stages was that now the bunch would ease back for a bit, hold the gap and then close it down a bit. And in fairness, they did ease it back a bit, by about .00000001 of a kph. It was still rapid enough that you couldn't switch off. And then with about 3km remaining before the start of the finishing circuit I punctured my rear wheel. The change from neutral seemed eternally long. I jumped in behind the car, got back into the cavalcade rode through the cars, but all the cars were stuck behind a smaller group that had just been shelled, so that's as far as I made it back on with the help of the cars. After the stage, I found out that somehow, a routine puncture had managed to put a big dent in my rim. Wrecked. That brought the tally to three shifters, two wheels, a helmet, a set of lungs and two legs. There wasn't a single stage in the whole race where I wasn't back at the car for something stupid.

Riding two laps of Skerries on my own was by no way the highlight of the Rás. (Photo by Sean Rowe)

Standing on the podium, albeit 2 riders down, was still a great feeling. Wearing the pink livery was another great feeling. The gear also came with a little kick up the arse when needed. Every time I was really hurting and on the limit throughout the race, the pink gear reminded me that my pain mattered little in comparison to those suffering with breast cancer. The pink was my little reminder to MTFU. 

Hahessy.

Cycleways Cup 2014

The Cycleways Cup took place in Navan this past Sunday, with yet another large field of riders. I travelled up with my father through the rain, and lack of tunes on the radio. Race organisers should advertise what good radio stations are in their vicinity. I remember in Tralee last weekend, being forced to listen to either Radió na Gaeltachta or RTÉ Lyric FM, neither of which were any good for pre race. We made light of the situation by telling jokes about viagra-taking toll booths, and contemplating why someone would spend €26,000 of their euros on a 141 Opel Zafira, which is exactly the same as a 2007 model. For €26,000, you could go mad on the Specialized website for a while, or get €26,000 worth of Dettol, both of which are better than a 141 Zafira. 

The race kicked off at 12:30. The good surfaced, slick roads made for a fast start, as well as Mark Downey attacking to warm himself up a bit. The break of the day slipped off the front on the climb, and I managed to land myself in it. Both O'Loughlins, Craig McCauley, Mark Downey, Stephen Shanahan, Simon Tuomey and I. This was a good break. I was lucky enough to be in the company of the six strongest riders in the race. We wasted no time and quickly built up a ninety second gap by the time we swung left onto the main road. We seemed to like that left hander, and made another before we were supposed to in the company of our lead car. And guess who was it who made the turn? Nope. Not me anyway. By the time we realised and understood how big of a mistake we had made, and got back to the main road, we had lost over eleven minutes. We were ten minutes on the backfoot. This gave an interesting fiasco. What happens when you take the strongest riders from the race and give them an unheard of handicap? 

If it hadn't been for the years of experience on Martin O'Loughlin's shoulders, we probably would have thrown the head. But we didn't. We kept rolling through, but without a single time check all day, I felt we were at nothing. This annoyed me, so I decided to take my anger out on my bottom bracket. Once again I was glad I was with the most talented riders in the country, who knew how to ride a gap down. It was a real gritty chase. All hard, no easy. We shold have been eating coal instead of energy gels. Liam Neeson would have approved. And James May too, as we were lost.  With 15km to go, we caught our first glimpse of the bunches rear end. It was one of the nicest rear ends I've ever seen. Like Mufasa to Simba, we all looked on, dewy eyed. "Out there Son, is shelter"  But next came the bigger problem, how does one summon the strength to push the pain button one more time, engage a bigger gear and go for it? The promise of no wind and to finally get rid of the wind noise in your ears was how. By 6km to go, we were all back in, doing 30kph in the bunch, whilst out the back we had averaged over 43kph. Everybody was getting conflicting reports as to who was up the road and what gap they were at. The habit of the day seemed to be go hard or go home, so why change that now. After all the time spent out the back longing to be in bunch, I was now working out how to get out of it again. Bunch gallop seemed like the most probable outcome at this stage. I was let down by the multitude of yellow signposts in Navan, and duelled it out with Mark Downey in the slowest sprint in the history of Ireland. There were spectators at the side of the road holding their noses over the smell of the lactic acid burning off of us. I'm pretty sure Usain Bolt could have beaten us on foot.

Even though we were sent the wrong way, I would regard that race as one of the best I've taken part in domestically, regardless of result. People who love racing and riding their bikes, myself included, aren't in it for the promise of money. We're in it for those little feelings racing gives you. That feeling when you put on a jersey with numbers pinned on it. That feeling after the race, and you take off your jersey and it's heavy with sweat and road cocktail. That feeling you get in the car on the way home, when the car seat is uncomfortable to sit in because your glutes are so tight. And this race had it all. I've got goosebumps just talking about it. The bunch normally chases the break down, instead our little seven man group chased down a much more numerically strong bunch. It was almost the exact opposite of how big pro races work. I'd go as far as to say that the seven of us slept extremely well Sunday night. And were welded to the bed the next morning. And extremely happy too. 

