Bike Racing, December 2004.

road-to-laragh-2016
Some of the participants, pictured over ten years later on a much nicer day.

[I wrote this in 2004 when I was younger and stupider. Try not to judge me too harshly. This turned out to be only formal bike race. Also we were all working as couriers at the time so we sometimes referred to each other by our radio numbers, 55, 60 etc.]

Its cold and dark at seven o’clock on a December morning. I wrap up in three layers of cycling jersies, eat my breakfast and head out. Lizard’s house is in town. The streets are mainly empty and I glide into O’Connell street. The odd drunken person staggers around, presumably trying to get home. Tired looking Chinese people look like they’re walking home after an all night shift in a drinking barn. I stop on O’Connell bridge to wait for 55, getting funny looks, as befits a man in tights. John arrives, we head up to Lizard’s on Gardiner Place. There’s one problem though. Lizard has no back wheel for his bike. Fucks sake.

Lizard’s riding technique could be characterised as kamikaze, but without the caution. As a result, he’s busted both of his wheels. I had given him a spare front wheel the day before, but now I discover the dickhead has smashed the rear one as well. 9 Dave is supposed to be fixing it, but Dave has shown up neither yesterday nor today. Nor is Dave answering his phone at this early hour.

This is typical Lizard behaviour. He had the whole of the previous day to get this sorted out, but instead he’s leaving it till the last minute. I just sit there, sulking. Then we hear a car beep its horn outside the window. Maybe that’s Dave. Its not, but Dave is nevertheless standing outside with his mountain bike and the missing wheel. “How long were you waiting out there?” I ask. “About 15 minutes, but I didn’t want to wake anyone up”. Jesus. It turns out that Dave was out drinking all night and lost his phone. Apparently he came straight here without going to bed. He fits the wheel. All’s well that ends well I suppose.

So Dave heads home to Howth. Me Lizard and 55 John head out into the cold air. But now we have a new problem. Its now well past nine am. The race is at 10am. The race is in Batterstown, which is 30 km away. So now we’ll have to speed it out there. We skirt Phibsborough and head out to Blanchardstown, through miles of concrete housing and industrial estates.

Lizard is putting the hammer down as they say. But we keep dropping John. Me  and Lizard are just spinning but we hear his breathing becoming laboured and he drops behind. Fucks sake, we’re not even going fast! I’m getting very intolerant. All these delays and problems are wrecking my head. I start bitching to Lizard about 55 and his weakness. “Just sit on the wheel”, we tell him. Its ok though, we eventually leave the greyness of Blanch behind and get out onto the Navan road. Lizard gets into the slipstream of a lorry and zips away. Me and John eventually catch him, “SIXTY KPH” Lizard shouts. I shake my head wearily.

So we turn off the main road and arrive in Batterstown. There’s no one fucking there! I stop a rotund local. “Sorry, did you see a big group of cyclists around?” Negative. Ok, “well, do you know the GAA club?” Useless bastard. We head to the GAA club which we’ve been told to go to. Nothing. Fuck anyway. So we get John to ring Noel. Noel tells us to go to a disused garage. “Alrightee then” says John. Spa. The roadies finally surface at the garage. My mood improves a bit. We’re lucky, I tell Lizard, that nothing in this country ever starts on time. We have to register. They ask what category we are. We say we don’t have licenses. The roadies give us pitying looks. Lizard refuses to give his real name. Then crosses himself.

The race is handicapped, that is, split into four groups. The weakest starts first, the strongest last, at intervals of about five minutes. We’re in the second group. We’re told there’s strong and experienced riders in our group. We should listen to their instructions. It turns out there’s plenty of these. The course is about 40 km long, two laps of a 20k circuit. It is mainly flat, but with a few small drags.

We’re off, I start peddling cautiously, spinning the small ring. I wait for the group to form properly before I put it into the big ring. Behind, someone is barking orders. “Up and over” when they want you to pass someone. “Keep it tight”, when they think there’s too much road between you and the wheel in front of you. They get quite tetchy about this, “Jesus Christ, keep it tight!”. Ok, its their game. I just settle in to the middle of the group. Lizard, characteristically, does something they don’t like. I hear squawks of outrage from the bunch. “Sit at the back”, he gets told. “That fucking Cyclone!” (he’s wearing his Cyclone jersey). Never mind. But worse is to follow for Lizard. The bunch turns a tight corner and his chain comes off. The last I see of him is cursing and fumbling with his chain at the side of the road.

