Is it Winter already?

Last weekend marked, what for me was, the final race of the year. There are a couple of races left, but I'm not participating because I'm plagued with college already. A break will be a welcome sight to let my mind recover rather than my body. The mental stress this year was pretty constant as there was always off the bike work to be done, so I'm glad to say that all that work falls on a different set of shoulders from now on. 

Having not raced Charleville last year, I didn't have much of an idea as to what to expect once the racing started. I got conflicting reports from all angles. Some said that Stage 1 was a hard one, others said that it would end up in a bunch sprint, not that I cared really because I felt I had the legs to deal with whatever was thrown up. The rain came and went as we motored out of Carrick just after our decided 10am departure time. As we entered Charleville it seemed like an overcast but dry day. And it was, until 5 minutes before the roll-out. The awning of the Charleville Park Hotel became our shelter from the elements, and a 'first come, first serve' basis was dished out, as those who were late to react to the first few rain drops were left shelter-less. But I felt that was ok, as they would be getting plenty of shelter for the following 2 hours. I was guesting as a Kanturk rider, as I missed the entry date and Dan Curtin managed to get me in, under one condition. So I donned the blue and green and white of Kanturk for the weekend. Before the race, as I was pinning on my numbers, I felt like a bride getting ready for a wedding. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. What I had that was old were my shoes. My Shimano shoes really are getting their use, but don't owe me anything at this stage. I probably should upgrade them. Something new, well those were my black socks. Long black socks, like Wiggins, except without all the shouty, sweary pomp. Something borrowed, my Kanturk jersey. I was reintroducing retro, too bad nobody else recognises retro and appreciates it. All they do is laugh. I should have ripped out a pair of KAS gloves to complete the look. Something blue? No matter where I looked I couldn't find something blue. The sky didn't have a smudge of blue in it. And so it seemed that I wouldn't be completing the pre-wedding bridal superstition, until Eiffel 65 came on Red FM to save the day. Now I was ready, to get married and to ride the bike. 

I'm bringing retro back

We rolled out amidst the skating rink roads and officials cars, dodging road islands and darting our eyes from the pretty pedestrians to the back of the lead car bumper. Unsurprisingly at the head of the snake it was an all junior affair. We rolled through the finish line the opposite way round and the race was under way  Ian Redmond put in his 
signature attack as soon as the flag was dropped. Then others jumped across followed by the whole bunch eventually and we were soon back on equal terms. It was now raining quite steadily and the temperature was the lowest we've seen in recent months. This is my favourite type of weather, so I was eager to get up the road and make a race of it. We came upon a slight chicane in the road, I was 4th in line and rolled up to the front and then just kept going, I gained 5 seconds almost immediately and then when the roads got twisty I put the boot down to try and drag out a gap. On average I had about 30 seconds, and at most I had 50 seconds. I held this gap for 40km before the gap dropped below 20 seconds. I sat up and allowed myself to accept some draft from an obliging bunch. We now had 30km to go, and I ate like a champion in those final 30km. I decided after a bit of deliberation to go for the sprint and with 1km to go I was in the middle of those who would be leading the charge. Unfortunately I had to kick early to keep the pace up and set up one of my not so famous but increasingly recurring in the saddle gallops. If I'd been able to wait another 50 metres I'd have probably won the stage, but then again if I had kept my powder for the first 40km things could have worked out differently as well. If my solo move had paid off we'd have had a different situation. There's a lot of ifs and buts involved in cycling. 

Think I'll keep up this sprinting malarky. It's almighty craic

Stage over it was now time to warm up and fuel up. The countdown to the TT was on. I was feeling good, but then again I would because I was lying down on a borrowed bed in the Dunbar household. I'd really only know how I was going after the first 1km of the 6.7km test. If man's best friend is the dog, then surely a cyclist's best friend has got to be pasta, and so we made sure to eat enough to suffice the next two stages. I feel as though the TT went as well as it could have gone. I came second by 14 seconds to Dylan Foley, who is World Championship bound in the coming weeks. Now I'm not petty or anything, but I feel as though the blame for my 14 second time loss is to be found in someone else. If Sinéad Dunbar hadn't been so willing and wanting to fight everyone that evening, then maybe that gap would be smaller. And no you did not win, I just can't by right punch a girl square in the face, let alone in her own house. And also my shoes were a bit too tight so that is another inputting factor. Another thing that would have helped a lot would have been if I had had, say, a gale force tailwind, and everyone else didn't. But no run is perfect...