Seán.

Winter 2013/14

Winter can be a time for pursuing some of life's more extravagant features away from the bike. Beer and saturated fats mainly. But the thing we pursue most of all are miles logged and hours spent in the saddle. There always comes a time though when you start to think that you'd gladly take an effort session just to shake things up from the monotony of riding at endurance pace. After the first 6 weeks every field starts to look the same, and you could've sworn you saw that cow before. One thing you definitely have seen before is the arse in front of you. The arse that hands you out kickings on a plate day in, day out. But all in all, I'm mighty glad of them. 

On any given day, I could be accompanied by five riders who have won National Championships. Riding at the back of the group, (not scrubbing), you can almost smell the experience. Our little privileged group breezes through towns and villages like Hell's Angels, thighs pumping and calves flexing, scaring the elderly and inspiring the children to wreak havoc in their chosen field. So for those four hours at a time, I can just become a sponge and soak up everything. Well, I say four hours, I really mean two and half-ish. For the last ninety minutes I don't do very much talking. They make remarks and I nod and grunt accordingly, whilst glancing back to check my brakes aren't rubbing, or they're aren't three other incredibly lean riders hanging from my now vacant rear end of the saddle. I now know how Geraint Thomas felt having to be hoisted from his bike in last year's Tour de France. That's me every time I get home. I wander aimlessly through the back door and throw myself down on anything that looks relatively able to hold 82 kilos of tiredness. After amassing all my available strength and willpower to remove my overshoes, I head up the wooden hill to the shower, the little slice of heaven after a training session. There will come a day in the not too distant future where I will suffer a hiding so humongously extraordinarily large that I will shower in my overshoes. Something amazing happens in my shower. My shower brings forth the perfect setting to re-enact the scenes from the film Phone Booth. And I am Colin Farrell. The warm shower becomes an extremely cozy phone booth. Mam plays an Oscar winning role as Forest Whitaker. In the film Whitaker tries to coax Farrell out of the booth under the suspicion of that he's shot someone. Mam tries to coax me out because I'm enjoying the warmth too much, and the shower is now leaking into the sitting room. 

Having been off since the start of December, thanks to the kind obliging folks at Waterford IT, and not being back for another week, I've still got a bit of holiday training time left. I reckon I'll go through withdrawal symptoms once I go back after 6 weeks off. I might not go back. Yeah that's a good bet actually. 

That's it for this blog, but before I sign off let me tell you about something that happened when I went to take my driver theory test. I had 40 questions to answer with the minimum passing mark being 35/40. I went in to confirm or deny my details. The woman asked me my name. I gave her my name, paying careful attention to the difficult pronunciation of my second name. Question 1 down. She asked me my address. I answered, even throwing in "County" before the word "Tipperary" for the full marks. And when she asked me my date of birth? Well I gave that question what for. She kept racking them up and I just kept knocking them out of the park. And then she asked what license I was applying for. And my brain knew there was a type of license, coded by a letter. A letter I didn't know. I thought back to the theory questions. I remember seeing an "M" and a "W". Was I an "M" or a "W"? Or was I an "A"? I wouldn't mind getting an "A" for once. In the end I settled for the phrase that will be forever imprinted on my brain "Car Vehicle". The first 5 minutes of the test were spent contemplating what must that woman think of me? "Car ... Vehicle ... She's probably gonna fail me for that even if I do pass my test. How could she pass somebody who doesn't know what license he wants?" In the end this was not the case. A great sense of shame was felt when she handed me over the piece of paper, I could feel her eyes burying themselves into the back of my head as I walked out the door. I reckon she and her coffee drinking friend had a right good laugh at my expense when I closed the door.

I'll be easy to spot in a car. I'll be the one blocking out the light through the driver side window, clipping kerbs, taking the racing line through town and villages in the search for marginal gains, but giving extra clearance to cyclists.

Ciao,

Hahessy.

Elite World Championship Preview: Firenze 2013

This weekend the eyes of the entire global cycling community will be fixed thoroughly on Florence, Italy for the Elite World Road Race Championships. The 272km race kicks off at 10am from the walled city of Lucca and from there, it will make its way to the Mandela Forum in Florence herself, but not before taking in 10 laps of a 16.6km circuit. Including in these circuits is a 3.9km climb into Fiesole followed by a technical twisting descent into the short steep climb of Via Salviati that averages at 12% and maxes out at claimed 19.4% (although the official route says 16%, further googling of local Garmin files say different.) So even if a dying rider manages to bury himself over the 4km climb into Fiesole, the Via Salviati may well be his undoing. It's not that long, but it doesn't need to be, at 600m, expect some riders to be 20 seconds back the road here. 

