Stage 8: Kildare-Skerries

6.30am, the day after the final stage. I'm awake before my alarm. I creep out of bed, grabbing one large bidon and two bananas. No gels. I take the bike for a recovery spin around the Phoenix Park. It's a bit misty, the deer are asleep somewhere. I only spy one or two prancing about. I meet a clubmate coming the other way, probably on her way into work.

The cold reality of the outside world is looming fast. It's why I wanted to make the absolute most out of the last day of the Rás. From the gun I was moving up the pack. At 10km I make a dig off the front. The bunch don't let me out of their claws though, but for a glorious few moments I am at the front of the Rás. It feels good.

I try stay in the front 40 or so, and as we pass through Prosperous I spy a chance to go again. A small move of eight of us go clear, but we're reeled back in after a brief sojourn - a few kilometres at most. The break of the day is one of the next groups to form, and my effort to bridge comes to nought.

I tuck in for the day then. The weather is glorious and we're heading for home, so spirits are high. I spot Rás legend Brian Ahern on the side of the road near Rathoath and manage to give him a thumbs up.

There's a clash of wheels as we drop into a right-hander at one point, with someone going into the ditch on the far side of the bunch. People are desperate to make it to the final circuit, and the fight for position is as tough as ever.

We climb the Cross of the Cage and descend to Skerries. The buzz whipping through the main street is umatchable, the crowds are screaming and shouting. I hear my name here and there, a cry of 'Go Orwell!' It's all fuel for the mind, the legs want to keep going.

I'm contemplating taking it handy for the laps, soak it all up and savour the moment. I have friends, family, acquaintances, clubmates, workmates - all dotted along the lap, up the climb, at the KOH. I could high-five the crowd, stop for a chat at the top of the Black Hills...

First time up the climb and I'm weaving past shattered riders. I'm at the back of the field, but there's many more behind me. Through Skerries and up again. At the top corner I try to see Jim Shortall. He's a former Irish National Champion, and a regular watcher at this spot. I can't get a glimpse, but instead have to take the corner stupidly wide.

Last time through Skerries, last chance to take a back seat. On to the climb, and no! I can't do it! The Rás deserves your best effort, your hardest attack, the most suffering you can endure. I'm off the back this time, but get on through the cars along the descent behind a strong North Down rider.

We come into the town for the final time, sprinting like crazy and then we're done! Men of the Rás!

I claim 41st place over the line, a personal best for me, and 9th county rider. Proud of that. It's not a lot for the big guns, but exceeded my modest ambitions for the Rás.

The guys all come over the line to cheers and celebration. There's a carnival atmosphere in the town, and people buy me ice cream and beer (you know who you are, thanks!). We collect our finishers' medals, and Ronan pops a bottle of champagne on the beach. After much cheers-ing and toasting, it's time to head home. My parents are here to chaffeur me away, as my girlfriend is too busy winning the final of her camogie league.

It's been a tough week, no doubt about it, but it's been made a lot more tolerable by the weather and by our support squad.

I never had a single problem with my bike on the road the whole week long. It was a pleasure to be able to drop into the little ring on the many horrible climbs with complete confidence that I wasn't going to unship my chain. Fionn Sheridan can be found in Joe Daly Cycles when he's not building frames overnight, and I know I can always trust him with my bike.

John Busher wasn't officially on our team when we started, but he pretty soon became invaluable. I've never had a shinier chain than when he'd been cleaning it, and he claims full credit for my Kerry performances with his magic bike polish!

Stephen O'Shea was always behind me with a bottle when I needed it, and quite a few times even when I didn't! How he juggled a Rás team while rescheduling and planning the National Championships, I'll never know, but it was great to have him at the top of the team and behind the wheel.

Our super soigneurs were Aishling O'Connor and Mary Brady, and I don't know if words will do these women justice. Pro-level musette deliveries, bottle hand-ups, leg-rubs, sandwiches, shakes, bidons, luggage transfers, accommodation sorting... and that's just what I know about! During Saturday's stage Mary took a bus to Cork from Dungarvan to fetch the van after it needed a service, and then drove back to Baltinglass to be ready to collect us for the stage finish. And all of this with the biggest smiles and the brightest personalities on the entire Rás!

