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.