The Finishing Circuit

Philippe Gilbert win last year's event, with Norway's Boassen Hagen and Spain's Valverde rounding off the podium respectively. Out of the 27 rider group that finished together last year, expect no more than 6 of those riders to feature at the pointy end of things this time around, those riders being Gilbert, Moreno, Valverde, Nibali, Sagan and Voeckler. Not much can be told from last year's results than can be carried through to this year's event. The course last year was a real powerhouse course, where the course favoured Gilbert over Nibali. This time around the exact opposite is true. Last year in Valkenburg, the Cauberg was a mere 1500 metres long with a maximum gradient of 12% and the Bemelerberg that was 1200m in length with a maximum gradient of 6%. This year, the two climbs outrank the Cauberg, one in length and the other by way of gradient. Last year the length in total was 267km, with 10 laps of the finishing circuit. Which means that last year had a grand total of 27km of climbing incorporated into the route. This year, it's more than double that. This year, 58km of the course is covered by going towards the sky, a third of the overall race distance. 

Obviously, being a biased Irishman I'll be keeping a sharp eye on Dan Martin and another sharp eye on Nicolas Roche, both of whom are enjoying the seasons of their careers. The punchy course will suit Martin perfectly, and he showed he was in attacking form in last week's Tour of Britain. He should be in great form and itching to get going on the start line. Nicolas Roche is proving his mettle as one of the World's best riders at moment, he was the commentators favourite in the Vuelta, where he wore every jersey on offer, taking a stage in fine style and capping it off with 5th overall. His morale will be high, which should leave the others shaking in their Sidis. Obviously the engines in the team for the first 210km of the race will be Brammeier and Bennett, who both have enjoyed wins and big results of late. And let's face it, we too enjoyed it immensely as well. 

The riders in my opinion that are most likely to be in the mix for the rainbow bands, their name in the history books and to have the chance to ponder "the curse of the rainbow jersey" over their winter miles are slim in numbers. The opinions expressed below are that of my own. The may not always be right but they are never wrong.

Chris Froome - Great Britain

The Kenyan-born British rider is at the end of a season which in truth should have happened a year before it did. He won this year's Tour, but more importantly he won it by attacking and winning mountain stages, which mimics what sort of racing he can expect this Sunday. He can count on Wiggins for help too, which is an advantage worth two ordinary riders.

Richie Porte - Australia

The pocket-sized Tasmanian was Chris Froome's most prolific lieutenant at this year's Tour, and could well have been a Tour contender otherwise. He's a man that no-one is really thinking about in terms of this race, but I think he is definitely able to bag a podium place. A big asset to him this time around is that he has no-one to use his legs for. Any energy he spends on Sunday will be for his own benefit. He has enjoyed spells in yellow in various races already this year, so his confidence will be high coming into the event. He can also time trial extremely well, a case he proved even more when he and the rest of Team Sky took 3rd in the Team Time Trial last Sunday. He should be more than able to cope with explosive attacks from the likes of Rodriguez and Quintana. 

Fabian Cancellara - Switzerland

 

I myself think he is a bit of a long shot, given the parcours. But who am I to doubt this man. We've seen him time and time again get over the Cipressa and the Poggio to fight it out in San-Remo. Plus the fact that he says he's focussed on this event. Back earlier in the season he was focussed to win Flanders and Roubaix, and he did. So don't count him out yet. If Contador is 'El Pistolero', then Cancellara is 'El Gattlin Gun-o'.

Peter Sagan - Slovakia

The barometer of cool amongst the shaven leg society has to be one of the biggest favourites for this event. Earlier in the year we've seen him unfazed by Nibali in the Tirreno Adriatico, and then put it up to Cavendish and Greipel in a straight dash to the line. It seems as though there's literally nothing this man cannot do. He's not Slovak, he's Fast-vak.

Joaquim Rodriguez - Spain 

The man who is more commonly labelled as Purito, whenever there's a dull moment in the commentary box. Purito means 'little cigar' in Spanish, suggesting that he leaves a trail of smoke wherever he goes. He bagged a stage in the Vuelta, in the same fashion as will be expected of him on Sunday. He's in good form and never fails to perform and make the race exciting. He was 6th in 2008 and 3rd in 2009.

Philippe Gilbert - Belgium

The reigning champion won in fine style last year, but has failed to regain his best form for any of the Classics in early season. But his 2012 season is pretty much identical to this year's, with his first win coming in week 2 of the Vuelta on both occasions. Only a fool with underestimate Philippe Gilbert. Belgium will once again field a numerically strong team, and as they showed last year, it counts. They had 4 men inside the top 5 when the time came.

Vincenzo Nibali - Italy 

The Italian has the advantage of riding on home soil. He will be the fan favourite which will spur him on a bit. But all the spurring on in the World won't help him if he doesn't have the legs to walk the walk. He's had his best season to date so hopefully he can carry it through. The descent will suit him, if he has but a 5 second gap, that could well be all he needs into the Via Salviati.