The afternoon stage was less than 4 hours after my TT, so an 'off-the-feet' system was put in place. After the TT I had my real breakfast, including two little pieces of heaven. Apparently they're from France, and called 'cross-onts'. They're like bread, only stale and twisted every which way. I'm currently googling what the word 'cross-ont' means in French but having no luck as of yet. Maybe Ron Burgundy can help me. I hear he's good with foreign language translations. For the second year in a row, Foley had the yellow jersey after the TT. And he said my retro Kanturk jersey was big. The afternoon stage takes in some of the Killmallock CC race, which was a hilly race. Now, when my ears hear the word 'hilly' that shoots through my inner ear into my brain and then gets changed into the word 'balls'. But if my legs were good then I should have been able to dance up them. It's not that my legs were bad, but they weren't what you would call good by any means. What got me up the hills was sheer brute force and ignorance. The climbing compadrés of Dunbar and O'Brien 'skipped away up the road in ones and twos' as is religiously drilled into anyone who has had the immense pleasure of riding with Danny Curtin. They had 1:40 at the most, but all they needed was 25 seconds. In Killmallock they had 1:20 but at the line they had 1:30. We ended up with 1st, 2nd and 4th overall in the GC, not to mention a flurry of stage results along with it and the team prize. After his stint in Wales, young Beavis took the biggest win of his career, so far. 

I absolutely adore this photo

So that's about it for this blog post. Well actually it's not, because my lectures don't start until 12:15 today, and it's currently only 11:23. So until then I'm 'Seanie-No-Mates'. And I've got no college work to do. So for now, I'll ramble on deliriously about my college experience thus far. If you are only interested in cycling, then you should probably click the little red 'X' button in the top right-hand corner.

Anyway, as I'm only 1 week into college, there's not much I can say about it. My journey begins at 10 minutes to 8 in the morning where I have to get a CIE bus to the college gates. This journey takes an hour, most of which is spent listening to the views of others' around about how the country should be run. And when I say 'listen', I really mean 'unable to escape the realms of their bright ideas'. I can feel my IQ dropping by the second.  By the time I get to college, I reek of the diseases picked up from the musty faded blue and fading red seats of the bus. I come to college to learn, but the purpose is rather defeated because my time spent there is used up topping up the IQ tank after an hour long bus journey. And then I spend another hour and a half on one on the way home. I reckon that my IQ will drop into the minuses by next March at this rate. But this is just a educated estimate made by someone with a lower IQ than he started the day with. The college experience itself is great. A sense of freedom is felt in the air. And the lectures are actually about things I enjoy learning. No sign of Pythagoras or his crew anywhere near the place. One thing I will say is because of out laid back and louche timetable, I can see why students get the reputation of being wasters. But I prefer the term 'contemplators', as none of the time spent there is wasted, rather spent on life's little mysteries and great questions which I contemplate daily. The latest one - What happens if you pour Dettol into a Yakult? 

Well, that ramble killed 20 minutes, let's see if I can resist that packet of Haribo Tangfastics in Centra on the long perilous walk to today's lecture,

Here's hoping I don't,

Until whenever,

Hahessy. 

Irish Boys on Tour

This blog update will be pictureless I'm afraid, as the any available pictures cannot be found by a man of my limited talents. So please try and keep attentive even without all the brightly coloured pictures children. Last weekend I joined my provincial brothers Eddie Dunbar, Stephen Shanahan and Dylan O'Brien to pedal our bikes around Wales. The weekend got off to a bad start almost immediately, when the in-house communication between teammates broke down. I was set to be collected in Carrick at "six", which I interpreted as 6pm, as in tradition, Team Munster's policy is to arrive at races later rather than sooner, when in truth it meant 6am. It was probably the best wake-up call I have ever gotten though, I basically jumped out of bed and landed in my socks. I packed like I was late for mass and we hit the road, hard. Whilst Dad was getting me to Rosslare in under 60 minutes, I was too busy lamenting over all the non-essential essentials that I had forgotten. Turbo Trainer? No. Energy Powder? No. Towel? No. Boxer shorts? Hell no. But I made up for all this foolishness by packing three arm-warmers. Even my bike was still dirty. All the things that I had in my head to do all day were prematurely cast aside. And it wasn't like I could borrow gear from my "fun-sized" teammates Dunbar or O'Brien. A cloud of shame fell over me as my bike was secured on the roof of Tom Shanahan's car, not only was it still dirty going to a race, but rather more 'fred-ishly' I still had my saddle-bag attached. Had this been an Irish race, I'd have lost serious respect points. But in Wales, I had no respect to lose. I had breakfast aboard the ferry, which included a severely moreish croissant. We then had 210 minutes to kill, the vast amount of which was filled by me, saying "Oh yeah, I forgot my .... as well."

