Rory O'Connor - Audax Ireland
Setting off from Heuston Station on the Thursday afternoon had turned into bit of a faff with bike bookings( nothing new there ), stoking up some pre-ride nerves. I bumped into Helen getting off at Clara station and the two of us rode up to the Aspire Sports Center, part of an old country estate on the edge of the town. It was from here that the Celtic Knot 1000 would be based. We signed on upstairs and then turned our attention to some last minute bike tweaks. As the evening wore on the rest of the riders started to arrive. We milled around drinking tea, ogling bikes and generally having a bit of fun. Most were there for the 1000 km event with some for the 600 km and 400 km, which had been scheduled as ancillary events for late PBP qualifiers. One hardy chap from De Ronde van Cork was doing both the 600 and 400 back to back. The previous week he had done his ribs in following a handlebar malfunction, of sorts. Marcello Napolitano was the event organiser. He and his daughter Anna orchestrated some event formalities before we retired for the evening, to the adjoining dormitory rooms.
The next morning after a breakfast of porridge and scrambled eggs, 28 riders set off on the first leg of the event - a loop out to North Sligo and back down through Roscommon. We pedaled out from the town gingerly, putting aside thoughts of the enormous distance ahead, towards the sleepy hamlets of Rosemount and Ballymahon. The morning chill gave way to warmer temperatures, many riders were in new club kit and if Ronnie was there he would have found the rugged roads the route traversed quite heart warming. The first few hours slipped by at a strong pace. Before too long the splintered peloton arrived at the first control at Carrick on Shannon. We sat outside a Maxol garage quaffing some petrol station coffees, when a tractor went buzzing past with a few of the lads nonchalantly drafting in its wake. Somebody mentioned 'Last of The Summer Wine ' as a few chuckles gave way to a flurry of guffaws.
Aidan, Dave Finnigan, Pat Dease, Helen, William, Mike Byrne and myself got back on the road and headed off in the direction of Sligo town. We were tipping along nicely, exchanging anecdotes and quips, whilst remarking on the particularly scenic route through Leitrim. It was especially lovely in the morning sun and a testament to the thought that goes into route planning. It had been a good three weeks since the National 600 during which I had just a handful of spins to the local Lidl bakery and was duly feeling the benefits of a rest. The terrain was lumpy, we attacked the rolling hills and plunged down the descents while more or less keeping an even pace. Good clipping, as Paul Newman would probably say, although we were careful not to be complacent so early in the ride and kept an eye on energy levels. Coming into Sligo, the misty breeze yielded to drizzle and a biting headwind. I wondered if the good folk of North Sligo ever saw calm weather with blue skies? Probably why they're such strong riders I figured. We pressed on along the Wild Atlantic Way, and came across a short ramp before coming into Easkey. I could hear all the gears around me being lowered as the gradient crept up... 8, 10, 12%. Coming close to the top it hit 15 and I struggled to get some purchase. There comes a point on a fixie when its just not possible to rotate the pedals. My gearing was 46 X 16 and on a good day that point might reach towards the mid-teens. Weaving up the hill is a last ditch effort until the gradient eases off but there was no such luck here. I did, however, manage to coordinate clipping out and walked the extra few meters until a hill start was possible. We arrived into Enniscrone with the full force of the Atlantic blasting in our faces, where Billy Finnane and Jim Fitzpatrick were just about to leave. To catch up with these chaps after 200 km we were either doing well or they were pacing themselves. I liked to think it was the former, but more than likely it was the latter. Still, it was better than a kick in the nuts, as the fella says.
We ploughed on to Eamon's hometown of Ballina where his family had kindly prepared some food and gamely tolerated a bunch of weather-beaten men in lycra for 20 mins or so. The grub was spot on and the warm hospitality provided a boost in morale before heading back out into the rain towards the next control, Ballyhaunis, at 260km. Soon after I dropped off the main bunch at a Texaco garage. There were stools by the window and with some pots of Muller Rice, that was me sorted for 15 mins. Pat Dease came back to see if I'd had a mechanical. Fair play to that man - a gent and a scholar. He then shot off with boundless energy, like he had just popped out to buy some milk. Dermot came along soon after with knee trouble. We exchanged a few appreciative remarks about Bianchis and then he motored on. With energy levels restored I left shortly after and spent the remaining 100 km tootling along by myself, getting back to Clara just after 11. Paul deftly managed the paperwork while Annette made me a cup of tea. At that point I was a bit frazzled and in the mood for a few zzzs'. Paul chimed in with a quote from Eddie Dunne, an audaxers mantra, as I slurped back the last drop: ' If you're not riding, eating, or pooping, you should be sleeping ' ..so I caught a quick nap with 360 km done.
I woke at 5 am for the next leg - a 240km loop out of Clara down south, followed by an evening 100 km ' mini PBP ' , on account of its similar elevation profile, to Castlepollard with a return along the same road. A super breakfast from Marcello and Anna and we were off - the last leg for riders doing the 600 km qualifier, but not even halfway for the rest of us. The early morning crispness soon dissipated leaving clear blue skies and billowy white clouds. We tipped along through Carlow towards the back-roads of Kilkenny, enjoying the encroachment of proper summer weather, and down to Gowran for the first control. We found a public table in the town center and lashed back a few coffees and bananas obtained from a bemused local grocer. Moving on and the day slipped by pleasantly with, it must be said, some first-rate group riding and pitch perfect weather until later in the afternoon, just after Rathdowney, where a nascent headwind eventually exacted its toll on me. I had stopped off for a pee and struggled to sprint back to the main bunch so I stuck on the earphones and carried on by myself. The route wound its way in the afternoon sun up by the Slieve Blooms to Blue Ball and back to towards Clara. In spite of the clear position of the sun in the sky I had oddly lost perspective on time when Jim Fitz came barreling down the road in the opposite direction, presumably on his last 300k, and waved across. Grand, things couldn't be too bad at all then. Somewhat buoyed I moseyed on back to Clara, getting back for 6.10 pm, or 600 km so far. Marcello served up a pasta dish that was not only super tasty but exactly what I needed at that point. I got myself ready and shot off with John McElroy for the final 100 km of that section. We spun along together for a while, however I was thinking about a plan for the final section and pressed on , while I still had some juice in the legs.
