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).

Day 3: Aste to Massat (170km with 3110m ascent)

The forecast is wet, wet, wet, but the morning is dry. We climb out of Bagneres, back toward the Tourmalet. We pass through a town of mannequins, saying ‘bonjour’ to every one. The Rathlin Bog gets an airing.
We are straight into the first climb of the Col d’Aspin, where we catch a few stragglers and late starters. There’s a Porsche convention at the top, where Alan is carrying out some repairs on John Kehoe’s bike.
In Arreau many stop for coffee, Pat and Peter wait for me again, and we tackle the Peyresourde together, watching paragliders float gently down the valley. After we get up and over and down, we stop for lunch in the sun, and the lotion comes out and gets slapped on. Naturally, it then begins to piss rain, and doesn’t stop all afternoon.
Col d’Ares is climbed to the strains of Patricia the Stripper, amongst other tunes. Some slow motion racing in the big ring, the road wet with streaming rain, the gutters channeling a small deluge down the hillside.
Then probably the steepest climb of the trip - Col de Portet d’Aspet. The latter half measures 5km in length, 375m in ascent, and averages about 9.5%. There is no way to get up this easily. Pity the gent on a fully laden touring bike - panniers front and rear. Chapeau if he made it!
The coffee stop in Saint Girons is quick and perfunctory. Sustenance in, get on the road. I want to wait, but I want to keep moving. I push on alone until I meet Brendan, and we reach the hotel together.
Dinner that night is full and hearty, platters and bowls to fill everyone’s stomachs. The hotel is known as the Dollhouse, though our rooms in the annexe are bare enough.

Day 2: Lurbe St Christau to Aste (140km with 3530m ascent)

We allow the less speedy racers to head off ahead, with myself, Pat, Valdis and Dan Coulcher bringing up the rear. It transpires that Eugene and David Maher were behind us.
We don’t pause for long at the first coffee stop, heading for the top of our first big col, D’Aubisque. We climb steadily at first, but I want more - I leave the others behind in search of the summit, peering through misty clouds for most of the route, with the light brightening just as I find Peter Grealis at the flamme rouge. We break out over the clouds, magnificent mountain peaks peeking up along the skyline, three massive bicycles marking the top of the climb, and a horse, curiously investigating the fruit in the van. He’s for eating, Debbie informs me. We order omelettes instead.
Winter jackets on, long-fingered gloves, we descend to Argeles Gazost, where Lorraine used to live, then push on for the Tourmalet. We stop for coffee to allow those behind to catch up, then myself and Pat ride tempo up much of the climb. It seems endless, and relentless. We pass a couple of early starters. I gaze longingly at Stephen Ryan’s gearing - my lowest option is 39*28, his looks to be 36*32 with a lovely long cage derailleur…
500m to go, and Pat sprints away from me with ease. We pause at the café at the top to greet some of the others, and savour the view.
The descent is fast, and after the initial breath-taking landscape, we are again plunged into cloud. Stuck behind the stinking fumes of a lorry, I follow an overtaking car around him, squeezing between the truck and oncoming traffic. Down, down, down… I group up with a few others, and we TTT along the gradual downhill to the hotel in Bagneres. John Kehoe punctures on the descent, shredding his tyre, but he keeps it together and Alan gets him on his way with a replacement. Some miss the hotel at the bottom of the descent, and pay a swift visit to the local town.
Dinner that night is in a private dining room, where a four course meal warms us up.

Day 1: Hendaye to Lurbe St Christau (160km with 2200m of ascent)

A short spin down to the beach for the official start, dipping our toes in the water. Hanley is the only one not in club kit.
Shouted directions from those with Garmins as we head along the coast, out of Hendaye to Saint-Jean-de-Luz, where we have the first of many indecisive moments about what exactly is meant by the ‘third exit’ on a roundabout.
Do not go to Spain!
A well-timed coffee stop in Esplette means we avoid the first downpour of the day.
Lunch is Saint-Jean-Pied-du-Port.
My first ever col! I race up Col D’Osquich ahead of everyone.
The day is long and tiring, and myself and Colin have a beer at the final stop in Tardets. I roll in with Richard to find the hotel, which has an outdoor pool.
The proprietor looks at me like a crazy person when we ask to use it, though James is already swimming when I arrive.
Gar announces that night the intention to run a fundraiser for Keith Harte.

