This year's Junior Tour marked my return to racing after the exams, barring one wet day down in Cobh. I was set to don the red,black and white of Team Munster Sensa 2. Munster fielded fifteen riders from regions that exceeded the Munster province herself. When riding for Munster, under the scrutiny of Dan Curtin, everyone adopts a Cork accent for the duration of the race. First rider off in the time-trial was at seven o'clock sharp, followed by the rest at one minute intervals. I was off the start line at 7:06pm, being chased by the Australian American Circuit Race Champion Owen Gillott. I was really up for the time-trial and had set my expectations high at a top five on the stage. Those expectations were shattered in the first 500 metres of the event. The first kilometre of the time-trial brought us out of town onto a really good main road, but the traffic in the town was too heavy on a wet and windy night, and I got held up by two cars in the space of 300 metres. I rather impolitely asked the drivers of those cars to get a move on but by then the damage was done. Even with the time loss I pulled it together enough to grab eleventh place, thirty seconds of the stage winner Mark Downey. On the plus side I had good power in my legs so my confidence was high for the rest of the week.
We were staying in a beautiful hotel roughly ten kilometres from Race HQ complete with a pool and games room which we all made good use of over the course of the week. It was late by then time we got to bed that night after our showers, massages and dinners. I was rooming with my former team-mate Cian Dwyer, Comeragh rider Conor Trihy and Mark "The Biafran" O'Callaghan from Limerick. It was there that I found out that the word "room-mate" translates to "shower gel stealer" in Dungarvan-ese. Cian claimed that his routine is to go asleep at ten o'clock every night, although I saw no proof whatsoever of this at any time. Breakfast was at 8:30am where we were greeted by a feast of cereals, breads, croissants and cooked breakfasts. The look of shock on peoples faces when I went up for some egg and toast after my second bowl of Weetabix dissipated gradually as the week went on.
Stage 2 was overcast, but warmer than most people figured. Arm-warmers were being rolled down throughout the entire bunch after the first KoH. This stage provided plenty of chances to test out the climbing legs, which were much better than I expected. Downey and the NRPT's maillot jaune came under threat very early on as Eddie Dunbar wasted little time in making his intentions known and lit the afterburners and rocketed up the road with Dylan O'Brien and a Frenchman in tow. They maintained their gap on the leg-sapping back roads but when the race aimed for home on an exposed main road the gap plummeted. The last 15km were very hard, with a strong cross-headwind punching the bunch in the face. I, like many others contemplated having a bite at the cherry but nobody was getting an inch, Dylan Foley was marking everything just as all his own moves were being marked all day. Fellow Munster rider guesting for Team Sensa Jack Sadler showed supreme power, nouse and engine to take the stage while sprinting in the saddle. Nobody could match his in-saddle cadence or flat-out power in the last 200 metres. It was then recovery time, get the legs in the best condition as is possible for the next morning. And boy would we need it! The Cliff's of Moher 4 kilometre KoH was a dark moment in my life. Looking at the profile the day beforehand it looked like a climber's climb, but in reality it was two power climbs stuck together, steep at the bottom for about 1.5km and draggy for the remainder. By the top, I must've looked like Andrei Greipel's doppelganger. Stage 3 in my opinion was the hardest stage of this year's race, although the Stena Line Irish Team might have something to say about that. There wasn't a single let up in pace all day and you had to fight for your position all the time. I have never seen so many steep ramp ups on a single piece of road. They say Scandinavians always make the best rally drivers because of their roads mirroring rally conditions, why aren't there any rally drivers hailing from Co. Clare?
As the week progressed, our hotel room became the haven for massages. Fourteen tight and crampy teenagers would pile in and literally turn our room into downtown Baghdad. The scenes inside the room were like something from a Christy Moore song, and would definitely rival Orica Green-Edge's Backstage Pass videos. I would like to publicly apologize to our physio for the scenes and conversations he was put through. I hope you aren't too scarred, kind Sir. The race for the dinner table in the evening was hotter than the race for the finish line. All because of one reason, the bread rolls. Whoever got there first benefited hugely from an abundance of rolls from the surrounding tables, if you were sneaky enough. Obviously, were caught by one of the waiters, who then told us that if we wanted more that we should just ask. This opened the floodgates. We applied his rule to every aspect of the dinner. Each and every one of us put on out best Oliver Twist impression and would be a shoe-in for the part in a play - "Please Sir, can I have some more?"
