Hugh 'The Bull' Mulhearne and the Tale of the Trunchbull Midwife

Carlingford, the lakeside town where wind, rain and shine greet the locals all within thirty minutes on a daily basis. Over the course of the weekend I realised that this town is a haven for hikers and hillwalkers, all of whom trying to catch a glimpse of the view of the lake between the showers. But this weekend, the locals had the pleasure to view the cream of the crop of Irish Cycling all belting round the hard roads of Carlingford.

Dad and I left the homestead at six o'clock on Saturday morning to make good time for the Veteran's Championships where we had a strong Carrick Wheelers contingent, all willing to come to the aid of the pre-race favourite, Mulhearne. As we trundled up the motorway at "seventy" miles per hour, the mountains wore the clouds as toupées and the wind tried its best to blow us off course. Carlingford came into view two and a half hours from home and the rain was as on and off as Bradley Wiggins' form. The meet and greet with all the familiar faces was garnished with a little extra nerves, after all, it is the National Championships. Just one of the many entertaining moments of this weekend came when an elderly lady approached the car and asked if we wouldn't mind dropping her into Carlingford town. The car being full of bikes and bags bulging with gear we probably wouldn't need but brought along anyway meant that there was but a single free seat, which my bottom was currently keeping warm. Being the respectful chap that I am I jumped out the oblige the elderly woman to get in. All of a shot another bloke appeared who was travelling into town with her, or so we thought. Two elderly people bundled into the front seat of a weighed down Mondeo couldn't have looked like your average trip to the shops, but when the bloke asked if Dad had time to "run them to the border" they were politely dumped in Carlingford town. As of yet, I haven't found anything stolen or missing from the car, but if something does turn up missing, it might save me getting the blame this time.

As the race progressed it became clear who the strong men were and who had missed the day's big move. Letting his legs do the talking, Mulhearne made his way into the break, along with Swinard, Joyce and defending champion Fenlon to name but a few. In the closing stages of the race, Hugh seemed unfazed by the distance of the intensity and dropped an enormous hurting bomb on the hill out of town, sapping others' legs, setting their lungs aflame. When I saw that Hugh was going and others were going out the back I ran to the car. I had to see this finish. After five minutes of three-point turns thanks to the one-way system incorporated into the race for the riders' safety, we were pointed in the direction that would bring us to Carlingford. Sebastien Loeb would have had trouble keeping up with the Daddy on the back road to the main road. We got to the junction and a blur of grey and green whizzed past. The inside of the car turned blue as we realised we missed it. But cunningly (and illegally I might add) we burst out onto the main road once the motorbike marshal had driven on having previously stopped us. We now had front row seats to the final fight. Watching the green of Iverk Produce mix with the grey of Usher as the diligently did their pulls on the front, I couldn't help but get excited. In my mind I could hear Michael Buffer quote his trademark statement - 'Ladies and Gentlemen, in the green strip, the newcomer, the challenger, the Mahon Bridge motorbike, the Fighter from Fews, the Kilmac Killer, put your hands together for Hugh 'The Bull' Mulhearne! (*rapturous applause*) In the grey strip, the seasoned veteran, the former champion, Greg 'The Yank' Swinard! Let's get ready to rumble!' But before my over-active mind had the chance to dream up any more nicknames a very angry looking motorbike marshal made it quite clear that we should pull in. Our front row tickets turned out to be fakes and we watched the chase group and cavalcade sail by us at about 28 miles per hour. We joined in at the back of the kilometre long snake of cars that weaved its way into Carlingford. The tension was high as we knew that by now a new champion had been crowned. Tears, hugs and sweat were exchanged behind the podium stage as a queue started to form, all wanting to congratulate the new champion. The champion wearing the green of Iverk Produce Carrick Wheelers. 

                                  
                                          Here's a picture of the big man with the big engine.