Day 0: Toulouse to Hendaye (by bus, may be cheating)

We congregate at the airport, some indulge in beers, others stick to tea.
Alan greets us at the other end of an occasionally turbulent flight.
Get on the bus in blazing heat, have a halfway stop at a service station in pouring rain.
Dinner and a briefing. Need to get our tampons during the week. Eugene has arrived independently, and sets the kit agenda based on Dan’s advice - Orwell kit for the iconic beach shot.
The motel is cheap, the aircon is non-functional. As we sleep, the thunder and lightning eventually break the humidity.

Man of the Rás

The Rás only lasted eight days, but it seems like it was a lifetime in the lead-up. As Dave Mc told me, "this race has been waiting for you for a while." And he should know, as the man who introduced me to racing through his off-season drills in early 2011, and then brought me to Wales that July.
Along with Declan Quigley and Pat O'Brien, I learned everything I needed to know about road racing over the five days of the Ras de Cymru. Six stages including individual and team time trial stages, it was a intensive training camp that bestowed on me a memorable nickname and a realisation that stage racing was horrible and fantastic. That Ras remained the longest stage race I'd ever done throughout my cycling career. Until this Rás.
An intended tilt at the An Post Rás was aborted in 2014 after I broke my collarbone just before Christmas 2013, leading to a frustrating 15 weeks off the bike. So last November when the call went out, I was determined to be on the team. With Aidan Hammond guiding us through training, the potential squad kept each other motivated and focussed throughout the early season.
Pat O’Brien came on board early, which was a great relief. Having a reliable and experienced manager is a huge asset to any team, particularly when Pat was available and willing to support us at races like Rás Mumhan and the Des Hanlon. Likewise when I learned the identities of the rest of the support team - all Orwell members I knew and trusted - Fionn Sheridan as mechanic, and super soigneurs Aishling O'Connor and Mary Brady.
Heading out to Dunboyne for the start on Saturday morning I kept telling myself, ‘it's just another stage race.’ It was bigger, it was longer, and it would be tougher, but it was just another stage race. That didn't make the An Post-CRC team any less intimidating though, and with scores of unknown foreign teams, I knew it would be a step up from anything I'd done yet.
The atmosphere in the start area was brilliant, a palpable buzz enhanced by the Orwell members who'd come out to see us off. My housemates were waving their banner madly in support, and the crowds were cheering as Cian Lynch talked them through the start.

Stage 1: Dunboyne to Carlow (Strava)

We took off into the neutralised zone, and I made a mad dash to the front as soon as we turned onto the wide bypass. A perfect start! By the time we turned off the bypass to go through the town I was almost at the back again. Doh! Once more past the crowds, and we were racing!
DON'T GET DROPPED, DON'T GET DROPPED
The bunch surged and slowed, and surged and slowed. Constantly feathering the brakes, then sprinting. One of the foreign riders looked like he was racing in a bunch for the first time, as he locked up his wheels and skidded into the back of an Orwell.
S**t, Neal's on the deck, but he's up on his feet as I pass him. There's nothing for me to do. Between neutral service, Pat and the rest of the cavalcade, he'll be fine. I hope.
Most of the stage is a blur. I remember saying hello to Paraic Morrissey by the canal in Sallins (I actually thought we were Kilcock! Shows how much attention I was paying...), right before it lined out in a horrible fashion as we ripped through Naas. Hanging on to the wheel in front, I suddenly remember - Naas, ‘wasn't that where Pat told us to be near the front?’ Bit late now.
I hear people screaming my name in Baltinglass - I later find out it was the Sheridan clan. This becomes a repeated theme of the week - "did you see such and such at the side of the road?" All I ever saw was the wheel in front of me!
I nearly get dropped in Tinahely. Lulled into a false sense of security, I'm chatting at the back of the bunch, as we take a sharp right onto the steep, narrow climb. I just about manage to get across to the back of the faster riders, and make a note not to make the same mistake again.
Later, as we approach Carlow on the N80, I skulk near the front as a few riders ping off. I debate internally whether it's worth going with them. “Don't!" Tom is behind me, reading my mind. "Three words: seven more days". He's right. I turn to share a joke with him, and nearly take out a Canadian rider in the process. No harm done!
15km to go and the handling on my front wheel feels off. I realise the tub has punctured, and pull in to the left with my hand in the air. Neutral service comments that it's his first front fix of the day. The cavalcade are passing, but there's still time. I'm on a bumper, and then Pat is beside me in the Orwell car. He leads me up to within a few cars of the front, and I can easily tag back on.
The pair of myself and Tom finish safely in the bunch, tearing past the line I spy a small crowd of Orwells. I stop to catch my breath, as locals I don't know congratulate me, and ask about the race. It’s touch and go whether Dick and Neal will make the cut, but they’re given the all-clear by Gary McIlroy later.