I'll try not to stray into Oscar territory, but a brief thank you also to everyone who supported or sponsored us in the run-on, or who sent messages of support or came out to shout or buy me ice cream. You'll always have a special place in my heart... especially for the ice cream!

Until next year, farewell Rás!

Stage 7: Dungarvan-Baltinglass

“There are some men
who should have mountains
to bear their names to time.”

For most riders, today’s stage was about Mount Leinster. For me, today’s stage was about a man who should have a mountain named after him. I was up Mount Leinster only once before, two years ago to the day nearly. It was Slaney CC’s Mount Leinster Challenge, and they put up a jersey for the fastest ascent of Mount Leinster. Pat O’Brien took the glory, though he’d never have told you.

My first experience of stage racing was with Pat, in Wales in 2011. I was a lowly A4 out of my depth in the Ras de Cymru, but Pat along with Dave and Declan showed me the ropes in his friendly, smiling manner. It laid a foundation for me, and I still use those lessons in each stage race I do.

This morning the team were feeling under pressure, so I stay toward the back to keep an eye on them. They’re hanging in okay, up and over the first Cat 3. I stop for a quick leak on the ascent, which is being ridden fairly steadily. Back on through the cars afterwards, and we’re onto an uncategorised lump where the pace is ratcheted up.

The guys are going backwards. I’m up to them, encouraging, pushing, try to see if they have an extra gear.

I’m back in the Pyrenees with Pat. We’re on a week long trip with 25 from the club, and have spent the second day tearing each other’s legs off up the Tourmalet (he won). It’s Pat who suggests that we spend the rest of the week taking it handy and helping the slower riders. We had races pushing other riders up the climbs, or sang songs to keep the spirits high. That was Pat’s nature, always ready to help.

Today though, there’s no helping the lads - the legs are gone and they’re in the grupetto for the day. Manuel tells me to push on. I fire up to the next group, but there’s nobody in sight after that. A fitful chase, but I can tell this group isn’t going anywhere, so I push on. I’m in the mood for some suffering. I work with an Asea rider for a bit, but he disappears on the next climb.

I’m bridging to the break in the Rás Dhún na nGall 2013, sitting on the yellow jersey. Pat’s up the road, and I get an armchair ride across. There he tells me not to do a tap, he’ll do all the riding for Orwell, and I’m to save myself for a late break for stage glory. It turns out exactly as he predicts - I dig deep up Glengesh, suffering, suffering. And I win. It’s Pat’s win too, there’s no way I would’ve had the belief nor the ability to do it without him.

The comm is up beside me, “there’s a big group about a minute behind you”. I must be a pain in the arse for the race organisers, one rider in no man’s land. No lead car. But I don’t want the group, I want Pat.

I’m onto the slopes of Mount Leinster. This is Pat’s mountain. He’s an Enniscorthy native, a proud son of Slaney CC as well as Orwell. I’m on my own still, I don’t want to share this journey with anyone. I spy Sean Rowe ahead, another Wexford man. A smile, a shout of encouragement, onwards and upwards.

I’m heading up the Healy Pass in Rás Mumhan 2014, just off the back of the bunch. I follow the wrong wheel into a bend. He overcooks it and saves it. I don’t. I go straight over the lip of the road, still upright as I freewheel down the grassy slopes. A rock, a tumble. I get up and clamber back to the roadside with the bike on my shoulder. Pat’s out of the team car, he checks me over then sticks me on the spare bike and pushes me off. Between sticky bottles and drafting, he gets me back to a group. I’m safe for another day.

I’m over the top of Mount Leinster. The crowds are roaring at the top. I hear people shouting my name. But I only want to hear Pat’s name. I’m down the other side. A couple of lads pull up and offer me a tow. But I want to do this right - no sticky bottles, no bumpers, just a solid ride.

Matteo Cigala hops on my wheel as I pass. He had a mechanical early on and is cruising home. We work together for a while, until he does the smarter thing and waits for the group behind. I wish him well. Today’s not my day for being smart, I just want to ride.

The miles are counting down. I’m not being very successful in holding back the tears as I come inside the final 15km.