Each time we stopped along our journey to 'Cwmbran', the search for free WiFi was on. Once the WiFi situation was sussed, then began the search for food. We were pretty much like cavemen, if cavemen had access to WiFi way back when. We had yet to find a good radio station, and by good, I mean a station that played 'Macklemore'. The race HQ of 'Ebbw Vale' was on the way to our home away from home, so it would have been stupid of us not to check out the sign-on and the time-trial course. The word time-trial was used loosely to describe the course. It took me around 9 minutes 30 seconds to reach the foot of the final climb. The run in to the climb was fast, I was averaging 35-40 mph for the majority of it, but then when I came upon the climb that very much changed. The only way I could describe the final climb to those in my area would be like 'Seskin Hill', but exposed to the wind. It was like a ladder put there by the devil, with naught but his evil sheep for company. Over there the sheep don't go "Baaa!", instead it seems they go "Haaa!", mocking you.  For the first time in my cycling days, I got scared going up a hill. I was crawling in the 39x25, and yet it was scary to think that riders could go up this in the big ring. Unlike 'Seskin' though, those kind of hills are a dime a dozen over there. Motorway drags are a rare occurrence from what I can see. All the drags over there have escape lanes into sand traps for runaway vehicles. Our neutralised zone for 2 of the 5 stages consisted of a long descent, with the group regularly hitting 40 mph. By the bottom of the descent I had to tighten the quick release on the brake calipers, as about 2mm had worn off them. The peloton was like a giant sea, ebbing, flowing, crashing, flicking from left to right. No one rider moving without taking others with him. Constantly moving, lengthening, shortening, widening and thinning out.

Stage 2 looked like a hard one, the final climb on paper looked pretty testing. 8 miles into the stage came the first crash. It happened of the left-hand side of the road and flicked over to the right, and in doing so, took 4 spokes out of Eddie's rear wheel. My intentions in this race weren't set in stone, but Eddie's were. Highest overall placing possible. I stopped and swapped my good rear wheel onto his bike and pushed him off, all the while he was imploring me to "Look at my hand!" In his haste to get the wheel out he pierced his hand with one of the snapped spokes. The contusion was a good couple of inches long. I waited to get service myself and then set off, but to stop again 300m later to reset my brake calipers which had been knocked out of place. I now had a 2 minute gap to close up, on a bunch that had averaged 48 kph in the first hour. But they must have averaged 50+ kph in the second half hour, as I was doing over 50 kph for 33 kilometres before I caught them again. And when I caught them we were on the Welsh B-roads, lined with short steep climbs that set a deep burn in your thighs. I did not make it to the final climb with the main peloton, my excursions in the cavalcade had left me drained and dehydrated. I didn't drink enough whilst on the bumper of the car, but sweated a lot. The final climb to the line was again steep and again made harder by the mocking of Welsh sheep. It was 6km long, with the first 3km at about 8-10%. It then levelled off to about 6% for 2km and then kicked up steeply for the final 1km to the line. I haven't yet looked at my Garmin file to see the accurate percentages, but I think it would just give me nightmares anyway.

I didn't sleep well that night. Maybe it was because I was dehydrated, or maybe it was because the air in our room had been replaced by pure methane. I'm pretty sure there's now a hole in the ozone layer above the Premier Inn in Cwmbran. Stage 3 was only an hour long, but a circuit race, so the hour-mark would be a welcome sight at the end of it all. A turbo trainer would have been useful to warm-up with, but a good night's sleep was what I really needed. My concentration levels were shot, I fell asleep in the car on the way to the start. Double British Champion Chris Lawless won the stage in an intimidating display of power. Once I went out the back I essentially did a time-trial, keeping it at a set heart-rate and catching lapped riders, so even though I went out the back I moved up ten places on GC. 81st place is a real thing to shout about. 3 stages down, 2 to go. Stage 4 was a flat stage, with two long dual carriageway sections. I wanted to get into a breakaway as my race so far was less than fruitful. But my legs in the first 20km were very sluggish and slow to react. The top end power came back after 20km but the break had gone and had 40 seconds. I wasn't going to bridge a 40 second gap so I wasn't happy to have missed the move. A very boring and uneventful spin along dual-carriageways later the stage was over, and the magicians of Team Munster managed to get 5 bikes onto a roof rack built only to take 3. Chapeau, in the words of Kelly. We got back to our farmyard/room and set about town, to find a restaurant of cyclist proportions. And boy what a find we made. A restaurant called 'Harvester' turned out to be so much more that it seemed. Their dinners were cheap on price, but not on flavour, and an all-you-can-eat salad bar meant pasta was aplenty. Free re-fills on drinks and free WiFi were the icing on the cake. If they opened in Ireland they'd clean up completely. We got home just in time to miss Nicolas Roche's Vuelta stage win. I slept much better that night, we were set to tackle Tumble Mountain. A gruelling 7km climb, with an average gradient of 8% and a maximum of 15% it would suit the people light of the growth hormone. We were told to expect the main group to be 3 riders strong at the halfway mark, but no such thing happened. I don't even recall the second KoH. Damn near all the riders that set off made it to the base of Tumble in the group and then steadily went out the back one by one. Once again I set off at a pace I knew I could hold without blowing up and caught dropped riders on the way up the slope. The race was run, winners were crowned and volunteers thanked and thanked again. A little bit of happiness crept over the scene at the top of the mountain, when Eddie proclaimed that today was the first time he got his arse kicked all year. If getting your arse kicked means coming 5th overall then I'm stuck for words.