Dan Martin and Nicolas Roche - Ireland

The two Irishmen are real contenders for medals. Both have the abilities to fight all the way, and even fight back. Roche has the gutsy-ness that's needed on the day of the Worlds, and the legs to back up the gutsy-ness. Whilst Dan Martin has honed his racing head a lot this year, it really has worked well for him. If Rodriguez is Purito, then Dan is Todóg, the Irish for cigar. Deal with that, Joaquim. 

Nairo Quintana - Colombia

The Colombian is fast becoming one of the best climbers in the World. Chris Froome got the better of him in weeks 1 and 2 of the Tour, but Quintana got the better of him in the closing stages, getting himself a stage win and cleaning up the best young riders jersey. One of his most valuable assets, aside from his ferocious climbing abilities, is his poker face. It could well pay dividends after 272 kilometres.

Before I sign off, here's a little something to get you all fired up for Sundays clash of the titans.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYm2ECRk8R4

Now go mash those pedals,

Hahessy.

Is it Winter already?

Last weekend marked, what for me was, the final race of the year. There are a couple of races left, but I'm not participating because I'm plagued with college already. A break will be a welcome sight to let my mind recover rather than my body. The mental stress this year was pretty constant as there was always off the bike work to be done, so I'm glad to say that all that work falls on a different set of shoulders from now on. 

Having not raced Charleville last year, I didn't have much of an idea as to what to expect once the racing started. I got conflicting reports from all angles. Some said that Stage 1 was a hard one, others said that it would end up in a bunch sprint, not that I cared really because I felt I had the legs to deal with whatever was thrown up. The rain came and went as we motored out of Carrick just after our decided 10am departure time. As we entered Charleville it seemed like an overcast but dry day. And it was, until 5 minutes before the roll-out. The awning of the Charleville Park Hotel became our shelter from the elements, and a 'first come, first serve' basis was dished out, as those who were late to react to the first few rain drops were left shelter-less. But I felt that was ok, as they would be getting plenty of shelter for the following 2 hours. I was guesting as a Kanturk rider, as I missed the entry date and Dan Curtin managed to get me in, under one condition. So I donned the blue and green and white of Kanturk for the weekend. Before the race, as I was pinning on my numbers, I felt like a bride getting ready for a wedding. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. What I had that was old were my shoes. My Shimano shoes really are getting their use, but don't owe me anything at this stage. I probably should upgrade them. Something new, well those were my black socks. Long black socks, like Wiggins, except without all the shouty, sweary pomp. Something borrowed, my Kanturk jersey. I was reintroducing retro, too bad nobody else recognises retro and appreciates it. All they do is laugh. I should have ripped out a pair of KAS gloves to complete the look. Something blue? No matter where I looked I couldn't find something blue. The sky didn't have a smudge of blue in it. And so it seemed that I wouldn't be completing the pre-wedding bridal superstition, until Eiffel 65 came on Red FM to save the day. Now I was ready, to get married and to ride the bike. 

I'm bringing retro back

We rolled out amidst the skating rink roads and officials cars, dodging road islands and darting our eyes from the pretty pedestrians to the back of the lead car bumper. Unsurprisingly at the head of the snake it was an all junior affair. We rolled through the finish line the opposite way round and the race was under way  Ian Redmond put in his 
signature attack as soon as the flag was dropped. Then others jumped across followed by the whole bunch eventually and we were soon back on equal terms. It was now raining quite steadily and the temperature was the lowest we've seen in recent months. This is my favourite type of weather, so I was eager to get up the road and make a race of it. We came upon a slight chicane in the road, I was 4th in line and rolled up to the front and then just kept going, I gained 5 seconds almost immediately and then when the roads got twisty I put the boot down to try and drag out a gap. On average I had about 30 seconds, and at most I had 50 seconds. I held this gap for 40km before the gap dropped below 20 seconds. I sat up and allowed myself to accept some draft from an obliging bunch. We now had 30km to go, and I ate like a champion in those final 30km. I decided after a bit of deliberation to go for the sprint and with 1km to go I was in the middle of those who would be leading the charge. Unfortunately I had to kick early to keep the pace up and set up one of my not so famous but increasingly recurring in the saddle gallops. If I'd been able to wait another 50 metres I'd have probably won the stage, but then again if I had kept my powder for the first 40km things could have worked out differently as well. If my solo move had paid off we'd have had a different situation. There's a lot of ifs and buts involved in cycling. 