I’m inside the final 10km of the Shay Elliot 2014. After spending too much time trying to hold the wheels of McCrystal and McKenna in a chasing group, I’m nearly totally empty. Pat and Fionn are in the team car right beside me, yelling encouragement. I’m close to tears, but Pat won’t let me stop. I cross the line, completely spent but happy to have left it all on the road thanks to him.

I’m into Baltinglass - a moto marshal comes alongside and gives me the thumbs up. There’s nobody else in sight either on front or behind, and I sprint over the line solo before collapsing in a heap.

Tomorrow I’ll cross another finish line in Skerries (all going well), and Pat won’t be there. He crossed that finish line himself in 2012, a Man of the Rás. In 2013, we were out on the Shay Elliot and the Wicklow Gap painting slogans and names on the road for our club mates who were doing the Rás. In 2015, he shepherded me and the team around Ireland as a manager of the Rás. That day in Skerries is a treasured memory.

It’s a poorer Rás for Pat’s absence, and indeed a poorer world. He’ll always be remembered by those who loved him, which was everyone, because how could you not love Pat?







Grave markers are not high enough
or green,
and sons go far away
to lose the fist
their father’s hand will always seem.

I had a friend:
he lived and died in mighty silence
and with dignity,
left no book son or lover to mourn.

Nor is this a mourning-song
but only a naming of this mountain
on which I walk,
fragrant, dark and softly white
under the pale of mist.
I name this mountain after him.

Leonard Cohen

Stage 6: Clonakilty-Dungarvan

We had our second ice bath of the week last night. I got away lightly last time, being last rider in, the water was nippy but probably closer to lukewarm than ice cold. This time there was still a thick layer of ice cubes floating on the surface. Painful! But Mary and Aishling tell me it’ll do me good, so I’ll have to just trust them!

https://twitter.com/Bradymaryp/status/736090649154355200

My legs didn’t feel much different this morning, in fact I felt like I might be one of those tired riders our manager warned us not to be behind, because they’d be letting wheels go. An early crash on a bridge gave the bunch an adrenaline boost to kickstart the day, I’m holding on by the skin of my teeth.

As we hit a wide section of flat road (the only flat bit of surface we’ll see all day), it feels like we might be heading for a piano day. There’s only three Cat 3s today, nothing worse than that. Eddie Dunbar is in the break however, so the top GC guys have to keep him on a tight leash.

We’re up and down lumpy terrain all day long. The scenery of Kerry and Cork has been spectacular (whenever I’ve looked up long enough from the wheel in front to notice it), but the roads around here are terrible. Bottles are being lost left, right and centre, and indeed when I reach down to get my second bidon, I find it’s one of those left behind somewhere.

The most nerve-wrenching point of the race comes when Ronan is hit by one of the team cars while it’s overtaking the bunch. His rear wheel is a write-off, and even with a spare bike, it takes him an age to get back into a decent group with the pace being set at the front.

It splits on the Cat 3 climb of Rathcormack, with about 50 mostly pros getting up the road. The GC man for AVC has a mechanical which requires a bike change and he’s left in our group. He first tries attacking to get away, but when that doesn’t work, the team get on the front to try TTT their way back to the front. The gap doesn’t diminish though, and we ride steadily toward Dungarvan.

A flat sprint in for 50th, before a casual spin out to our accommodation right on the coast. There’s a beautiful view of the sea from the dining room, and I take a short walk after dinner to get some fresh air.

We had bad news from our teammate Stephen who had to pull out earlier in the race. His father passed away last night, and we send him our deepest sympathies. We've been thinking of him throughout the week, and he'll be in our thoughts even more so now.

Stage 5: Sneem-Clonakilty

Over halfway! Feels like we’re on the home stretch now, sure tomorrow’s the weekend, right?

The weather has been fantastic so far - sunny and dry every day bar the first. This year the team is staying with the race accommodation, where last year we booked B&Bs ourselves. It’s been mostly good - upmarket hotels with leisure centres where a jacuzzi does wonders for the legs.