We then had 12 hours to kill until our ferry departed for home. Most of which was spent laughing at Beavis and Butthead (Dylan and Stephen) as they talked in code. And the question that was asked of us everyday from the moment we joined forces still remained. It seems as though it will always remain within the ranks of Team Munster, no matter which riders come and go in the future and no matter how the race is panning out for us. It is the eternal question - "Lads, do ye want any fruit?"

I feel as though we owe a great debt of gratitude to Tom and Kevin for their work over to get us to this race, and especially over the course of the weekend. We weren't 4 lads and 2 men, we were 6 Irishmen, taking Wales by storm and having a whale of a time doing so.

Until next time,

Seán.

PS, Here are my top tips for doing anything in Wales.

• Listen only to Kiss FM 101.
• Assume that all hills will be requiring a maximum front gearing of a 39 ring.
• Do not attempt to pronounce any Welsh words, try quietly in your head if you must.
• Welsh sheep aren't as tough as Irish sheep, they will happily relinquish their ground to you.
• It is imperative that your brakes are in good condition, whether it be the brakes on your car or bike. They will be needed!
• Eat at Harvester, only at Harvester. And smother everything in their Hot Chili Sauce.
• Don't worry if you're hard of hearing and want to watch Mrs. Brown's Boys, the Welsh kindly run it in English as well as having English subtitles.
• If you don't understand what a Welsh person says for fear of their accent, it is acceptable to say 'what' at most twice.
• Downhills are your friend, hit them flat-out all the time. And remember, the faster you go, the less likely you are of crashing!
• Respect the Welsh terrain, it will break you before you break it.

National Championships 2013, Omagh.

As the 2013 season's end draws ever nearer, I'm squeezing in nearly every race I can, making up for lost time while I got my exams out of the way. Speaking of exams, I was the opposite of most, I was more frustrated after receiving my results than I was beforehand. While others made their way to schools around the country, clammy handed, I was as cool as a frozen cucumber. I saw no need for fretting as at this stage it was beyond my control, there was nothing I could do to change the outcome (at least not with my limited funds anyway.) The white seal of the envelope was broken away to reveal results that gave me 55 more CAO points than I needed. That's 55 points worth of extra, pointless time spent studying. 55 points worth of time spent with my head in my Biology book, time which could have been put to great use on the bike. That's not a very efficient use of time. Those ass-kickings I was getting might not have been as bad were it not for that wasted "55 points window" of time. Oh well. 

This weekend's travels was the most of the year, pushing The Lacey Cup in second place. The venue was Omagh, and the promoting club, Omagh Wheelers Cycling Club. We lodged ourselves 30 miles away in Monaghan town with relatives, which meant food was aplenty. They even obliged me a double bed, and unlimited access to their dog, who was like a big teddy bear. We arrived Thursday evening, and got up early Friday morning to recce the TT course, whilst Mam stayed at the house to ensure I'd have plenty to fuel up with for the following day's exertions. Is fíor gur iarracht chlainne é, tríd is tríd. (See lads, the phrases you learn for your Irish Oral Exam do come in future situations!) The TT course was very fast on the way out, a tailwind aiding us along and then on the return leg, a block headwind. It was like riding through a fruitcake. I was only taking it handy on the recce but even so, it wasn't easy. The surface was excellent in most places, but rough in some. We then made the return 30-mile journey, which weirdly took us 50 minutes. Even now I don't understand why. If you've ever been in a car with my father you'll know that 60mph is a stately pace. We weren't hanging around at all but even so 50 minutes was a good time to make it in. Maybe the miles are longer up North. They certainly felt it on Saturday. 