Think I'll keep up this sprinting malarky. It's almighty craic

Stage over it was now time to warm up and fuel up. The countdown to the TT was on. I was feeling good, but then again I would because I was lying down on a borrowed bed in the Dunbar household. I'd really only know how I was going after the first 1km of the 6.7km test. If man's best friend is the dog, then surely a cyclist's best friend has got to be pasta, and so we made sure to eat enough to suffice the next two stages. I feel as though the TT went as well as it could have gone. I came second by 14 seconds to Dylan Foley, who is World Championship bound in the coming weeks. Now I'm not petty or anything, but I feel as though the blame for my 14 second time loss is to be found in someone else. If Sinéad Dunbar hadn't been so willing and wanting to fight everyone that evening, then maybe that gap would be smaller. And no you did not win, I just can't by right punch a girl square in the face, let alone in her own house. And also my shoes were a bit too tight so that is another inputting factor. Another thing that would have helped a lot would have been if I had had, say, a gale force tailwind, and everyone else didn't. But no run is perfect...

The afternoon stage was less than 4 hours after my TT, so an 'off-the-feet' system was put in place. After the TT I had my real breakfast, including two little pieces of heaven. Apparently they're from France, and called 'cross-onts'. They're like bread, only stale and twisted every which way. I'm currently googling what the word 'cross-ont' means in French but having no luck as of yet. Maybe Ron Burgundy can help me. I hear he's good with foreign language translations. For the second year in a row, Foley had the yellow jersey after the TT. And he said my retro Kanturk jersey was big. The afternoon stage takes in some of the Killmallock CC race, which was a hilly race. Now, when my ears hear the word 'hilly' that shoots through my inner ear into my brain and then gets changed into the word 'balls'. But if my legs were good then I should have been able to dance up them. It's not that my legs were bad, but they weren't what you would call good by any means. What got me up the hills was sheer brute force and ignorance. The climbing compadrés of Dunbar and O'Brien 'skipped away up the road in ones and twos' as is religiously drilled into anyone who has had the immense pleasure of riding with Danny Curtin. They had 1:40 at the most, but all they needed was 25 seconds. In Killmallock they had 1:20 but at the line they had 1:30. We ended up with 1st, 2nd and 4th overall in the GC, not to mention a flurry of stage results along with it and the team prize. After his stint in Wales, young Beavis took the biggest win of his career, so far. 

I absolutely adore this photo

So that's about it for this blog post. Well actually it's not, because my lectures don't start until 12:15 today, and it's currently only 11:23. So until then I'm 'Seanie-No-Mates'. And I've got no college work to do. So for now, I'll ramble on deliriously about my college experience thus far. If you are only interested in cycling, then you should probably click the little red 'X' button in the top right-hand corner.

Anyway, as I'm only 1 week into college, there's not much I can say about it. My journey begins at 10 minutes to 8 in the morning where I have to get a CIE bus to the college gates. This journey takes an hour, most of which is spent listening to the views of others' around about how the country should be run. And when I say 'listen', I really mean 'unable to escape the realms of their bright ideas'. I can feel my IQ dropping by the second.  By the time I get to college, I reek of the diseases picked up from the musty faded blue and fading red seats of the bus. I come to college to learn, but the purpose is rather defeated because my time spent there is used up topping up the IQ tank after an hour long bus journey. And then I spend another hour and a half on one on the way home. I reckon that my IQ will drop into the minuses by next March at this rate. But this is just a educated estimate made by someone with a lower IQ than he started the day with. The college experience itself is great. A sense of freedom is felt in the air. And the lectures are actually about things I enjoy learning. No sign of Pythagoras or his crew anywhere near the place. One thing I will say is because of out laid back and louche timetable, I can see why students get the reputation of being wasters. But I prefer the term 'contemplators', as none of the time spent there is wasted, rather spent on life's little mysteries and great questions which I contemplate daily. The latest one - What happens if you pour Dettol into a Yakult? 

Well, that ramble killed 20 minutes, let's see if I can resist that packet of Haribo Tangfastics in Centra on the long perilous walk to today's lecture,

Here's hoping I don't,

Until whenever,

Hahessy. 

Irish Boys on Tour

This blog update will be pictureless I'm afraid, as the any available pictures cannot be found by a man of my limited talents. So please try and keep attentive even without all the brightly coloured pictures children. Last weekend I joined my provincial brothers Eddie Dunbar, Stephen Shanahan and Dylan O'Brien to pedal our bikes around Wales. The weekend got off to a bad start almost immediately, when the in-house communication between teammates broke down. I was set to be collected in Carrick at "six", which I interpreted as 6pm, as in tradition, Team Munster's policy is to arrive at races later rather than sooner, when in truth it meant 6am. It was probably the best wake-up call I have ever gotten though, I basically jumped out of bed and landed in my socks. I packed like I was late for mass and we hit the road, hard. Whilst Dad was getting me to Rosslare in under 60 minutes, I was too busy lamenting over all the non-essential essentials that I had forgotten. Turbo Trainer? No. Energy Powder? No. Towel? No. Boxer shorts? Hell no. But I made up for all this foolishness by packing three arm-warmers. Even my bike was still dirty. All the things that I had in my head to do all day were prematurely cast aside. And it wasn't like I could borrow gear from my "fun-sized" teammates Dunbar or O'Brien. A cloud of shame fell over me as my bike was secured on the roof of Tom Shanahan's car, not only was it still dirty going to a race, but rather more 'fred-ishly' I still had my saddle-bag attached. Had this been an Irish race, I'd have lost serious respect points. But in Wales, I had no respect to lose. I had breakfast aboard the ferry, which included a severely moreish croissant. We then had 210 minutes to kill, the vast amount of which was filled by me, saying "Oh yeah, I forgot my .... as well."