In Dingle however, we ended up in the overflow hotel. They tried to give three triples, which doesn’t work when you have two females. The hotel’s solution was to put the four riders into one room, which was probably only big enough for two. Once Mary got on to the accommodation officer though, they got us an extra room elsewhere, so we weren’t quite as jam-packed. At least we didn’t get put in bunk beds like the lads in the room next door!

Last night we were disturbed about 1.30am by a fire alarm going off. Ronan had his toe lanced earlier in the evening, and with the couple of painkillers he took, he slept through the whole thing!

Today’s stage saw us head straight into the Caha Pass, where there were big splits in the bunch. Through the tunnel at the top, we couldn’t see a thing in front of us coming in from the bright sunshine. Then descend into Glengarriff and another climb. I managed to stick with the front bunch, but went out the back over the Cat 3 at Derrycarhoon.

I tagged onto a couple of fast descenders and made it back to where the bunch was nearly riding piano. The rest of the stage is a bit of a blur, but the first time through the finish line the group exploded. I hadn’t expected such a steep ramp, and with the legs already sapped from the earlier climbs, I found myself in a chasing group.

We regrouped and on the way into the finish, everyone was ready to contest the sprint. I took the right-hand line, hoping to nip up along the barriers. Instead I found a motorbike parked in my way and with no room to change my line without taking out a rider, I hit the brakes and then sprinted again.

It cost me a top ten county rider spot, which is a nice accolade for an unambitious rider like myself, and put me just outside the top 50 for the third day running. It’s only a minor detail though, I’m happy with my rides through the hills so far. I’m almost looking forward to tomorrow’s three Cat 3s!

Stage 4: Dingle-Sneem

Today’s team talk was all about the early climbs. We’re out of Dingle up a hard drag, and then on to a Cat 3 before we even hit 10km. With yesterday’s early splits, the message is hammered home - get up the front from the gun, and stay up there!

The lads played a stormer - one was even in front of the race director’s car as we pulled out! They were all ahead of me in the front 50 for the first 60km. It was a small comfort knowing they were there when I heard the crunch of carbon behind me on the hill out of Miltown.

Winding around Lough Caragh, there’s a lull for nature breaks. The narrow road exacerbates the compressions as riders stop and rejoin, and guys are coming to a total standstill and unshipping chains. It’s still mostly together as we hit the bottom of the Cat 1 of the day.

It’s horrible, a gradual incline to begin before it ramps up steeply. Then a false flat before the final pain. I dig in and push as hard as I can. Halfway up I exchange bottles with John Busher, Jamie’s dad, who has been invaluable help so far this week. It’s proper club spirit, following the race and helping any way he can.

Over the top, and down the other side. At the first bend there’s carnage, bikes in the ditch and riders on the deck. Zip through and onwards. The front of the race is out of sight as we drop towards the coast. I link up with two Kerry lads, and a collection from North Down, Mego Raw and two pros. We spend the next 20km chasing at 50kph to catch the cavalcade.

One of the Team Ireland lads has a mechanical ahead, and himself and a teammate are a real boon to our chasing group, letting us tag onto the back of the bunch just before Waterville.

We climb Coomakista at a civil, even sedate pace - the Tirol team of the yellow jersey setting a steady tempo on the front. At the summit, the soigneurs are waiting with another bottle. A winding descent and soon we’re passing through Sneem.

15km to go, one last KOM… I think I\m in a good position, until someone lets a wheel go about ten riders further up. No county prize today! I’ve settled in for the final few km, when a moto overtakes on the right. He hits a patch of gravel and spins out for a moment. When the wheel regains traction, he shoots to the over side of the narrow road and ends up in the ditch. No riders injured thankfully, and I heard later that the driver was okay too.

I finish a few minutes down, happy with the ride. The Garmin is definitely on its last legs, wouldn’t give me distance readings all day. I finished with 18km on the clock!

Stage 3: Charleville-Dingle

It’s funny how some things on race day never change. The pre-race choices - I spent Sunday morning fretting about what to wear on the opening stage. Long sleeves or short sleeves? Rain jacket or gillet? Maybe the Gabba? Today was a question of which cassette. The 11-23 might not be enough for the Conor Pass, but the 12-28 would leave me spinning on the descent into Dingle.