I woke early on Saturday, and got up in time to eat breakfast at 8 o'clock. We loaded the car, and hit the road, and reached our destination 90 mins before the off. By 12:09 I was off the turbo and by 12:11 I was at the start-house, waiting to pound the pedals and get aero. I tried as best I could to keep a lid on it on the outward leg, but even by the 6km mark Eddie had taken 40 seconds out of me. I had to ignore the voices in my head at this point and just concentrate on the heart-rate. By the 15km mark his gap had extended to 1:10. I hadn't started to push on just yet, so I hoped against hope that he might die into the wind on the return leg. But Eddie doesn't die, he's like a smaller Terminator. In the end he won by a margin of 25 seconds over Mark Downey, and 2:07 on me. I was completely oblivious to coming 3rd, I thought I was on a crap day. The wind on the return leg really messed with my head, in the last 5-6km the wind had gotten the better of me. My heart-rate was bang on, but my speed was so low, there were times when I was only just keeping it above 20mph. The 'whoosh' of the disc spurred me on so I decided to ignore the speed and just keep the cadence and heart-rate up. Which was easier said than done. Crossing the line I wasn't happy at all, the wind had really infected my brain. The key to a good time-trial is keeping the head, and I didn't keep the head. I let the wind get to me. I didn't have the cojones that I normally would have to go extremely deep, I felt I was out of the medals, I was angry. Instead of using that anger to fuel the fire, all it was doing was wasting my energy and costing me time. 3rd was a big surprise, as my mentality had let me down big time. Even if I did go as deep as possible I doubt I'd have made the jump into 2nd, the gap was quite big. But still to not have given it my best shot still plagues my mind. I'd have only made up maybe another 15-20 seconds. My uncle was in the car following me and seemed to enjoy it thoroughly. He saw it as a real 'man's sport' compared to football, which is high praise from a man with three footballing sons and who is heavily involved himself, even going as far to say "it's not like you can pass it off and get a break, you've gotta do it all yourself!" But then again, I am his favourite nephew. 

Pacing myself, already 40 seconds down.

Back at the house, I wanted an ice-bath. But I didn't feel as though I deserved one. Ice-baths are for those who finish the job, not let the job finish them. So I stuck on Charlie's Angels and put the feet up. Cameron Diaz was a welcome sight after 55 minutes on the road. I fueled up for the following day and headed up to bed early. 

4km to go.

We arrived and parked up, if only it really were that easy. The car park/field was already lined with cars and eager looking cyclists. But no, this wasn't good enough for us Hahessys. Or one Hahessy in particular should I digress. But all was resolved 15 minutes later. On behalf of the good name of Hahessy and as a representative for Iverk Produce Carrick Wheelers I'd like to apologise. You can't take him anywhere. The queue for Sign-On was much longer for the road-race, as the junior ranks alone had a field of 50 riders. The organisers were very generous with where they placed the 500m and 200m signs, the gap to the line seemed much bigger than indicated. Dylan Foley and Eddie Dunbar were like conjoined twins for the day, stuck to one another. Each good move was cancelled out by one of the favourites who wanted to be in the move. Such was the routine for the day. Until such a break went away containing no clear cut favourites, but no slouches either. They worked hard at it, they weren't getting the time checks we were. They pulled out 2 minutes on us in 10 miles. Race over. Let the winter training spin commence. People say that racing is supposed to be fun. And although were were laughing and smiling back in the bunch (or grupetto at this stage) the smiles were to mask our frustration. It is my personal opinion that the course wasn't hard enough to take tactics out of the equation and let the legs do the talking. 

Chatting with Craig Arrigan about poetry, we're big softies really.

We left as soon as I had changed into warm clothing, stopped off in Monaghan to collect bags, and then hit the road again, Carrick-bound. We were jammed in traffic for quite a while after the Clare Limerick match, but one of life's greatest little pleasures is to be found in match day traffic, especially if you're lucky enough to be stuck near one of JJ Kavanagh's buses, equipped with free WiFi. Upon discovering this I may have even done "The Carlton" in the backseat of the car. (If you haven't come across the phenomenon that is "The Carlton", I urge you to watch/practice/flail and swing your socks off - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zS1cLOIxsQ8) We arrived home before 10 o'clock, and I don't think I saw 10:30. 

"Y'know like, I'd have won like, but my tyres were inflated too much like..."