Stage 2: Carlow to Tipperary (Strava)

Now with a yellow jersey and a GC to defend, there’s a few teams with responsibilities to control the race. This results in a piano day, relatively 'easy' going. I even stop to relieve myself with the pros, something I've never dared to do in a race before.
There's no problem getting back to the bunch, as there's a feeding frenzy happening at the top of the cavalcade, and nobody is pushing the pace. It eventually detonates on the (supposed) Cat 3 with 10km to go. Having let the break out to play for the day, the pros reeled them inevitably in, making the catch with pinpoint precision in the last few kilometres.
For the rest of us, there's a fall in the bunch about 25km to go that I narrowly avoid coming down in, and the lead-in to the climb is along narrow, potholed roads - 'distressed surfaces' according to the technical guide. The yellow and orange jerseys both puncture.
The yellow reappears quickly, the orange is not so swift. As we hit the base of the climb, the slope ramps up, gaps open up everywhere. I push on, finishing in a small chasing group with the orange jersey - not bad!
Again, Orwell appears - Bernard English's mother finds myself and Tom in the carpark to say hello. Our super soigneurs Mary and Aishling have sandwiches and recovery drinks at the ready. I force myself to spend a short stint on the rollers, before it's time to pile into the front seat of the van for the trip to our stately B&B.

Cooling down after stage two

Stage 3: Tipperary to Barna (Strava)

We have an earlier than usual start the next morning - the race has been moved forward by an hour, and we're staying in Cashel, so a small commute. Mary and Aishling put up the gazebo and start on the rubs, while Fionn is making last-minute adjustments to Neal's bike. He’s prepared a new tub on my wheel, and is waiting on the glue to dry.
We roll out from Tipp, and there's a natural break called earlier than usual - about 40km in. Straight afterwards, the pace ramps up, with attack upon attack. I'm near the front, feeling good and following wheels.
One of the French pros tries to pull in on top of me at one point, wanting to force me into the ditch or backwards, and I physically push him away with my hand on his hip. He seems surprised and somewhat put out that a lowly county rider refuses to cede.
I go back for bottles for myself and Tom when the pro teams start doing the same. Fionn tries to hand me a 750ml anchor, and I ask him to decant it into my 500ml bottle. Pat is yelling at me, but I can’t hear through the closed front window. (Apparently I was being a diva!) Suddenly up ahead, two team cars slow down and block the road - having a chat side-by-side. I skim between them at speed, then I sit up and wait for Pat to catch up, but he's already left. I call for another service, and calm as a cucumber, Pat reappears and I get Tom a bottle.
Having ridden over both climbs of the day steadily, and nobody taking any stupid risks on rain-slicked descents, a touch of wheels on a narrow stretch at the 100km mark blocks the road as riders come down like dominos. I come to a halt with a wheel in the ditch, but upright.
I take a moment to gather in the sight directly in front of me - two riders prone, entangled in their bikes. Then smack, someone ploughs into me from behind. I tumble over, but am only scraped. Riders are scrambling to get around or over their fallen colleagues, while a few shout for calm. I help one guy out from under his bike, then set off on my way. I realise my handlebars are completely askew, but push on, not knowing how far behind neutral or the team car were.
Myself and Tom find ourselves in a chasing group and Tom warns me again not to do too much work. I drift to the back, where I catch Gary McIlroy’s attention, and he directs neutral service to sort me out. A quick strong twist, and things are straight enough.
But there's no cavalcade! The cars have been held up - any team car that passes goes by at speed with two or three riders on the bumper. I'm cursing myself for stopping without checking where our car was, then Pat and Fionn swoop down like guardian angels. I'm on the bumper and they guide me back to the group with ease.
Madison Genesis have been caught out, and are working hard to bring us back to the front. Crosswinds are causing gaps, and I'm moving up the line, moving up, and then safely ensconced in the lead bunch again. Phew!
Roundabout after roundabout ticks by, until we're tearing toward Barna. It's a big bunch sprint, and everyone thinks they can win it. I try to stay with the pace and out of trouble, and am first Orwell home. Dick has done a storming ride to get in after an early mechanical, and a group of young fans ask for a souvenir bottle or two.
A quick dip in the sea at Blackrock pier on the way back to the B&B feels fantastic for my legs. The B&B tonight is less luxurious, as they try to squeeze two of us into a double bed. Our protective swannies don't stand for it though, so I get to sleep like a starfish.
Dinner before that, and I'm so bloated and sore that I can barely finish. I try some jelly and ice cream in the hope that it will go down easy, but Pat has to finish that for me too. Hopefully this doesn't become an ongoing problem.

