EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHING…….(the last post)

It wasn’t meant to end like this, the morning after the Tour de Frank..standing here looking out the kitchen window, a thousand chores lining up. the grass needing cutting; the hedge needing trimming, and the whimpering dog needing to be let out for a piss.

Everything is everything…and life goes on.  

 The Blog took on a life of its own, after Martin died…It was originally meant to be a light hearted diary keeping track of me and my Saturday morning cycling buddie’s, as I tried to get in shape to cycle Edinburgh London..In my head it was to finish as I swept triumphantly into London, with a big happy head and a sore arse….But alas, Martin tripped me up, tripped us all in 795 up.

 The Tour de Frank took hold and I picked that as a fitting the end of the blog…In the end the blog became a record of a cycling year in a broken hearted club….But alas in a broken hearted year, where a club could have fallen to pieces. Instead it reawakened in us a sense of belonging

…In a year where Don, PJ Fintan and Frank, qualified for Tri London and the buzz of wearing the Irish Jersey…In a year where Dave Conway and his fellow Mountain bikers hauled 120 competitors along rugged trails of the Blackstairs Mountains…

In a year where James Bodels returned, rekindled the Rubberman…doing what James does best, bringing novices along, encouraging pushing. and awaking in them a sense of achievement…

 In a year where some of us fulfilled personal dreams. Liam, cycling Landsend to John o Groats, Me Edinburgh to London and Jim and Barry cycling the Wicklow Way in an amazing day

In a year when Lorraine finally learnt to fix a puncture, In a year where Orla O’Leary sprinkled fairy dust in our company and made us all feel good about ourselves, Where Traceys Marathon dream fumbled on a kerbside, where her homemade energy bars fuelled us over the mile high climbs, and in a year when Joy returned to do us proud in the Limerick marathon, where Dena finally wins her first Triathlon dream’s fulfilled. In a year where Helen, Yvonne and Caroline decided that if you cant beat them, join them..and started running.

 In a year where Fintan inspires eight others to sign up for an Ironman in Belgium, where Mike saved a life, where Rudolf made his comeback, where Peter, became a Warrior of the Sea, where Shaugh’s and Tom continued to blaze a running trail..where Raging Bill and the Beastie Boys got bate up in the beast of thee east, , where Lou became our best new comer, and where the Blackstairs Adventure Race separated the men from the boys.  And in a year that we helped  fulfill Martins Grand Plan…and did him proud

And in a year the club finally cycled together as a club and drank coffee and lunched on poached eggs and French toast and laughed and shared cycling moments together.

In a year where so much was lost, and yet so much achieved. Yes, everything is everything, and life goes on and  Martin will never be forgotten, where ever the Racing 795 jersey is worn… he will never be far from our thoughts.

So here’s to tomorrow and the next day and the next day after that. Here’s to a thousand cycling miles, a thousand Mountain bike days, here’s to Triathlons, and Marathons and Ironmans, and meeting on the Square, here’s to 795 and the years ahead….and here’s to Martin and his legacy and the life he lived…and the memories he left us with.

Here’s to life…..

THE END.

The making of a Legend!!!……. Kilkenny Tri 3013…

 

I got a few things right this weekend, when we traveled over to Kilkenny for their annual Grand Prix Tri…
Travelling with Mike, was a good idea, he knew the lie of the land, Almost parked the car in Transition, we got that close. Cycling the route the evening before was another good idea. Checking the run route and the River, entrance and exit points all ensured this could be a really enjoyable Tri for me. Powder in my runners and powder in my cycling shoes!! (Mikes suggestion.)that was a brilliant idea. But the high light of the experience was that we got to use the Portaloos early in the day, when they were safe clean empty and queue free….it was like throwing a stone into a canyon and waiting for the splash…a long way down. I’d nearly risk eating a Mars bar and reading a news paper in one..It was that safe!!

Kilkenny was buzzing, we traveled over the evening before, cycled the route Spent an hour queuing to register in the evening sun, just to pick up a bag, a tee shirt, an energy bar, and a recovery supplement. The “rookies” were thrilled, the veterans were cynical. “I got a bag here last year and it fell to fkin bits in a week!”. But it was all worth while when we met a first timer,He had a big happy innocent head on him….. like Eddie the eagle…embarking on his first ever triathlon and signed up for the Olympic…he only learnt to swim three months ago, and intended doing the back stroke and sticking close to the wall..but was according to himself, “brilliant at the bike,” which he only took up a three months ago, and “Sur anyone can run.cant they”.I told Mike I’d sacrifice my sprint just to film this guys swim for You Tube….

Kilkenny was buzzing, Tourists and Bruce fans lined the walls of the quay as we entered the River. You get caught up in the feel good factor on the day. Linking in with fellow “Elite” 795’rs Louise, her fourth Olympic of the year, Adrian, hoping to have a better day out then in Athy, Raging Bill, recovering from Beast of the East!!, While Colm Mike and myself settled for the recreational sprint event.

