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.