Stage One kicked off in earnest, with 30 miles per hour being hit neutral zone, which was probably a good thing too, as trying to keep 141 riders upright at 10 miles per hour whilst dodging road furniture would have been sketchy. The neutral zone ended at the far side of the Bulmers premises. I'm sure there were more than a few bodies who found a bottle or two of Clonmel's finest more appealing than 70 miles hanging off An Post's rear tubs. I go to school, or should I say 'went to school', in Clonmel, and our bus trundles down the road and gets us to Carrick-on-Suir roughly 20 minutes after departing. We sped into Carrick just 20 minutes after the race began, using just our legs to power the pedals. I was about 30 from the front passing the LIDL store on the way into town, after the first two 90 degree bends I had moved up to 3rd wheel in the bunch. I couldn't compete much with the Seniors on the flats, and on the downhills I was a joke. I don't know if you've ever tried to pedal a bike at 45 miles per hour on a 52x14, but it must have looked hilarious from behind to some lucky chap who had equipped himself with a 54x11 for the weekend.So to gain places I had to get creative, carving up the local bends I know so well. Also I knew from past experience that a break could slip away out of sight after the first Hotspot Sprint on the new bridge. There was already a gap to a big group up the road so I needed to get the thumb out. Having bridged across about a kilometre after the sprint prime, I realised that this group was far too big to get away, unless the main bunch stalled as all the teams were represented. But this didn't happen and the bunch caught the group roughly 3 kilometres later. The heavens had opened and we were now headed towards Portlaw and the first of three KoH's, the fearsome Church Hill. I was well positioned as we swung right in the direction of the village, wanting to be near the front for the hill. But, when we reached Church Hill, which is a testing hill well respected amongst us locals, I realised that in this company Church Hill is really only a drag. It has since been relegated to Church Drag. We had a headwind on the hill, so when we came to swing left onto the open main road a few kilometres later, we would have a crosswind. And crosswinds can be a cyclists greatest ally of his greatest foe, depending on his position and energy levels. I wanted to be well positioned, and well sheltered on this short stretch of road. I made up the places on the way out of the corner and slotted in behind some tall Isle of Man rider, whom I could always call on in my time of need over the weekend. (Thanks for the shelter!) The hill into Templeorum is the closest thing we get to Alpine hills in our locality, as it has two hairpin switchbacks, and usually when I do this spin out training, Templeorum is the easy one of the two, the second ascent of Kilmaganny is the one that hurts. But that day is was the opposite way around, probably because when I do that spin Ryan Sherlock doesn't sit on the front of the bunch. After we raced into and up over Kilmaganny, without too many crashes, we now had a clear run into the line, free of climbs and KoH's. Or so the race route would lead you to believe, the stage was far from over. I knew that the bunch would breath a sigh of relief when they crested the top of the final climb, it was the perfect situation for a breakaway to slip up the road and gain time on their rivals. Which is what I very unhappy to have missed a break containing Seán Downey and Stephen Halpin, their gap remained at 10-15 seconds for 2-3 kilometres. I was tempted to try and jump across, but could feel the breaths of other Junior rider's down my neck. They'd have sat on me all the way across, dragging the bunch with them, so I wasn't budging for the time being. I had a small dig on the short steep hill Glenbower, but to no avail. After an orgy of jumping,chasing and bridging the group remained stubbornly together with 4 kilometres to go. It looked like a bunch sprint, which was a worry for me because I'm not regarded as a sprinter in any sense of the word, but the A3 jersey was still an unsettled matter, so I was prepared to go for it. My legs, especially my thighs were feeling a small bit tight and crampy so whatever power I had would be deployed in the saddle. I positioned myself on notorious sprinter Barry Meade's wheel, then on Jason Prendergast's wheel when he opened the gallop with 250m to go, I kicked out of the saddle to draw level and then sat in the saddle and went for it, trackie style. Jake Kelly from the Isle of Man beat me by a rim's width on the line so as a Junior he would take the red A3 jersey, albeit that the top 5 were still on the same time. So it was still all to play for but still very much all to lose as well.
Stage Two was our normal Sunday club-run, taking in Ballymacaberry, Dungarvan and Carrick-on-Suir again. The first 40 miles of this stage would be called rolly during the winter club runs, but in the Suir Valley I doubt any sprocket except the 14 got used until we got to Carrick. All day there were big groups of riders getting gaps and then being unable to work together in an orderly fashion to take advantage of their gap. Over the top of the hill known only to local cyclists as 'the Haysheds' is where the break broke off the front, they were in sight all the way in the road, even passing the Kelly homestead. In hindsight I should have been on the radar at this point, as this was the first time all day that a group had help their gap, but for some reason it never registered in my mind. Passing Abbey Stores in Carrick, the break had 1 minute and 40 seconds on the main bunch, a bunch that included Sam Bennett's yellow jersey. The back road from Carrick to Clonmel is very heavy, and littered with drags and potholes. It gets very fast after passing Kilsheelan, but the surface still saps the legs so the best place to be on this stretch of road would be in the top 15 riders. The riders who had missed Bennett's bid to bridge across were jumping left and right trying to get out of the bunch's vacuum, but without success. By the time we reached the finish line, the yellow jersey had cut 1 minute 20 seconds out of the original gap by riding across to the second group on the ride and going straight by them, blowing them all out of the water.