Stage 4: Barna to Newport (Strava)

The first of the crosswind stages. Stupidly, I neglect to mark the important points on my stem - after all, there are no climbs, so it must be one of those flat, easy stages of this flat, easy Rás. As we approach the 25km mark, there's a ripple of excitement in the bunch. I can smell something coming - the pros are racing up the outside at a frantic pace, and I hitch a ride on a wheel. We turn ninety degrees right, from a strong westerly headwind into a crosswind.
The race gets torn apart as the wind rages from the Atlantic across the flat open terrain. It's lined out in the right-hand gutter. A lack of concentration or some desperate acceleration sees a few riders tumbling down. Wheels are being let go all along the line, and there's only so many gaps I can close. An NTFO rider passes me, with Mark Dowling on his wheel, but I'm too gassed to hold on.
The front of the race gradually slips away, and I'm in a small group who are trying to work together. A Canadian calls, "we need to form an echelon", and the Irish response is, "shut up about your echelon and f**king ride!"
Inevitably, we go nowhere, and after mopping up a few pairs and stragglers over the next 15km, I realise we've become a sizeable bunch and sit in. After another 50km or so, I notice a couple of groups up the road. There's a gang of 10 or 12 at about 20", and three in between, trying to bridge. I go to the front, and across to the three, whereupon two of them promptly sit up and drift back. I push on with the Bikeworx rider, and we're joined by the Lucan rider who’s been doing a lot of the work so far.
For about 10km as we skirt around Killary Fjord, the three of us try to get away, but to no avail. As soon as we're caught again, Damien Shaw counters and away he goes with a few companions. I resign myself to the bunch once more. As we head into Westport the sun comes out, and there are a few skirmishes at the front before some of the Mayo.ie lads are let away to attack through the town as solo leaders.
After the stage we head to our accommodation in Castlebar. It takes us a short while to figure out where the rooms are in the sprawling complex, so us riders lie prostrate on the grass and let the others work it out. It's why having a support crew is so valuable - we don’t have to waste a single watt on non-cycling activites. What's more, we're staying two nights here, so no need to repack everything in the morning!

Flaking out after stage four

Stage 5: Newport to Ballina (Strava)

I'm rooming with Dick, and I don't hear him up for breakfast at all, so knock on his door. He's spent the night alternating between shivering and sweating, with feverish dreams, and doesn't think he can race today.
I persuade him to come down to breakfast, where I know Pat can help make a definitive call, but Dick's a non-starter. It's sad to lose one of the team - especially given his form before the crash a few weeks back, but it was a wise move given his condition. Wise also given the condition of the race, which was wet for the first 80km or so. The bunch are anticipating similar crosswinds to yesterday, and the pace is high. With the wet roads and rain gathering on the rims, my brakes don't have much stopping power.
It's terrifying in the bunch, so I take advantage of a footpath to speed to the front of the bunch and take off. Far less chance of crashing, though I’m stuck in no man's land again. The bunch swallow me up as we hit the right-hand turn, but there's no shredding by the wind at first. Instead, we have a winding, wet, slippery descent, and still my brakes feel ineffective. Cat's eyes line the continuous centre line,everyone's on edge.
We hit an exposed patch, and boom, the lineout in the right-hand gutter appears again, and the gaps are yawning open. The echelons are passing, and I try to force myself in, but they are disintegrating and reforming every few hundred metres, and only the strongest survive.
I find myself in a group of twenty, which splits in two. I end up with six others, as one pro from Neon Velo puts the hammer down at the front, and one of the French pros sits in and does nothing. We echelon when we need to, and keep a steady pace, but a bunch gradually reels us in, with three men from Subaru Albion driving it on. I find Tom here, and we sit in for the journey home. One of those in the bunch is Eoin Morton, who relates his bike trouble from yesterday's stage - he ended up finishing on a bike several sizes too small, and in runners!
I stop for a call of nature later on, and nearly get myself dropped, saved only by a UCD van. I get some jellies from Pat in the car on the way back. On the run-in to Ballina, I move to the front to stay out of trouble. We come into the town, and the road turns, and then turns again. Home stretch? Another turn, we're going back the way came, it feels. Lots of road furniture at a final turn, before a final ramp up to the line!
Another stage done, and the team is being asked for autographs as we refuel. Siobhán O'Connor and Alan Duggan are out to show their support!