Each time we stopped along our journey to 'Cwmbran', the search for free WiFi was on. Once the WiFi situation was sussed, then began the search for food. We were pretty much like cavemen, if cavemen had access to WiFi way back when. We had yet to find a good radio station, and by good, I mean a station that played 'Macklemore'. The race HQ of 'Ebbw Vale' was on the way to our home away from home, so it would have been stupid of us not to check out the sign-on and the time-trial course. The word time-trial was used loosely to describe the course. It took me around 9 minutes 30 seconds to reach the foot of the final climb. The run in to the climb was fast, I was averaging 35-40 mph for the majority of it, but then when I came upon the climb that very much changed. The only way I could describe the final climb to those in my area would be like 'Seskin Hill', but exposed to the wind. It was like a ladder put there by the devil, with naught but his evil sheep for company. Over there the sheep don't go "Baaa!", instead it seems they go "Haaa!", mocking you.  For the first time in my cycling days, I got scared going up a hill. I was crawling in the 39x25, and yet it was scary to think that riders could go up this in the big ring. Unlike 'Seskin' though, those kind of hills are a dime a dozen over there. Motorway drags are a rare occurrence from what I can see. All the drags over there have escape lanes into sand traps for runaway vehicles. Our neutralised zone for 2 of the 5 stages consisted of a long descent, with the group regularly hitting 40 mph. By the bottom of the descent I had to tighten the quick release on the brake calipers, as about 2mm had worn off them. The peloton was like a giant sea, ebbing, flowing, crashing, flicking from left to right. No one rider moving without taking others with him. Constantly moving, lengthening, shortening, widening and thinning out.

Stage 2 looked like a hard one, the final climb on paper looked pretty testing. 8 miles into the stage came the first crash. It happened of the left-hand side of the road and flicked over to the right, and in doing so, took 4 spokes out of Eddie's rear wheel. My intentions in this race weren't set in stone, but Eddie's were. Highest overall placing possible. I stopped and swapped my good rear wheel onto his bike and pushed him off, all the while he was imploring me to "Look at my hand!" In his haste to get the wheel out he pierced his hand with one of the snapped spokes. The contusion was a good couple of inches long. I waited to get service myself and then set off, but to stop again 300m later to reset my brake calipers which had been knocked out of place. I now had a 2 minute gap to close up, on a bunch that had averaged 48 kph in the first hour. But they must have averaged 50+ kph in the second half hour, as I was doing over 50 kph for 33 kilometres before I caught them again. And when I caught them we were on the Welsh B-roads, lined with short steep climbs that set a deep burn in your thighs. I did not make it to the final climb with the main peloton, my excursions in the cavalcade had left me drained and dehydrated. I didn't drink enough whilst on the bumper of the car, but sweated a lot. The final climb to the line was again steep and again made harder by the mocking of Welsh sheep. It was 6km long, with the first 3km at about 8-10%. It then levelled off to about 6% for 2km and then kicked up steeply for the final 1km to the line. I haven't yet looked at my Garmin file to see the accurate percentages, but I think it would just give me nightmares anyway.

