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.
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.
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