Stage 6: Ballina to Ballinamore (Strava)

At last, we are leaving the coast! And a Cat 2 climb, the first of two. A break goes early, and the pace is steady enough after that. The race stays together, and it seems like a piano day. We hit the 50km mark for allowing feeding, but there doesn't seem to be anyone taking a leak, and I need one.
I get to 80km before I spy a pro stopping at the side of the road. I seize my chance, but realise that nobody else is stopping. It's fine, I can just get on though the cavalcade. I finish, and slot in behind the Mego car.
There's a Mego rider in the cars - perfect, I can piggyback on them when they bring him up. Only the Mego rider is having a problem with his gears, and has slowed right down. The Mego car has likewise slowed, and now there's a chasm between them and the next car. Ugh.
I catch a bumper as the race route turns right... and up. A climb?! Not a categorised one, but a severe ascent. The race is strung out, with small groups scattered along the road, and the cars stuck and scrambling for position. I may have just gotten myself dropped - go, go, go!
The DID car is on the right-hand side of the road, I aim for the left. A rider ahead of me goes on the outside, so the car veers left. I have to swing right, scraping the knuckles of my left hand off the back-right corner of the car as I squeeze by. It takes me seven painful kilometres of drafting and sprinting before I am back where I was before my ill-timed break.
We crest the Cat 2 climb at a horrendous pace - someone obviously drilling it at the front. The descent is tremendous fun, and I get onto the back of the white jersey group. Despite the yellow jersey being up the road and extending his lead, nobody takes on the pace-setting responsibilities, and we coast through the town a few minutes down.

Stage 7: Ballinamore to Drogheda (Strava)

The last Cat 2, the last chance for a climber like me to make an impact. I'm at the front of the race at the start line. I've got ambition, I've got intention, but the pace is absolutely furious from the gun. I'm following the moves, but barely hanging on. Later we learn the yellow jersey crashed. Some of the pros are critical of the county riders for attacking, but I don't think anybody at the front had a clue what had happened. I miss the break, but try to stay in the front 30 riders for the whole race.
I realise after some distance that I'm running low on fluids, and will have to get back to the car. Almost by magic, I spy Tom slide up the outside of the bunch, and then drift back and across to me. "Bottle?" He offers me welcome relief, and takes my gilet from where I'd stowed it down my back. Perfectly timed service.
We hit the bottom of the Cat 2, and I slip to the front. The yellow jersey team are riding tempo, and I jump off solo. A chorus of abuse follows. I sit up, confused. There are several unwritten conventions of cycling etiquette - don't attack when an opponent has a mechanical or crash, don't push the pace during a nature break, nor in a feed zone. Had I done something verboten?
Two teams took me to task for daring to race on the climb, and browbeaten and not wanting the hassle, I slinked back into the bunch, where a veteran county rider advised me to save my legs. Looking back, I should have pushed on. The aggression of the county riders is what the Rás is all about - gung-ho moves that make life difficult for the pros, and spice things up. I might have been reeled in before the summit, or I might have gotten away and joined by a few riders to gain a few minutes on the bunch. My one big regret of the Rás.
Then again, given the line-outs we experienced in the second half of the stage, it was probably good advice. I managed to make the splits, and finished in the front bunch, 45th - my best single result of the week!
Dinner and bed in Skerries tonight, where some semblance of enjoyment has returned to eating. I go wild with half a glass of red wine. Pat surprises the ladies with flowers, and makes a series of toasts to all five team members, and for each of the support crew. We're all caught by surprise, and fail to match his eloquence, but I presume he knows we're all supremely grateful to him.