Our expert mechanic Fionn - on loan from Joe Daly Cycles - dug out an 11-28 that I didn’t know I had, so that had me sorted for all scenarios. He’s been hard at work since day one, cleaning the bikes and getting them ready every morning, along with his lovely assistant John. I wouldn’t have gotten around quite so well without him today!

A wall of noise greeted us as we sped out of Charleville. The local school were out in force, waving their An Post Rás flags, and cheering at the top of their lungs. It’s a fantastic buzz to have the schools on the side of the road, and it’s always good to try put on a show for an audience.

Today’s start was fast, on twisting roads. It lined out early, with wheels being dropped down the bunch. I had the sense to start on the front, so made the early split. As the bunch whittled down, there was a touch of wheels at the 35km mark, two lads hitting the deck. A calm, controlled chase back - let the cars up and around, then shelter and weave back to the bunch.

We take the cat 3 KOM steadily enough, and zip down the other side into the valley. The passage through the towns is the most hectic - sharp turns meaning the bunch gets strung out, and the line outs only coming back together well after we exit the town.

Today is all about the Conor Pass. Looming large with about 10km left in the stage, naturally the race is blown to bits on the ascent. I pick an Austrian wheel and follow it up, occasionally passing a weaving riders. The crowds are out in force at the top, and the decent is terrific. Dry roads, good surface, perfect visibility… it’s nearly 70kph average for 6.5km, before we ramp up to the finish line.

Stage 2: Mullingar-Charleville

We started the day on a low note, with one of the guys having to DNS due to a family emergency. Stephen had been riding high in the A2 cat, and would've been romping up the ranks in his Kingdom of Kerry, but it was not to be this year. Hopefully all goes well for him at home this week, and we'll see him back next year for more.

The rest of us settled in for 180km+ from Mullingar to Charleville. We were hoping for an early break to go, then a nature break and feed at 50km, with a nice steady chase into Charleville. Instead nothing got established until nearly the halfway point, which meant the fast start was extended long into the race.

It was particularly annoying that my GPS computer decided not to work this morning, meaning I had to mentally keep track of where we were on the route, and how long until the next key point.

As we head towards Nenagh, there’s a protracted lull as people stop for a nature break. Then a static feed goes horribly wrong, and combined with a couple of overtaking team cars, there’s a crash that blocks the road. A furious chase through Nenagh puts me back in the bunch.

Wisely our hard-working soigneurs Aishling and Mary chose a wider section for our feed zone, and the musette delivery was superb! Proper pro stuff, packed lunch on the bike! I was delighted with myself, stuffing my face with cake at the back of the bunch, until we turned a corner onto the KOM of the day.

All the Orwells were in there, and despite splits on the climb, we ended up in the same group on the far side. With a big bunch and only 50km to go, the pace slackened and most of the riders sat back to work on their tans. Our man Ronan clipped off with about 30km to go with a few other more dedicated souls to claw back some GC time.

It was a delight to come to hear Eoin Morton had won the stage - a hard-working, honest-riding county rider getting one over on the pros. Along with Bryan McCrystal, who’s probably disappointed not to have yellow, but he’s already shown he looks good in blue!

Stage 1: Dublin Castle-Multyfarnham

I remember the lead-up to the last year’s Rás, my first. I was trying convince myself that it was just another stage race. It was longer and tougher than anything I’d ever done, but still, it was just another stage race. This year I think I believed it. I’ve completed it once, got the cap and earned the finisher’s medal. Rás number two should be straight-forward enough, right?

Signing on at Dublin Castle was pretty special. Masses of club mates came out to give us the largest cheer of the morning when we were introduced by Scott-Orwell’s own Declan Quigley. The support there and in the Phoenix Park, as well as plenty of random spots along the route, keeps you fuelled mentally. It helps you remember that a club’s hopes have been invested in you and your teammates, and it’s up to you to try your hardest and do the club proud.

Just before the race start, our manager Stephen O’Shea gathers us around for a final team pep talk. We take a moment to remember Pat O’Brien, our Rás manager last year. A huge contingent of the club was out in force in his native Enniscorthy yesterday, and he’ll be in our thoughts throughout the week.