Next stop is the Junior Tour of Wales, where I'll be representing the heavyweights along with Stephen Shanahan, Dylan O'Brien and Eddie Dunbar. Wales is very much like Ireland, windy, wet, indecipherable accents and plenty of sheep. So I should feel right at home.

Happy trails,

Seán.

Yes, I am still taller.

The Suir Valley 2.5 Day

The reason it's taken me so long to update this blog is because it's only now, three days later that I've mustered enough strength to push the keyboard's buttons. As I type now, the bike lies sullen in the garage, I haven't even changed my carbon brake pads yet. And that's all because of what happened on the final, 80 miles slog around Tipperary, Cork and Waterford. But we'll get to that, there's three stages worth of writing beforehand, and plus it would pretty much ruin the race report there and then anyway. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

Strange Encounters - When Cowell Met Bean

As a cyclist, I spend hours on end alone with my thoughts daily. My mind wanders into the deepest realms of thought in an attempt to block out the wind that batters my face. Everybody has their own ways to keep themselves occupied on lonely four hour training spins in the barren bóthairíns of rural Ireland. I personally let my mind take over, only breaking the ongoing train of thought to make a turn, or if a lorry barrels up behind me and scares me more than a dog on Halloween. It will also serve the purpose of diversifying this blog from total cycling. The latest thought that my brain has conjured up and has been simmering in my skull with the past while is this: What would the X-FACTOR be like, if Mr. Bean auditioned? 

Bean left his small flat in London and pulled out onto the road, heading towards the famous O2 Arena, but not before cutting off his arch-nemesis, the blue Reliant Robin, although he was completely oblivious to the fact. He signed his name on the audition list. His signature was more like a squiggle with a badly drawn 'B' being the dominant letter. He mumbled something to the man behind the audition sheet desk, sounding like a 'thank you' but at the same time being completely indecipherable. 

Inside the arena the capacity audience was beside itself, all hoping that this time they would see the revelation of the day, a true favourite for the competition. Simon Cowell and his crew have just given an unarguable 'No' to the last twelve hopefuls as they battled their way through everything from Dolly Parton to 80s Power Ballads. Louis Walsh has already exhausted his resources of '__________!The crowd loved you!' or '___________ you're a natural born-performer.' 

Bean is currently backstage, with 'The Countdown Man', who gives the auditions the final countdown until they walk out on stage. He hands Bean the microphone and he starts giggling uncontrollably with joy and excitement. His laugh is infectious and sounds like he's choking on a bag of "C's." He mimes as if he were to sing into the microphone, playing with 'The Countdown Man'. He holds the mic up and steadily brings his head nearer to it, shaking it as he does it, and softly grunting in his trademark miming style. 

After 'The Countdown Man' has humoured this child stuck in a man's body, he counts him down from three and escorts him to the stage. He walks on as of his shoelaces were tied together, taking very short steps all the while looking up and around him at the bright multicoloured lights and the multi-thousand crowd in the stands. Hie eyes then fix on the four people who possess the power to send him to stardom. Their eyes reciprocate and fix back on him, as he is the first audition ever in the many years that the show has been running to carry a bag onstage with him. He slowly and inquisitively approaches the big red 'X' on the stage floor. He stares at it until it is directly underneath him and places his feet the same distance apart from the centre of the 'X', just as a child would. 

Simon begins to speak, 'Hello what's your na...'. Bean holds up a finger and turns his head away to his mysterious bag. From which he produces a small, three-legged stool and places it, with a pat, over the 'X'. He then turns away again and produces his faithful teddy and his own personal stool too. Once again he turns away to his bag and out comes a large 'Sony' radio/CD player. He unrolls the black plug and outstretches it to its limit. It's no where near long enough to reach the backstage plug. Bean is stumped, he sticks his index finger into his front tooth and stares into space, deep in thought. An epiphanic moment occurs when he realises that the extension lead he has in his 'Mary Poppins' bag might just extend the plug. He goes backstage, unplugs the first plug he sees and in goes his home-brought plug. The whole stage descends in darkness, he has unplugged the stage lighting. Stumped once again he tries, tries, tries again as pandemonium ensues throughout the arena until finally he finds a plug which seemingly does nothing. 