Thanks be to jaysus I checked out the river the previous evening, otherwise I was a deadman drowning. Because once you enter the water there’s no going back. There’s no messing with the River Nore, its dark and deep and slow moving its high walls hem you in, you have no choice but to swim…(It was reassuring reading John Dempseys report on The Beast of the East and their collective experience of the swim). But Kilkenny was well organised, the swim waves were small and lacked the chaos normally associated with the swim section, The cycle route flat and fast, and there to cheer us on at the turn around Frank with his bike and 795 jersey and his gammy shoulder!!…well in the running for Club Fan of the Year at this years Christmas party. The only problem was traffic on the edge of town near the shopping centers, but the bike lanes gave you loads of room and a feeling of security. The run was a nature trail through the manicured castle grounds…passing bemused walkers and tourists…and me with me heart attack head on me…

At days end, tired and emotional, we all made it home, Adrian happier with his times and days work, puts his Athy ghost to rest. Louise, disappointed and hurting, after struggling on her run. But as Dena posted on Facebook, just put it down to a tough training session, and live to race another day. Raging Bill first home, gear bag slung over his shoulder, drifts of into the sunset happy and content, till we meet again at the next big event, Colm, under pressure heads home to put out fires and collect the child from the babysitter. And as me and Mike head for the car, we run into our hero Eddie, limping heading for the hospital, because a horse fly bit him on his open wound and he feared it might go septic…did his swim in 28 minutes!! Not a bother, As we parted I said something about swimming being like golf, you just need to practice. he laughed dismissively, and said golf is easy, “I gave it up three months ago and I was playing of scratch!!!!”

A legend in the making if ever I met one….

Spring!!!!

We missed spring by a day. Instead we opted for a Sunday which turned out to be a   “soft day thank god sort of day,” when the clouds clung to Mt Leinster, punctured by it mast, and down came the rain. We pulled ourselves once more up over Carrigduff and its traffic calming signs, clicking down gears, soft mist fogging up my glasses, asses out of the saddle, me Liam and Mike, wondering where the hell did spring go, yesterdays promise, like a false start, hidden now behind a mass of grey cloud. Us almost annoyed, feeling cheated, full of “should have” questions….should have gone out yesterday when the sun shone, the skies blue the Racing 795 forum packed with tempting invites, to mountain bike Kilbrannish hill, to jog to the windmills, to road spin to Tinahealy and even walk in the woods, or better still join up with Frank who was heading west towards Galway….ah yes we on this damp cold morning, wrapped up and clicking gears trying to keep pace with Mike in full flow, we should have known better, and gone out yesterday…

But alas yesterday we were distracted, Liam went with the hunt (its far from gentry he and his piebald pony was reared, but I wasn’t gone to tell him that) And I spent the false spring day, cutting and chopping and loading sticks…and remembering Pa…Hard to believe that it’s over a year now since he passed, I knew him longer then I knew my own father..A big man a constant in our lives. And here I was chopping and cutting..the job he once did for us. Taking pride in his work and his tools and most of all his garage, his work shop, his sanctuary…..  Now on opening the iron framed door of his beloved garage…it lets a low thunder rumble as it trips over a stone, demanding our respect, as he did,   slowly revealing its hidden treasures like Pharaoh’s tomb. Here his spirit still lingers, the smell of diesel and dust, the dark tidiness of its hidden nooks, his potpourri of tools and gadgets, of recycled jam jars filled with washers and screws and nuts and hooks…clamps and clasps, ropes and wires and spare parts of broken bits, hang, cobweb shrouded, now, from crooked nailed hooks. Garden tools cleaned and sharpened and  all now retired in roof slats. All now silent with his finger tipped touch on everything.. Here in this shrine, his spirit still lives, lingering in the silent rafters, watching, waiting.  .

Its hard to believe thirty years have passed since I first drove from Dublin to Bunclody with sweaty palms and Van Morrisons Moondance in the tape deck in a battered old Toyota corolla that roared when you hit forty miles an hour, to meet him for the first time…..Its hard to believe a year has passed since..since…. like us today, this spring day he spent his last day,  chopping  and splitting, cleaning out one of his sheds of teak window frames, chainsaw roaring, cutting, chopping, bagging winter kindling, delivering them to his daughters. At days end he tidied his shed, sharpened and oiled his chainsaws, sweeping his floor and packing everything back in its proper place, sealing up his garage,…..Before heading off down to the Moss House for one last feed of pints… Ah how we miss him now.

And so we clear Bunclody heading towards the Myshall pump, on through Garryhill and its swimming pool in a barn, skirting the mountains, slipping down through its valley past Danny Nails and stories of bone setting cures and bottles of home made tonics, that cleared out your bowels in thirty seconds flat.