I didn't sleep well that night. Maybe it was because I was dehydrated, or maybe it was because the air in our room had been replaced by pure methane. I'm pretty sure there's now a hole in the ozone layer above the Premier Inn in Cwmbran. Stage 3 was only an hour long, but a circuit race, so the hour-mark would be a welcome sight at the end of it all. A turbo trainer would have been useful to warm-up with, but a good night's sleep was what I really needed. My concentration levels were shot, I fell asleep in the car on the way to the start. Double British Champion Chris Lawless won the stage in an intimidating display of power. Once I went out the back I essentially did a time-trial, keeping it at a set heart-rate and catching lapped riders, so even though I went out the back I moved up ten places on GC. 81st place is a real thing to shout about. 3 stages down, 2 to go. Stage 4 was a flat stage, with two long dual carriageway sections. I wanted to get into a breakaway as my race so far was less than fruitful. But my legs in the first 20km were very sluggish and slow to react. The top end power came back after 20km but the break had gone and had 40 seconds. I wasn't going to bridge a 40 second gap so I wasn't happy to have missed the move. A very boring and uneventful spin along dual-carriageways later the stage was over, and the magicians of Team Munster managed to get 5 bikes onto a roof rack built only to take 3. Chapeau, in the words of Kelly. We got back to our farmyard/room and set about town, to find a restaurant of cyclist proportions. And boy what a find we made. A restaurant called 'Harvester' turned out to be so much more that it seemed. Their dinners were cheap on price, but not on flavour, and an all-you-can-eat salad bar meant pasta was aplenty. Free re-fills on drinks and free WiFi were the icing on the cake. If they opened in Ireland they'd clean up completely. We got home just in time to miss Nicolas Roche's Vuelta stage win. I slept much better that night, we were set to tackle Tumble Mountain. A gruelling 7km climb, with an average gradient of 8% and a maximum of 15% it would suit the people light of the growth hormone. We were told to expect the main group to be 3 riders strong at the halfway mark, but no such thing happened. I don't even recall the second KoH. Damn near all the riders that set off made it to the base of Tumble in the group and then steadily went out the back one by one. Once again I set off at a pace I knew I could hold without blowing up and caught dropped riders on the way up the slope. The race was run, winners were crowned and volunteers thanked and thanked again. A little bit of happiness crept over the scene at the top of the mountain, when Eddie proclaimed that today was the first time he got his arse kicked all year. If getting your arse kicked means coming 5th overall then I'm stuck for words.

We then had 12 hours to kill until our ferry departed for home. Most of which was spent laughing at Beavis and Butthead (Dylan and Stephen) as they talked in code. And the question that was asked of us everyday from the moment we joined forces still remained. It seems as though it will always remain within the ranks of Team Munster, no matter which riders come and go in the future and no matter how the race is panning out for us. It is the eternal question - "Lads, do ye want any fruit?"

I feel as though we owe a great debt of gratitude to Tom and Kevin for their work over to get us to this race, and especially over the course of the weekend. We weren't 4 lads and 2 men, we were 6 Irishmen, taking Wales by storm and having a whale of a time doing so.

Until next time,

Seán.

PS, Here are my top tips for doing anything in Wales.

• Listen only to Kiss FM 101.
• Assume that all hills will be requiring a maximum front gearing of a 39 ring.
• Do not attempt to pronounce any Welsh words, try quietly in your head if you must.
• Welsh sheep aren't as tough as Irish sheep, they will happily relinquish their ground to you.
• It is imperative that your brakes are in good condition, whether it be the brakes on your car or bike. They will be needed!
• Eat at Harvester, only at Harvester. And smother everything in their Hot Chili Sauce.
• Don't worry if you're hard of hearing and want to watch Mrs. Brown's Boys, the Welsh kindly run it in English as well as having English subtitles.
• If you don't understand what a Welsh person says for fear of their accent, it is acceptable to say 'what' at most twice.
• Downhills are your friend, hit them flat-out all the time. And remember, the faster you go, the less likely you are of crashing!
• Respect the Welsh terrain, it will break you before you break it.

National Championships 2013, Omagh.

As the 2013 season's end draws ever nearer, I'm squeezing in nearly every race I can, making up for lost time while I got my exams out of the way. Speaking of exams, I was the opposite of most, I was more frustrated after receiving my results than I was beforehand. While others made their way to schools around the country, clammy handed, I was as cool as a frozen cucumber. I saw no need for fretting as at this stage it was beyond my control, there was nothing I could do to change the outcome (at least not with my limited funds anyway.) The white seal of the envelope was broken away to reveal results that gave me 55 more CAO points than I needed. That's 55 points worth of extra, pointless time spent studying. 55 points worth of time spent with my head in my Biology book, time which could have been put to great use on the bike. That's not a very efficient use of time. Those ass-kickings I was getting might not have been as bad were it not for that wasted "55 points window" of time. Oh well. 

This weekend's travels was the most of the year, pushing The Lacey Cup in second place. The venue was Omagh, and the promoting club, Omagh Wheelers Cycling Club. We lodged ourselves 30 miles away in Monaghan town with relatives, which meant food was aplenty. They even obliged me a double bed, and unlimited access to their dog, who was like a big teddy bear. We arrived Thursday evening, and got up early Friday morning to recce the TT course, whilst Mam stayed at the house to ensure I'd have plenty to fuel up with for the following day's exertions. Is fíor gur iarracht chlainne é, tríd is tríd. (See lads, the phrases you learn for your Irish Oral Exam do come in future situations!) The TT course was very fast on the way out, a tailwind aiding us along and then on the return leg, a block headwind. It was like riding through a fruitcake. I was only taking it handy on the recce but even so, it wasn't easy. The surface was excellent in most places, but rough in some. We then made the return 30-mile journey, which weirdly took us 50 minutes. Even now I don't understand why. If you've ever been in a car with my father you'll know that 60mph is a stately pace. We weren't hanging around at all but even so 50 minutes was a good time to make it in. Maybe the miles are longer up North. They certainly felt it on Saturday. 