The last supper

Stage 8: Drogheda to Skerries (Strava)

Final breakfast. I can't wait until I don't *have* to shovel three courses into me every morning. It's the last day, so presumably no racing? According to Hammond, there's no racing at all at the weekend on the Rás!
It's a promising start with two neutralised zones, as Daragh Campbell parades through his hometown of Donore - no doubt a joyous occasion for everyone as he shows off his Novo Nordisk kit.
At some point the flag is dropped and we're racing. Has a break gone? An Post are on the front, driving along. The roads twist and turn, and we chicane through a few junctions.
Just before Dunsany someone ahead hits a jarring bump in the road, and loses control. He fishtails, staying upright for just a moment - the illusion of saving it, then comes down hard, taking another rider with him. I manage to skirt around the edges of it, one of the bikes flying high in the air for an instant. I close the gap that's opened, and a few come with me.
A few kilometres ahead, Michael bids me good luck - he's going to drift back to the back of the bunch, take it handy. A minute later, he's beside me again. Turns out we're already at the back of a depleted bunch - the crash has held up a lot of the race.
We come into Balrothery, and up Cross of the Cage. This is my usual watching spot, and at last it feels like I might actually finish this Rás! Down the descent with the all the big guns on GC, and through the town. I get to the front before we climb Black Hills for the first time, ouch! I'm just off the back of the big front group, and tag back on before Skerries.
Through the town I realise I'm at the very back, too far back for racing, but so far back that my friends and family can pick me out, and I hear the shouts and supportive cries.
This time up the climb, the pace is harder, and I'm chewing tape. I’m weaving my way up, and now there's so few riders around me and I'm going so slowly that I can easily pick out Lucy Soden cheering in the verge (thanks for the tubs!). Martyn Irvine jumps across a gap like he was going downhill. Over the top, and I give the marshal on the corner and some familiar spectators and marshals a shout-out. After watching the Rás pass through for the last five years, you get to know the regulars.
Less regular, but easy to spot are the crazy women in a ditch on the side of the road on the way into Skerries - the Horans have found an isolated spot to cheer us on! A group of us chase back on through the cars, but there's no staying with the leaders on the final ascent. A group of us gather together and hit the town for the final time.
Across the line, and done!
Hugs, cheers, pats on the back. Neal appears, then Michael, and lastly Tom, who is soaking it all up and savouring every moment. The right way to do it!

We've come a long way baby!

Wrap

It was, in a couple of ways, easier than expected - a bunch of 150 makes it easy to shelter and draft in most situations, and our support team made our lives out of the saddle a near luxury. That allowed us as a whole team to stay in good humour during the race. The crosswinds were unlike anything I'd ever experienced before though, and the constant creeping fatigue that accumulated over the week was draining and turned us into pseudo-zombies. It takes a while to adjust to the speeds at which the pros tackle the climbs when they're really racing, and the physicality of their racing. Having said that, if I'm able at all, I'll be back next year for more!
Getting up on stage to claim my finisher's medal was one of the highlights of my cycling career. While the achievement was mine in that moment, there's a whole host of family and friends who have supported me in getting to this point (Rachel Glendon literally drove me to the race), and a rake of clubmates and sponsors who pitched in and did a pile of work in the backrooms. They've all been thanked via my official role, but let me reiterate my gratitude - thank you to everyone who has helped me along this path! Now bring on 2016!

Champagne!

Day 37 - Kunming

Read first half of Time Traveller's Wife yesterday evening. Dumplings and Yunnan cheese for dinner (Yunnan being the province of which Kunming is the capital). Somewhere between French toast and pizza.

***

Rented a bike this morning, set out for a park beside Yunnan Lake. On the shore, I admire the steep hills opposite. I consult the map and realise there are roadways to the top, where there is a temple. Ah, the liberation of cycling! An antidote to the countless days I've spent on trains. I cross the causeway, stopping to take a photo. The water is green. Not pond scum green, but radioactive green. American-river-on-St-Patrick's-Day green.

I press on, heading along the far shore. Frequent map consulting. As ever, I have underestimated the scale of things. I am pouring sweat before long. I round a corner, and at least half the mountain lies ahead still. I grimace. A Chinese woman gives me a thumbs up.

I get frequent hellos and 'ni hao'. They're not used to white madmen ascending their hills. On the way through Kunming, a man with his three daughters overtook me on a scooter. All three screamed "hello!". I kept pace about ten feet behind for 30 seconds, and then they shouted 'goodbye' as I began to drop.

The climb reminds me of the last day of the Ras de Cymru, but now I've nobody to race. I reach the end of the road, lock the bike, and buy a ticket for the Dragon's Gate. It reminds me of Skellig Michael somewhat. An ancient religious site, on the edge of a cliff. Though this one is surrounded by forest, and contains a multitude of halls, temples, pagodas, and a miniature stone forest (v. missable).

I stop by Nie Er's tomb on the way down to gather my thoughts, and people stop and stare. Now I sit by a temple lower down the hill. It's so peaceful. Incense burning, a pond with fish and terrapins, and no crowds. Bliss. IN the temple itself, there is a big laughing Buddha, and six other gods, huge, ornate, vivid - each one stamping their feet. People kneel and pray, monks stroll about, and there is fresh fruit on the altar. I take no photos. In a further building, the walls are covered with hundreds of statues, looking like something from Dante.