Wexford Co Council, put up brand new cycle route signs, tempting you in the direction of costal villages and towns, Curraghloe, Kilmuckerage, Courtown and its cast of Love/Hate Dubs….But that’s all they did, is slap up signs on routes that you would need a mountain bike to navigate through the battered eroded roads  that had a surface like the moon, washed away by run away streams of ditchless land….

So on we push this Sunday morn, hoping to do 60k, chasing Mike under pressure to be home. Stopping in Borris for a banana,  and a saddle sore chat,  30k from home we consider crossing back up over the nine stones, losing our selves in the clouds, but dismissed it as quick, too early in the season for madness like that we laugh. Instead opting to stay close to the edge of the mountain through Ballymurphy, Kiltealy home of the Duffery and site of a world war 2 bombing that was blamed on the Germans, and home through the Half Way House,,,,

But yesterdays work of cutting splitting and loading crept up and took its toll, as limbs began to ache   …”It must be an age thing”, I complained, and Liam was too fked to answer. And as we pull into the square, busier now then it was two and a half  hours ago. With only 60k done, I’m beat, and glad to be home….. Well aware that I’m a million miles off the legs required to complete Edinburgh-London or a fourth Wicklow 200 in June…Still we have the Club duathlon to look forward to next week, and there’ll be no holding Mike back that day.

NAAS TRI CLUB DUATHLON JAN 20/013

A broken nights sleep, on the eve of the first Duathlon of the season, the first tick of my bucket list. Pre race check list circling my brain, Bike, Bike shoes, runners socks towel, shorts, tops, tri membership, jaffa cakes, water…..glasses! My biggest dilemma, do I or don’t I wear me glasses, in case I have to read a sign, or avoid a pothole. The sleep interrupted by a relentless list of “ what if’s”, what if it rains,? what if it snows?, what if I get a puncture,? what if my calf muscle caves in,? what if I need a lash?, what if I get piles?…what if I sleep in, because I spent the entire night awake  worrying about “what if’s….”

Someone asked me “do I have a race plan”, I said I did, “ my race plan is not to have a fkin heart attack while on the bike”, that’s my race plan.

And so early Saturday morning pulling out the drive way to pick up Mike, Mount Leinster wrapped in a blanket of white. Heaven for Racing 795’s Mountain bikers, hell for us road bikers. But its dry and it’s all systems go for the first Duathlon of the season…

Mike and I punctual as hell are first to sign in and set up in transition. We meet up with Treacy (making her competitive debut) and Colm. Poor Fintan, (Treacy’s husband) tags along as our coach, sports psychologist, coffee boy, cloak room clerk, and photographer. We huddle in the car sucking jaffa cakes, sipping energiser sports drinks, and watch the temperature fall. A light dusting of snow has us piling on the layers.

250 competitors went to post, at Puncherstown Race Course. The advice was to make your way to the front so as to avoid the initial stampede. I did, and then got flushed out the back as soon as the start gun went. It was as if someone had given the group an enema. By the time I got to the gate that entered the ambulance track, Mike, Treacy and Colm had disappeared with the herd. The next time I saw them was on the cycle course, with cheers and whoops of encouragement.

Running was never my thing; I plod along, keeping a steady rhythm, trying not to panic, trying not to race, trying not to burn out of energy before I even get going…clocking 15.34 for my first run.

But its the bike that makes it all worth while, finding a rhyme, picking of cyclists as they struggle on the climbs, the ice wind sweeping of the Wicklow hills sting your face, freeze your snot, but on you go. There’s no secret, just go like the clappers till your legs die. Trying again not to panic, get into a steady rhythm, get the gear change right, and push on, steady 25k an hour, hitting 52 k on the down hill, all the time passing, picking off, feeling a rush of exhilaration on the down hill, feeling free….where else would you want to be on a Sunday in January. Chuffed to bits with the time of 40.04 Then you hit transition, feeling great, still standing, still running, dull aches and pains, the years catching up, but who cares…crossing the finish line in 16.08. Posting 3^rd place in my age category…I laugh, there was probably only three entered in my age category….but who cares, this is where I want to be at 52, ticking of the bucket list, doing as much as I can for as long as I can.. ……((The winner completed his duathlon in 57.02min)

.

And later, tired and cramped, in front of the log fire, looking back on the day, looking back on the years and wondering what if? What if, I discovered duathlons at 25yrs old, what times would I have produced, where would it have taken me? But alas, if I was doing this at 25, look at all I would have missed…the thrill of a Saturday soccer afternoons  and togging out in the battered green container pulling on the Celtic hooped jersey, lost in tall tales and laughter, in the company of great friends, and football on pitch with grass two inches too long, and a ref as blind as a bat (till he gave us a penalty off course) and later the pints in the Deadmans where we laughed and talked ourselves up, and dreamed our dreams, and told each other we were brilliant, and how we laughed and spilled pints when  Jacks son told Stephen Dunne that “My Daddy told me that you were the worst footballer in the world”. Ah those were the days…no regrets, no regrets on a cold Sunday in January.