Stage 4, the Queen Stage. The stage that would test the will, the legs and the mettle of each and every rider in the bunch. With six categorized climbs on the already undulating roads leading out of Ennis this was D-Day. The ranked category one climb of Castle Hill was feared by most in the bunch and with there never having been an 80 kilo mountain goat before in the history of cycling it was imperative that I got up the road beforehand, and plus it would be nice to get into a break again after a long spell away. A move slipped away containing riders from the NRPT and Stena Ireland, it looked like a good move so I jumped when they had forty seconds on the bunch. A bloke from De Ver Cycles came across to me and we eventually got across to the break group. He wasn't too keen on doing long turns which meant it took us a while to get across. We got across just before the descent into The Burren, I probably should have sat on at the back but the descent was a fast one and I like descending. I was hitting 40-45 miles per hour on the descent, and then sat on like a good lad. The break worked well together and were soon joined by Cian Dwyer and the Green Jersey on the shoulders Harry Franklin of De Ver Cycles. Munster now had three riders in the fifteen man move, Cian, Jason Prendergast and I. We had nearly two minutes at the bottom of Castle Hill and little over thirty seconds at the top. Apparently some Frenchie just lifted going up there. From what I could see the French riders were immune to gravity. They could float up the hills, much to my dismay. But on the downhills their lack of gravity bit them back, and that's where I'd come flying past. The pace that Foley and Fallon set in the final ten kilometre run-in was vastly impressive. We were at 35-40 miles per hour, so Omega Pharma Quick-Step if you guys are reading this, these are Cavendish's next lead-out men. And then to top it all off, when I crossed the line with more grey hairs than I started with that morning, I heard that Jack had won. A climber's stage! Pretty impressive man.
Stage 5 was the easiest on paper, so I and my fatiguing legs were almost looking forward to it. But nothing is ever as simple as it seems in the world of Seán Hahessy. It's not uncommon to develop a sore in a stage race, what is uncommon is to develop multiple sores making finding a comfortable spot in the saddle damn near impossible. Eventually, about 20 miles in, it numbed and I could sort of enjoy racing. A tyre blowout soon put that enjoyment out the back and in the cars. After I was paced back on, I found it very hard to move up the bunch, we were on narrow roads all day and the bunch spread out and filled every inch of free road. To add insult to injury, the sterling job that Foley did on the front all day was made harder by a crash in the final four kilometres, he rolled seven feet and came to a halt in a farmer's yard. There was no aspect of this race that could be deemed easy. He rolled home over four minutes down and had lost his high GC placing. Gillott won the stage with Downey in second, the finishing roads were narrow and the last twenty kilometres were as sketchy as novice artist's sketchpad.
Stage 6, the final assault. The day when Eddie Dunbar and Dan Curtin's hours of labour paid off. And what better way to do it only by kicking everbody's ass when they were already well and truly kicked. The stage finished in Cratloe, which in Irish means "skeleton", which is interesting enough considering the climb was called Gallow's Hill, but before I had time to ponder this thought the final climb hoved into view and my heart-rate skyrocketed. The climb itself was long but it didn't take long to cover the ground. I was losing ground on the steeper bits but when the gradient plateau'd a little I was able to stick it in the big ring and let rip. I can't really remember the last 200 metres of the climb as I was so focussed on holding the wheel in front of me. We all gathered in a local farmyard which had been turned into a makeshift car park. It was a good thing it was a farmyard, because I had just calved. In the end I dropped one place to joint ninth overall and young rider Stephen Shanahan moved up one into sixth place.
When I arrived home hours later I found out that Andy Murray had won Wimbledon, just as Dan Curtin predicted earlier that week. And that put things in perspective for me anyway, Dan Curtin is very rarely wrong, he has the great ability to foresee greatness in people. And this week I got a masterclass in his teaching methods.
I'd like to thank everyone who poured their heart into this giant team, every one of us appreciated it and couldn't have done it without you. It is a bit cliché to say that the number of people I wish to thank is too numerous, but it's true. There were so many people that made my life easier before, during and after the Junior Tour. Thank you one and all.
Happy trails,
Seán.
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.