At the dinner table that night, reflecting on the rewards of hard work and sacrifice that I had seen that day, Dad told a story that his father had told him. Apparently back in the simpler times the midwife would come to you in your house rather than vice versa. The very midwife that brought him along would travel from Callan by bike and her region would stretch all the way as far as Tramore, and it's not as if she was riding an SL4 with Sram Red and Zipp 404 Firecrests either. She would plod along, oblivious to knowledge of wattage and cadence, on a High Nellie with all her equipment with her. Once again my mind took over and I envisaged her as a real-life Mrs. Trunchbull, the cranks creaking underneath her. This beastly woman would not have the luxury of a team car if the weather got too bad, she would carry on. This proves that even back then, although for different means, people would ride through the hardship and accomplish what they set out to do, with a bicycle as a companion.

Seán. 

19/06/2013 - "The Smell of Freedom!"

I have decided to keep a blog, a sort of minor vague account of my life in all its glory. As I write this I have high hopes of updating this at least fortnightly, and basically give my thought on whatever random thought pops into my mind at any given time, the same kind of thing I do on Twitter except in more than 140 characters. 

Having just finished 'mon baccalaureate', I have plenty of chamois time. The Junior Tour of Ireland starts Tuesday 2nd of July with a short, evening 10.8km prologue followed by 5 more hard stages. For Irish Junior riders, The Junior Tour is the big aim of the year, as the Rás is for most Senior Racers. Last year's race was located in Castlebar, Co. Mayo and the rough, leg-sapping roads made for hard racing. This year I am not fortunate enough to be a part of the four-man Irish Team that is entered in yearly to carry their country's name on their shoulders, which is sort of a blessing in disguise. I am riding for a strong and numerically advantaged Munster Team. Now I have a free role to ride my own race, so in a way the pressure is off. This year's race has been moved further south but still remaining in the West. County Clare are the hosts this time around and with the backing of a new sponsor this years race is set to be extremely competitive. 

So far, my season has been uneventful and frustrating. The biggest problem was of course the Leaving Certificate that I joined every seventeen and eighteen year old in the country in and begrudgingly put pen to paper. Now that I've shown my back to the Leaving Cert, I am already seeing signs of improvement in form, recovery and energy. Whereas during the run-up to my exams I almost felt glad I had so much work to do, as it meant I couldn't train even if I did want to. But now, the smell of Schwalbe rubber calls my name every morning, even the weather has picked up! The grass is much greener this side of the exams. The second half of the season is mine for the taking, it's all about tapping into the workload I have done and letting my body do the rest. As I sit and write, there is fourteen days left until I roll down the start ramp (if indeed they've got one) and get my race underway. If my form comes around like I expect it to, and I'm not too hungover from the workload accompanying the exams I should perform well, and if I perform well there is a good chance I could bag some results, for the first time since last May! It would be nice to end the dry spell.

The later half of this week marks the commencement of the 2013 National Cycling Championships. The Time-Trial is always a hotly contested affair, with the first competitor off at 4:30pm. The Vet's Championships will be held on the Saturday, along with the Women's Championships. Sundays see's all the big gun's in action as the Elite's and u23's all battle for the spoils, with none of them looking to settle for the second tier of the podium. Carrick man Sam Bennett is my pick to finally grasp the Elite National Champions jersey in his clutches having come close on a number of occasions in the past, but everyone is a contender in a National Championship, the white paint of the line at a National Championship smells sweeter than any other finish line paint at any other race in the whole season. Adopted Carrick Wheelers man Conor Dunne will be competing even after his Rás crash where he was on flying form. I myself will be journeying up the country to spectate, these races are always spectacular to watch and make you want to go and train your socks off for a couple of hours afterwards. Characteristically in the Championships, a break forms in the first twenty kilometres of racing involving all the big names and guns and stays away due to the combined power of being transferred through the pro's pedals, this year's course is a flat course so the first ten kilometres will be extremely fast. This week's welcoming weather is meant to continue, so shorts will be the order of the day. The pro's' continental-tanned legs will be on full show and will intimidate a lot of the domestic-based riders, but maybe they won't see them with the overpowering smell of heat-rub making their eyes water. 

As I said I plan to continue to add to this new-born blog, but in the plausible fact that I don't, happy trails!

Seán.