Having gotten around "Ballymac" in 2 hours and 7 minutes, we now had less than 6 hours to recover for the evening's criterium around the twisting 2.1 kilometre circuit that the organisers had selected. My legs were a little worse for wear after the previous two stages, but the pre-race chat had confirmed that my opponents and fellow sufferees were much the same. I did 15 minutes, and brought the heart-rate up progressively to ensure that I was both warmed-up and loose for the 45 minute effort. We were given 2 neutral laps of the course before the smaller sprockets would be engaged and the chains would squeal in delight. I started the race in the top 20 riders in the 140-strong field. I didn't look behind me at all, but I'm told that there were bodies everywhere right from the start. Now, as aforementioned I'm no mean sprinter, I can hardly do it when I'm fresh. So with 130 hard race miles in my legs my gallop was severely compromised. After about 5 laps, the riders in front of me were coming out of the corners much faster than I could, which meant I was making up the ground under braking into the bends. So while they had gotten all their braking out of the way before the turn, I was braking later and harder, trying to make up the ground. I'd make up the ground but then they'd gap me coming out of the bend again. This went on and on for the duration of the race. The way to conserve energy in a criterium is to be as smooth as possible, and I wasn't smooth at all. With 10 minutes to go, there was a crash coming out of Turn 2. I counted 5 riders on the deck, plus 10 or 15 that had been held up in the calamity. I kept going up to the pits, despite numerous protests by riders to slow down because we'd get a lap out. I didn't want to slow down, and felt neither should they as when they slowed down it would give dropped riders a chance to get into the group and claim that they too were held up in the crash. And that's exactly what happened. 30 riders rolled into the pits claiming laps out and rejoining the main field. When the main bunch passed us, they came past us like we were stopped at the side of the road, sipping coffee. Within 1 corner of rejoining the field, I was back to getting gapped on the straights, braking harder into the bends and then getting gapped again. With 2 laps to go, I had nothing left to close the gaps anymore, the gap grew coming out of the bend, I held it for 200m but just couldn't close it. The course then dragged up to Turn 3 and it went from a gap to a split to gone. I was empty. The group that was 45 seconds behind me with 3 kilometres to go caught me and passed me. I finished Man No. 6 in the 6-man group, 1 minute behind the bunch, and dead.
I was looking forward to Stage 4 in the sense that it was the hardest stage, and the longest stage. And I wasn't looking forward to it in the sense that last night's stage had left me in pieces. A blood-stained chamois was not a welcome sight after Stage 3, and now 80 miles awaited me. Even warming up before the stage was tough, I think I did the whole thing either out of the saddle, or sitting right on the nose. It was a bit early in the day to be that far forward on the saddle. The first 30 miles of the stage really were hell. Imagine the pain of slamming a door directly on your fingernail, then you'll know the pain I was in for the first hour of the race. Apparently I have a "saddle sore face", which can be picked out in the bunch. And at this stage I still had 50 miles to race/survive. I'd like to say that my legs weren't good enough, at least then I'd know that I had done all I could to finish. But it wasn't. I can handle pain in my legs, but the saddle sore pain was too much. I made it to the bottom of 'The Vee' before calling it a day. I was so gutted I even forgot to turn my Garmin off. Checking over the stats, I hit 60.8 miles per hour.
Shifting uncomfortably in the seat of the team car following the race up the summit finish of 'The Nire', which was actually 'Powers The Pot', Sam Bennett not only defended his yellow jersey, but did so in style by winning the stage, just as I watched him demolish the local field five years previous in a league race. I'm pretty sure 2008 was the year in question, and Dad and I stood at the cross where the race would bear right. Bennett was already well clear of the bunch, but still looked to be putting in little or no effort whatsoever. 2 minutes passed before we saw a single soul on the road, by the time Sam had reached the summit, he had extended his lead to 3 minutes. Were we to know that we were looking at Ireland's next big thing? I certainly wasn't. I was only 13! My mind was too busy thinking of the biscuit cupboard at home than to take in what I was seeing.
5 years later, little much has changed. Sam is still top of the tree, but this time I'm taking in my surroundings rather than Custard Creams. Who knows where he'll be in the 5 years time?
Seán.