 - You may be thinking that the producers of 'X FACTOR' would never let an audition mess around with their plugs, but the crowd are loving this man's antics and they don't even know his name. He's already a star and he hasn't uttered a note - 

He plugs the lead into the socket, and walks, bent over with the cable reel inches above the ground as he gets ever closer to the CD player plug. All the while this is happening the judges emotions are a cocktail of laughter and shock, they have never seen an audition as haphazard ever before, and the crowd are loving it too. Finally he is ready. He sits on his three-prong stool and crosses his left leg over his right. His left tweed-pant trouser leg lifts up to reveal a white ankle and a black sock that elastic has forgotten. Simon Cowell now speaks - 'Hello, what's your name?' He replies 'Bean..', as if someone was pinching his Adam's Apple and as if his cheeks were duct-taped to the back of his head. 'And where are you from?' Bean gestures with his right hand in a circular motion, mumbling and grunting softly at the same time, as if to say 'Here'. 'And are you going to sing for us today?' He nods his head and laughs uncontrollably *hoch*och*och*och*och*. He wishes him luck and although his face shows no emotion (probably because of botox) inside he's dancing. He knows that money will be made regardless of if this 'Bean' chap goes through or not. Bean bends down and presses play on his 'Sony' CD player. It rustled into life with ABBA's famous "Does Your Mother Know' track, Bean bursts into a half-dance, keeping his upper arms rigid but leaving his lowers loose. The flail about uncontrollably and he jumps and wiggles his way around on the spot. He opens his mouth to sing the opening line 'You're so hot, teasing me...' but the words just won't come out. Eminem wrote about this sort of thing. He looks to the stage hand and taps furiously at his throat, as if he were choking. He finally realises that it's his microphone that has let him down and then taps that furiously, giving his throat a rest. He then resorts to banging it off his hand and even using it like a hammer on the stage floor. He's now panicking and slips off his shoe and starts beating the microphone with it. Amidst the rapturous laughter of the audience all that can be heard is the faint tapping of leather sole on a microphone. He then runs to his teddy, and rips his miniature microphone from his clutches and attempts to use that instead. Still nothing. Simon has finally had enough and calls it a day for Bean. Bean hears that Simon's microphone works and chicken-runs it down the stage steps to Simon's microphone and jumps towards it, completely misses it. All that is heard is an ABBA/Bean doppler effect - "Does Your Mother Know  That You're Out?"  Bean's crashing to the ground is muffled by the standing ovation and applause of the crowd, he gets up and fixes his clothes that are now all twisted and wrinkled. He pulls up the sock that elastic forgot and clambers his way up the stage steps and makes his way again over to the large 'X' at centre stage. He rarely speaks, although in this case he doesn't need to. His eyes say more than is necessary in these circumstances. They seem to say 'Well?' 

Unfortunately it's four "No's" for Mr. Bean, mainly because it is in fact a singing competition and Bean sang very little over the course of his long audition, apart from his big finale. But Britain's Got Talent is always another option for Bean, but that's another blog.

(And Rowan, if you're reading this, please go audition at once)

Seán.

Kingdom of Heaven

After a week of tanning and training, it's pretty safe to say that every racer in Ireland was looking forward to the end of the week when they could extensively pin on their numbers, break out their 50mm tubular race wheels and allow others to inflict pain on them, like a bad training partner. This weekends race took place in Tralee in the Kingdom of Kerry. Taking full advantage of our new team car, we left for Kerry at 8 o'clock. The chat was plentiful in the Laguna with our DS for the day Gerry Hawkins at the wheel, and once we mastered the strangely confusing radio in the Renault, he turned into a reincarnated version of Gerry Ryan. The chat was mainly, unfortunately, about drugs in sport that has our sport in a choke hold by the media, made worse only by the news of Tyson Gay's doping news. Strangely, the sun did not break the seal of the clouds and the temperature scale hovered around the 17 degree mark. Usually this would be considered quite toasty for Ireland but after the past week's weather, we've all become greedy. Although warm, it was breezy and overcast so arm-warmers were my choice, unlike almost everyone else in the race. The three combined packs rolled out of the Manor West Hotel car park at 11:45 to ride the 7km to the start line. The roll-out was much faster than the roll-outs we were used to after a week in the Junior Tour. In the Junior Tour we would roll out at 10 -12 miles per hour, in Tralee we were four abreast at 20 miles per hour. You could tell that it had been a hot week, as every single overly-hydrated rider took a cheeky toilet break before the start. The Cat. 1 race started at 12:15, with two Czech Republic bound junior riders taking part as final preparation, Junior Tour star Dunbar, and fresh from injury Danny Bruton. 