Then we’re rolling out on familiar roads cheered on by spectators and passers-by. It made for a very memorable start to a pretty horrible day: rain, hail, lumpy roads and crashes…

The crash at 15km nearly blocked the road. I negotiated my way through it, hoping there wasn’t a teammate on the deck, and started to get a group together to chase back on. It’s start-stop, nobody wants to commit. The race is disappearing up the road without us, but everyone’s looking at each other. Naturally, this is when the first heavy shower hits. A few of us are fitfully chasing, then Damien Shaw swoops down like a guardian angel, hits the front like a freight train and hauls the whole race back together like a modern Hercules.

As things come back together, I make a mental checklist of our lads - everyone’s here, and in one piece. Except for Manuel, who says he’s fine, but his entire right side is caked with mud. He found a soft landing in a puddle!

The stage flashes by in a whirl of rain showers and sunny spells. Twice I made the mistake of being behind the guy who dropped the wheel in the line out. Once I got back on the bumpers, another time in a little chasing group. The third time I had nobody to blame but myself. Pushing in the 53x11 as hard as possible, but a gap just slowly yawned open in front of me.

I flicked my elbow like a possessed chicken, willing someone to come around, to save me from myself. There’s no response, and a small group of us slowly detach from the bunch, with 30km remaining. The others filter through the cars, most of them regaining contact, but my legs are bust.

I sit up and wait for a teammate just behind, and we roll in together to finish the first stage.

Day 5: Prades to Cerbere (98km with 620m ascent)

The final morning with us all setting off as one, which soon proved inhospitable to other traffic in the morning rush hour. Small groups formed, and some stopped in cafés, others in supermarchés, and more still visited McDonald’s.
Twisting roads led around roundabout after roundabout, and the van was a welcome sight to let us know there wasn’t far to go.
Don’t go on the motorway, Debbie warned us. And if you do end up on the motorway, don’t go into the 2km long tunnel. You will die, she said.
We all agreed to meet in Banyuls-sur-Mer, 10km from the finish, where we could have a relaxing coffee/beer/ice cream, and roll in together. The leaders arrived, followed by the third and fourth groups, with group two MIA. No answer on anyone’s phone. Debbie arrives with the van. She found group two on the motorway as they were about to enter the tunnel, and put them back on course.
As the 100hr deadline neared, tensions rose, but we held fast. We would finish together, or not al all. The suspense dragged somewhat, but at last the wanderers appeared over the crest of the road into town. We would all finish together!
We shepherded the tired stragglers up the hill, and a final descent into Cerbere, to celebrate with beer and champagne, and some swimming and diving.

Day 4: Massat to Prades (145km with 3400m ascent)

Another morning straight into a climb, this time the Col du Port. I wait for David Maher who is a late starter today. We make our way steadily up the climb, where Valdis is bitten by a dog.
Then the worst part of the journey - 30km along busy national roads, the main route to Andorra. James is suffering with an ab tear, so I mosey along with him for a while.
Elevenses in a bakery, with lunch bought for later.
The Col du Pailheres passes with laughter and banter - Peter’s bosom-filled film, giving riders quick pushes to relieve their legs, or for science. A quick race with Lynda on the run-in to the KOM line, which I lost. The shelter at the top.
Then the most technical and coldest descent of the week, to the warmest but slowest café in France. We eat our food and cake in their heat, but there wasn’t much complaining from the proprietor, who was constantly out the back making tea, coffee, and lukewarm chocolate.. Siobhán broke out a delicious home-made cake, and everyone got the giggles.
Then more descending, which David and Ronan didn’t want to end, so they kept going down, when the rest of us took a right turn. I dove after them, hoping they had noticed the lack of followers and slowed. I caught them within 10km while they had stopped to look for directions, and we turned around and got back on track. The image of Ronan’s windscreen wiper is forever scorched into my mind’s eye.
Valdis and Pat were also AWOL, and during the long trudge home, we worried that they were lost in the French wilderness. Until we hit the final sweeping descent through a gorgeous valley. The two boys were home ahead of us though, so all was well, and that night we celebrated Peter’s stag with champagne and toasts (no toast though).