We’re now in a narrow road, covered on both sides by high hedgerows. The bunch is riding two abreast. The riders on the right keep overtaking the raiders on the left. This makes it hard to maintain your position. I decide I’m going to stay near the front, because if you try and sit in the middle, you’ll inevitably drop to the back. From this position, you have to react to what everyone else does and can’t set your own pace. Towards the front of the bunch, the peleton thins out into single file.

The pace is quite high, but I think I’m going quite well. The only problem is I’m a little stretched out, which makes using the drops uncomfortable. John is tucked in behind me. He’s much happier pushing a big gear around like this than spinning and reacting to sudden accelerations.

The riders around me are mainly from the Swords CC. One of them goes off the front. I follow him, getting out of the saddle. I presume the rest of the group is just going to follow me, but fuck it. Why let him get away and trust his clubmates to bring him back. So I sprint up to him and then rest on his wheel. Sure enough, there’s still voices behind me, but I look around and see there’s only five or six, mainly Swords men. John’s nowhere to be seen.

Our little group guns it away. The order-givers are still around however. “Come on lads, we’ve got a gap”. I just concentrate on following the wheel in front of me, which is rotating up to the front. I’m reluctant to face the wind however, much to others disgust, “if you’re not going to take a turn then sit at the back”. I just nod. So then I take a turn at the front. Several in fact.

But apparently I’m over too far to the left. “Get out!” the roadies scream at me. I comply. By this stage, we’ve caught the riders from the first group and overtaken them. We finish the first lap and get nearly half way around the second, still out in the lead. By this stage I am sitting at the back, puffing a bit. We’re not too far from the end when we get overtaken by a massive bunch of over a hundred riders. Bollox, all that effort for nothing.

The strongest two groups have closed the gap and dragged the rest of the field up to us. The head of this new bunch zips by us. Then I get caught in the tail end of the group. The crotchety old bastards I’d dropped early in the race. All them seem to be trying to elbow in, in front of me. I swerve. Shouts of indignation. “Jaysus lads, I have kids, I want to see Christmas!”. “You, blue, [that’s me] sit at the back”. I raise my hand in incomprehension. “You’re over-reacting”. Fuckers. But its doesn’t really matter now anyway because the bunch is altogether and I’m spent. I’m happy to just sit at the back and roll in home.

John is now somewhere near the head of the group. Lizard rolls up beside me, “alright mate”. But then he just drops behind. Puncture. Being near the back of big group is extremely frustrating. Its called the “concertina effect”. What happens is that you’re belting along, but then, somewhere at the front, the pace slows down. You have to break hard to avoid  smashing into the people in front of you. Then it speeds up and you have to sprint just to keep in contact.

There’s so many bodies that I can’t see the finish line. I see people sprinting at the front, then its over. John finishes near the front. I’m happy enough. I was in a break for most of the race. The roadies certainly justified their cranky reputation among other cyclists., but I’m still buzzing with adrenaline, so I don’t care. Lizard is another story though. He punctured about two km from the end.

After about five minutes he rolls in slowly on a flat tyre. Dead fucking last. He’s bulling. “I am never racing with old scumbags again”, he tells me. “One of them tried to grab my jersey and tells me to sit at the back. I tell him, no, I won’t, now let go of my fucking jersey”. He is not a happy bunny. But he improves a little bit when I give him a replacement tube. “I owed the devil for this race”, he tells the guy at the track pump.

We get coffee and snacks at a petrol station and then head for home. Its bitterly cold and the sweat from the races chills me. Lizard wants to race home. I tell him to sort his head out. But we’re relaxed now as we weave through the Sunday afternoon traffic in Blanchardstown. Lizard decides he’s going to break all the traffic lights. Even though there’s a Garda car right behind him. He gets away with it though. “I’m going to get a monk to bless my bike”, he tells me. I sigh.

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