Our race started in quick succession after a small mix-up with lead car. A new race with a new course was always going to have a downside for the first lap, the racing was slow as no-one knew the hill and was confident about burning the candle too early. We rolled up the hill the first time and barring one or two small attacks it was very controlled. the wind was over our left shoulder so naturally the bunch hugged the ditches to try and gain an aerodynamic advantage over their rivals. The bunch remained very controlled and steady for the remainder of the lap. The second time up the hill was much more heated as riders now knew the full lap and knew how to ride to their strengths. Once again nothing stuck on the hill but it did put a bit of a sting in the pack's legs. Once we took our second left after the hill, we were into the wind. An Usher guy attacked out of the bend, I moved over to get into the slipstream and before I knew it we had a gap, I rolled through and gave him a turn and we were soon joined by Gary MacDonald of VisitNenagh DMG, Cathal O'Donovan of Blarney CC and fellow provincial team-mate Stephen Shanahan riding for Limerick CC. The Usher instigator was blown out the back and we established a 20 second gap before you could say 'doping'. Our little quartet rode well together, all doing equal turns. I was happy with the group, especially because O'Donovan was a sizeable chap, like yours truly, and I could get a nice draft in behind him. As the break rolled through I knew if we could get to the bottom of the climb in front of the bunch then it would be the four of us that would fight for the spoils. We did, and the next lap around, with 3 to go, we had a 1:30 advantage over the bunch.It was with 2 laps to go that I decided to start the charge,as our advantage over the bunch was big, but if we started attacking each other instead of riding, and the bunch started riding instead of attacking each other it would have been curtains. As we swung left at the first roundabout heading back to the start line, I launched my first attack up the drag, in an effort to hurt others' legs. I hoped that they'd chase me because I did not want to be on my own for another 2 laps, all I wanted to do was sap their legs. They all responded bar one, and then there were three of us. I dropped my second hurting bomb 1km from the top of the climb, we were still all together. Our advantage over the bunch was still at 1:45. 

The hardest part of the course was, in my opinion anyway, the rough back-road into the wind, so what better place to attack? If you're hurting, imagine what they're feeling. Stephen Shanahan was looking strong, and was itching to respond to all my attacks. I needed to kill his legs if I was to have a chance in the sprint against him. I was sitting third in line, upped my gearing and attacked. Like a hawk he turned around, I eased up when I got alongside him, and then went again. Once again we went back to doing our turns, the wind had picked up over the last few laps too. I positioned myself in second wheel going into the second last roundabout, sat on until O'Donovan had done a considerable turn on the drag and then attacked him. Shanahan responded strongly and held my wheel up over the top. I sat up and soft-tapped on the front all the way into the last roundabout. We now had just over 2km to go. I banked the bike right over into the tight left-hand roundabout and then flicked off right and eased off the gas. My two breakaway compatriots sat in my wheel. Shanahan came up alongside me, I braked and dropped back onto his wheel, third wheel, pole position for the sprint. We were now almost track standing on the road. If this was a Tour stage, it would have been pretty exciting to watch. We rolled up the hill, staying on top of our gears but never for a moment doing more than we needed. If the cranks were made of glass we wouldn't have broken them. At this stage I was settled into leaving the race decide itself in a 3-man sprint. I was still in pole position and now getting my mentality right to win a sprint, a first for me. "Come on Seán, you're gonna win this. You ARE gonna win this. You're like the Juggernaut, once you go, no-one is gonna stop you, no-one is gonna get in your way." I tried to get into a Cavendish-like mentality. I was feeling confident. With 500m to go Shanahan was keeping a sharp eye on me. The beauty of using Sram groupsets is that you can pull the shifter back to make it easier to up your gearing in a gallop to the checkered flag. Another use for this, I realised, is that you can pull back the shifter and then release it, as the shifter whacks off the brake lever it makes a noise akin to changing gear. *THWACK*THWACK*. This worked a treat and put the cat among the pigeons. It panicked the others with Shanahan flicking his head around every 3 seconds, expecting an imminent attack. O'Donovan opened it up, Shanahan responded with 200m to go and then I kicked hard around him. It wasn't until 50m to go that I realised it was mine, and it was the greatest feeling in the world. It was as though all the hours labour in the winter, and all the time I've had my ass handed to me and came in from training with a vile hatred of stairs were all worthwhile. What made it all the more sweeter was that after a putrid first half of the season, I finally hit some smooth form. 

Here's a nice shot of our breakaway trio

As it stands now, there is a whole new world of possibilities for the rest of the season. Sitting in the front seat of the car on the way home, one of the many benefits to being tall is you get a great seat in the car, I looked back at the race, and looked ahead to the next. I'd be lying if I said I'm not looking to repeat the success.

Here's hoping,

Seán.

The Sensa Sensations

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.