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| Spot the big green thing. |
Stage Two was our normal Sunday club-run, taking in Ballymacaberry, Dungarvan and Carrick-on-Suir again. The first 40 miles of this stage would be called rolly during the winter club runs, but in the Suir Valley I doubt any sprocket except the 14 got used until we got to Carrick. All day there were big groups of riders getting gaps and then being unable to work together in an orderly fashion to take advantage of their gap. Over the top of the hill known only to local cyclists as 'the Haysheds' is where the break broke off the front, they were in sight all the way in the road, even passing the Kelly homestead. In hindsight I should have been on the radar at this point, as this was the first time all day that a group had help their gap, but for some reason it never registered in my mind. Passing Abbey Stores in Carrick, the break had 1 minute and 40 seconds on the main bunch, a bunch that included Sam Bennett's yellow jersey. The back road from Carrick to Clonmel is very heavy, and littered with drags and potholes. It gets very fast after passing Kilsheelan, but the surface still saps the legs so the best place to be on this stretch of road would be in the top 15 riders. The riders who had missed Bennett's bid to bridge across were jumping left and right trying to get out of the bunch's vacuum, but without success. By the time we reached the finish line, the yellow jersey had cut 1 minute 20 seconds out of the original gap by riding across to the second group on the ride and going straight by them, blowing them all out of the water.
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| Observing the rare breed that is Cian Dwyer - "And here we see the Cianacus Dwyericus in action..." |
Having gotten around "Ballymac" in 2 hours and 7 minutes, we now had less than 6 hours to recover for the evening's criterium around the twisting 2.1 kilometre circuit that the organisers had selected. My legs were a little worse for wear after the previous two stages, but the pre-race chat had confirmed that my opponents and fellow sufferees were much the same. I did 15 minutes, and brought the heart-rate up progressively to ensure that I was both warmed-up and loose for the 45 minute effort. We were given 2 neutral laps of the course before the smaller sprockets would be engaged and the chains would squeal in delight. I started the race in the top 20 riders in the 140-strong field. I didn't look behind me at all, but I'm told that there were bodies everywhere right from the start. Now, as aforementioned I'm no mean sprinter, I can hardly do it when I'm fresh. So with 130 hard race miles in my legs my gallop was severely compromised. After about 5 laps, the riders in front of me were coming out of the corners much faster than I could, which meant I was making up the ground under braking into the bends. So while they had gotten all their braking out of the way before the turn, I was braking later and harder, trying to make up the ground. I'd make up the ground but then they'd gap me coming out of the bend again. This went on and on for the duration of the race. The way to conserve energy in a criterium is to be as smooth as possible, and I wasn't smooth at all. With 10 minutes to go, there was a crash coming out of Turn 2. I counted 5 riders on the deck, plus 10 or 15 that had been held up in the calamity. I kept going up to the pits, despite numerous protests by riders to slow down because we'd get a lap out. I didn't want to slow down, and felt neither should they as when they slowed down it would give dropped riders a chance to get into the group and claim that they too were held up in the crash. And that's exactly what happened. 30 riders rolled into the pits claiming laps out and rejoining the main field. When the main bunch passed us, they came past us like we were stopped at the side of the road, sipping coffee. Within 1 corner of rejoining the field, I was back to getting gapped on the straights, braking harder into the bends and then getting gapped again. With 2 laps to go, I had nothing left to close the gaps anymore, the gap grew coming out of the bend, I held it for 200m but just couldn't close it. The course then dragged up to Turn 3 and it went from a gap to a split to gone. I was empty. The group that was 45 seconds behind me with 3 kilometres to go caught me and passed me. I finished Man No. 6 in the 6-man group, 1 minute behind the bunch, and dead.
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| Ow. |
I was looking forward to Stage 4 in the sense that it was the hardest stage, and the longest stage. And I wasn't looking forward to it in the sense that last night's stage had left me in pieces. A blood-stained chamois was not a welcome sight after Stage 3, and now 80 miles awaited me. Even warming up before the stage was tough, I think I did the whole thing either out of the saddle, or sitting right on the nose. It was a bit early in the day to be that far forward on the saddle. The first 30 miles of the stage really were hell. Imagine the pain of slamming a door directly on your fingernail, then you'll know the pain I was in for the first hour of the race. Apparently I have a "saddle sore face", which can be picked out in the bunch. And at this stage I still had 50 miles to race/survive. I'd like to say that my legs weren't good enough, at least then I'd know that I had done all I could to finish. But it wasn't. I can handle pain in my legs, but the saddle sore pain was too much. I made it to the bottom of 'The Vee' before calling it a day. I was so gutted I even forgot to turn my Garmin off. Checking over the stats, I hit 60.8 miles per hour.
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| Last shot of my on the bike before packing |
Shifting uncomfortably in the seat of the team car following the race up the summit finish of 'The Nire', which was actually 'Powers The Pot', Sam Bennett not only defended his yellow jersey, but did so in style by winning the stage, just as I watched him demolish the local field five years previous in a league race. I'm pretty sure 2008 was the year in question, and Dad and I stood at the cross where the race would bear right. Bennett was already well clear of the bunch, but still looked to be putting in little or no effort whatsoever. 2 minutes passed before we saw a single soul on the road, by the time Sam had reached the summit, he had extended his lead to 3 minutes. Were we to know that we were looking at Ireland's next big thing? I certainly wasn't. I was only 13! My mind was too busy thinking of the biscuit cupboard at home than to take in what I was seeing.
5 years later, little much has changed. Sam is still top of the tree, but this time I'm taking in my surroundings rather than Custard Creams. Who knows where he'll be in the 5 years time?
Seán.
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