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.