***

I left writing about cycling in the city until I got home safely. Descent was fun - no good brakes, and roving pedestrians meant the front blocks were down to a sliver by the bottom. Cycling in traffic was far simpler than expected. Drivers (cars and scooters) use their horn frequently, but only to warn of their oncoming presence (like a cyclist's bell) rather than in anger ,frustration or threat. I could weave easily, overtaking some over-laden scooters. One lady was transporting a bed! Mattress and all! On the back of a moped! Astounding.

Exhilarating to be back on a bike. Fuck trains, cycling's the way to see the world. But I need a bike with the saddle at the right height.

***

Roche won a stage of the Tour of Beijing! Deignan second - super!

RdC Stage 6 - all done!

This one's coming from the ferry home to Dublin.

It's been a fairly packed five days and six stages. Today was flat enough, with a couple of minor KOMs, until the killer punch at the finish line. 400m gain, six kilometres of pain. Not hugely steep, but just long and drawn out. Weather was lovely and sunny and warm. I held well with the bunch today, all the way to base of the mountain - which marks a first in the race for mise. Apparently I was nearly in a breakaway at one point, but I wasn't really aware of it. The breakaways which did occur were caught at the bottom of the climb.

As for the climb itself, it inevitably tore us to shreds. Being the wee scrap of a lad that I am, I managed to get up pretty well. Lungs were huffing and puffing, but I kept pushing. One eejit cut across my line drastically, and I watched in horror as his rear quick release hit my front spokes. Thankfully it bounced off harmlessly, but I let a roar out of me anyway.

Onwards and onwards, squirting bottles of water over my head. There was a sportive running concurrently, and I was thankfully dropping those riders. I think only a couple of Cymru guys got past me once I got away from the bunch. Team manager reckons I was thirty-somethingith, which I'd be fairly happy with, but far more pleased if I was in the first thirty. We're still awaiting GC results to be posted online - we had to run for the ferry and miss the prize-giving.

Our nearest rivals ahead in the team GC had us well marked, so we don't know if we managed to jump them, but we're still hoping to have hopped a spot or two.

In terms of the overall experience though, it's been fantastic. Full kudos to the team manager for looking after my every need, and to my team mates for both the tonnes of advice and the helping hand/wheel on the road. I think the one thing I definitely did right today was to stay right on their wheels, not a row or two behind them. Importance of recovery in stage racing is also massive, and something which I seem to have done well, considering how fresh my legs were today.

I have half a list of cycling tips written down, and another half in my head, I'll post them when I have a moment, which will probably when I wake up again on Thursday. And any after-thoughts. Thanks to those who sent encouragement, here or via the face book.

RdC Stage 5 - improving?

Day four of racing was today, and all the team are pleased with today's performances. A 82.5km hilly race with three KOMs, including the finish line, it began with a long 12.2km neutralised zone starting on campus. This meant a lie-on, and even the weather was half-decent, with some wet roads, but plenty of sun.

The pack split on the first KOM at 10.6, with my teammates near the front, and myself at the rear (as has been the custom over the past few days!). I had been doing well with my position, but the legs simply didn't respond on the hill. There were some riders flying out the back past me though, so not entirely displeased with my pace. I managed to form a coherent group with about six other riders - 'tis a bad day when I'm the one barking orders to keep the line discipline and the pace stead. But we rode on, collecting the remnants of the first bunch as we went.

We hit another smaller KOM, then a long descent, with some hairy switchbacks (yours truly unclipped one foot to skid around a particularly sharp corner), and then we had a bunch of 30-40 riders, becoming the peloton.

Dual carriageway sections gave us great opportunities to practice our up and overs, powering along and maintaining an average of about 50kmph to get us home swiftly.

One of us got in 25th place, and myself and the other rolled over about 5mins later. I hopped 6 spots in the GC, and means I've entered the top 80 for the first time! \o/

We've also improved our placing in the Team GC. A low point of 25th after stage 2 has now jumped to 21st after stage 5. We're hoping to gain at least one more spot tomorrow, but with a 6km KOM finish (Llangyndir mountain - eep!), we won't know until very late in the day.

Now, to sleep!