I woke early on Saturday, and got up in time to eat breakfast at 8 o'clock. We loaded the car, and hit the road, and reached our destination 90 mins before the off. By 12:09 I was off the turbo and by 12:11 I was at the start-house, waiting to pound the pedals and get aero. I tried as best I could to keep a lid on it on the outward leg, but even by the 6km mark Eddie had taken 40 seconds out of me. I had to ignore the voices in my head at this point and just concentrate on the heart-rate. By the 15km mark his gap had extended to 1:10. I hadn't started to push on just yet, so I hoped against hope that he might die into the wind on the return leg. But Eddie doesn't die, he's like a smaller Terminator. In the end he won by a margin of 25 seconds over Mark Downey, and 2:07 on me. I was completely oblivious to coming 3rd, I thought I was on a crap day. The wind on the return leg really messed with my head, in the last 5-6km the wind had gotten the better of me. My heart-rate was bang on, but my speed was so low, there were times when I was only just keeping it above 20mph. The 'whoosh' of the disc spurred me on so I decided to ignore the speed and just keep the cadence and heart-rate up. Which was easier said than done. Crossing the line I wasn't happy at all, the wind had really infected my brain. The key to a good time-trial is keeping the head, and I didn't keep the head. I let the wind get to me. I didn't have the cojones that I normally would have to go extremely deep, I felt I was out of the medals, I was angry. Instead of using that anger to fuel the fire, all it was doing was wasting my energy and costing me time. 3rd was a big surprise, as my mentality had let me down big time. Even if I did go as deep as possible I doubt I'd have made the jump into 2nd, the gap was quite big. But still to not have given it my best shot still plagues my mind. I'd have only made up maybe another 15-20 seconds. My uncle was in the car following me and seemed to enjoy it thoroughly. He saw it as a real 'man's sport' compared to football, which is high praise from a man with three footballing sons and who is heavily involved himself, even going as far to say "it's not like you can pass it off and get a break, you've gotta do it all yourself!" But then again, I am his favourite nephew. 

Pacing myself, already 40 seconds down.

Back at the house, I wanted an ice-bath. But I didn't feel as though I deserved one. Ice-baths are for those who finish the job, not let the job finish them. So I stuck on Charlie's Angels and put the feet up. Cameron Diaz was a welcome sight after 55 minutes on the road. I fueled up for the following day and headed up to bed early. 

4km to go.

We arrived and parked up, if only it really were that easy. The car park/field was already lined with cars and eager looking cyclists. But no, this wasn't good enough for us Hahessys. Or one Hahessy in particular should I digress. But all was resolved 15 minutes later. On behalf of the good name of Hahessy and as a representative for Iverk Produce Carrick Wheelers I'd like to apologise. You can't take him anywhere. The queue for Sign-On was much longer for the road-race, as the junior ranks alone had a field of 50 riders. The organisers were very generous with where they placed the 500m and 200m signs, the gap to the line seemed much bigger than indicated. Dylan Foley and Eddie Dunbar were like conjoined twins for the day, stuck to one another. Each good move was cancelled out by one of the favourites who wanted to be in the move. Such was the routine for the day. Until such a break went away containing no clear cut favourites, but no slouches either. They worked hard at it, they weren't getting the time checks we were. They pulled out 2 minutes on us in 10 miles. Race over. Let the winter training spin commence. People say that racing is supposed to be fun. And although were were laughing and smiling back in the bunch (or grupetto at this stage) the smiles were to mask our frustration. It is my personal opinion that the course wasn't hard enough to take tactics out of the equation and let the legs do the talking. 

Chatting with Craig Arrigan about poetry, we're big softies really.

We left as soon as I had changed into warm clothing, stopped off in Monaghan to collect bags, and then hit the road again, Carrick-bound. We were jammed in traffic for quite a while after the Clare Limerick match, but one of life's greatest little pleasures is to be found in match day traffic, especially if you're lucky enough to be stuck near one of JJ Kavanagh's buses, equipped with free WiFi. Upon discovering this I may have even done "The Carlton" in the backseat of the car. (If you haven't come across the phenomenon that is "The Carlton", I urge you to watch/practice/flail and swing your socks off - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zS1cLOIxsQ8) We arrived home before 10 o'clock, and I don't think I saw 10:30. 

"Y'know like, I'd have won like, but my tyres were inflated too much like..."

Next stop is the Junior Tour of Wales, where I'll be representing the heavyweights along with Stephen Shanahan, Dylan O'Brien and Eddie Dunbar. Wales is very much like Ireland, windy, wet, indecipherable accents and plenty of sheep. So I should feel right at home.

Happy trails,

Seán.

Yes, I am still taller.