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.

Hugh 'The Bull' Mulhearne and the Tale of the Trunchbull Midwife

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.