RdC Stages 3 & 4 - getting used to it

So stages three and four were yesterday. I debated putting something up, but I was pretty shattered. Stage two was the longest road race I'd ever ridden. Stage three was longer, and followed by another stage in the afternoon.

Legs were feeling good in the morning. Stage three was a hilly 95km, with three laps over a steep ~150m KOM. I tried getting into a better position in the bunch early on, did better than the previous day, but not good enough. Kudos to the indomitable Dave Mc for coming back to me at the base of KOM 1, guiding me through the bunch up the hill, and then when I failed to recover in time to stay on the wheels of the pack, towing me most of the way around the course. We formed a group with about ten other riders, up and over-ing our way around another lap. We went up KOM 2 at a civilised pace, keeping things steady, and holding the group together.

Unfortunately the next time around, a few of the other guys, despite being seven minutes down on GC, decided this was their moment, and attacked. Such is the way in competitive cycling, but I couldn't help but feel a little hard done by, as once again I watched people ride away from me after the climb. Dave once again came back for me, and we span gently back for a cool down before the afternoon. Not my most magnificent outing, but better than the previous day's.

Grabbed some grub and chilled out. We had about two hours before we were due to start the team TT, and needed fresh legs. The course was out with a tailwind, around a roundabout, and back into the headwind. We had no practice as a team in formation, and the lads were taking extra turns to save my legs on the way out (so I could hopefully save theirs on the way back).

I surprised them (and myself) by riding through a few times on the way out, but I badly misjudged the on into the roundabout. The lads kept going, and I tagged on at the back swiftly enough, but we could see the following team had put time into us as we passed them on the other side. Steamed across the line with tired legs, but satisfied we'd left it all on the road. We didn't manage to beat our nearest rivals though, and maintained our spot on team GC.

RdC Stages 1 and 2 - in at the deep end!

So it's our second evening in Newport, Wales. I'm an A4 rider who started racing this year. I've done ...three open races so far. Four club league (Orwell/Lucan/Tiernans/Usher/UCD) races, and the hill climb. So coming here, to quote someone else, was either "bravery or naivete".

Left on the ferry Tuesday evening, boat docked at Holyhead just after midnight. The inevitable queues getting off meant that we got to bed a little after 2am. Up at 7am for breakfast, and the drive down to Newport (a little northeast of Cardiff). Took about five hours, got there in time to sign-on for stage 1, a 7km TT - flat, with a hill finish.

Lots of advice from my team-mates, so warmed up well, and thought I was motoring along the flat (into a strong headwind), until my minute man behind caught me and passed me. Hit the climb, where I quickly caught up with him, but didn't want to make the effort to pass him in case I blew up. This is only stage one of six after all! Clocked in at 13:35, which put me in 88th of 102 riders. Not bad for my first ever TT! (If you don't count the hill climb.) The lads fared better, and my minute man was 20th overall.

We witnessed one lad lose his chain as he turned the corner for the climb. He still managed to get 45th overall! Must have lost about 20s, yet still beat me by over 30s! Puts it all in perspective really.

Woke up this morning feeling fresh. Loaded the car up, and drove an hour out in the Brecon Beacons. The course was described as "rolling", but with six laps and a 0.5km 60m KOM on each, it didn't really feel like that by the end. I have to learn to more aggressive with my positioning in the bunch - I ended up losing contact second time over the KOM, and I'm supposed to be a climber!

Doubled up with a welsh rider, the only woman in the race, and we worked well around another lap. Then we were caught by a grupetto of three riders, including the previous day's mechanical, who had punctured today. Some people have no luck! The five of us worked around another lap, so only one to go. We took advantage of a passing van to draft a bit, but I couldn't even hold that, and ended up cycling the last half a lap by myself, finishing 18mins down. The grupetto was 3mins ahead of me in the end, with the win taken by one of a seven-man breakaway.

Team-mates did better, finishing with the bunch. We're not seriously targeting the GC, it's more about experience really, and I'm getting tonnes of that! Some of the riders here seem to be very serious cyclists, and the GB Paralympic team is here too. Tomorrow is a split stage. Today was the longest road race I've ever ridden, and tomorrow is longer. And followed by a team TT in the afternoon. So I'm off to the masseur now, so I can be as fresh as possible amarach!

Race is very well organised, with the road surface being immaculate, and marshalls at all the major junctions. We're staying on a uni campus, so there's a bar, shop, restaurant all within easy reach, and the food is tasty and the helpings generous! I'm counting down the breakfasts 'til stage six!

PS our biggest victory so far has been second place in the table quiz! \o/