Shortly after, as if by some black magic, the Saturday night boy racers started to appear along the outskirts of Mullingar. A natural enemy of the night riding cyclist, their clapped out cars with engines wailing like old lawn mowers spluttered past with witless malevolence. A sure sign the economy is picking up I thought, half remembering some David McWilliams article, as they disappeared in a puff of fumes. Anyway, I ploughed on over the rolling hills to Castlepollard, arriving at 11.20 pm. John Mc and John O'Sullivan arrived soon after and we stopped for a chat over chips before heading back. Whatever happened I missed a turn in the dark, in the direction of Ballymore, before realizing things had gone off track. There was enough power left in the phone to check Google maps which only confirmed as much. Jaysus. I set off back to rejoin the route and got back into Clara just after sunrise, adding another few hours onto the ride. Not a showstopper, but it would mean less rest for the final 300 km. Brian G, who had just finished his 600 km PBP qualifier, looked after the brevet card and made me a bacon and egg sambo, which I made short work of. I took a quick nap before hitting the road - 700 KM done.
Marcello's encouragement and the comfort of having a good deal of time in the bank - essentially 24 hours to complete 300 km - did nothing to diminish the difficulty of this last stretch. There was a high climbing to distance ratio, I was tired and sore, and groaned at the prospect of riding all day by myself. The first few kilometers were a struggle with various body aches, while the inclement weather and rough terrain both seemed to conspire against me. However, before too long I settled into a pace and began to contemplate a plan for the day ahead. There would be frequent stops, every 50 km or so, with decent breaks for lunch and dinner. I'd be careful with food and tip along at a reasonable pace in between meals and make time for a roadside nap whenever the opportunity presented itself. But with growing fatigue and extra hilliness it was going to be a slow day grinding out this last section. Before signing up the goal for this ride was to build fitness and gain some new learnings on sleep management for Paris. If this could be done with a decent time well and good. If not, the qualifiers were already in the bag so it would be a solid training exercise at least. A 1000 km brevet was uncharted territory for me and the expectation was that any benefit would come after the finish, when I had time to reflect on my performance. Processing these thoughts galvanized my resolve heading out towards Clonaslee, after which I turned right into the Slieve Bloom Mountains and the first significant climb of this event.
' The Cut ', as it turned out, was a decent enough climb at about 8 km with a steady low gradient. It took a few moments to settle into a pace, one that could be sustained to the top without impacting the rest of the day. At 10 kmph, that pace was modest and soon enough there were a few Sunday club spinners overtaking with a flick of the hand to say hello. I was feeling good and had an urge to put the foot down as they passed, however, with an increasingly tenuous supply of energy it would have been foolish. I kept my head down, nodding at those coming in the opposite direction and plodded along steadily before reaching the top, which was just a narrow lane - the eponymous 'cut 'through a piece of bog astride the mountain top. There was a note on the route sheet about a technical descent. You sometimes hear folks saying that riding a fixie uphill is hard but it's going down that presents more challenges. If the decline gets too steep, gravity will force your legs to spin faster than they are capable, so you check the downward momentum by applying backward pressure on the pedals as they rotate forward, assisted by pulling at the bars and feathering the front brake lever ( there was only a front brake fitted ). On a hard, winding descent, it becomes a full body workout when each limb seems to be working on a separate task. Arriving at the bottom, a local club rider passed by from the opposite direction. He probably wasn't used to seeing someone come down The Cut with such a grimace plastered across his face.
On to Abbeyleix where it became cold with a few showers followed by Ballinakill and the hilly bits leading into Castlecomer and the first control of the day at the 800 km mark. As planned I was kind to myself and stopped at the Lime Tree bistro for lunch. I took a table by the window and ordered from the 3-course menu. The Spar was visible across the street and I was glad to take a break from sitting on the ground, sipping tepid, flavorless coffee. Sometime later the climb out of the town was sharp but manageable leading on to Borris, where I had to stop with stomach cramps. I don't recall much of the section after except that the waves of hills towards Enniscorthy were hard going. Turning off into Ballymurphy (I think it was Ballymurphy ) and straight ahead a wall of tarmac loomed ominously. A few turns of the pedals while the Garmin's gradient crept up towards the mid teens and I thought no, I won't make it, and clipped out to start walking. When riding fixed, it's important to correctly evaluate a hill, to gauge if you can make it up. If it turns out you can't, you risk not being able to clip out when the pedals can no longer be turned, and you'll be doing well to stay upright. Pretty hairy if a car comes bombing along. On the way I passed by a woman walking down the opposite side. I half expected her to shout across ' get back on that bike and get up that hill young man, this isn't a holiday camp '. Instead she looked over with a sort of vague interest and carried on. A few moments later I was at the top, back on the road and putting the embarrassment of wheeling the bike up a hill firmly behind me. Not that anyone noticed, mind you.
Coming into Enniscorthy, I stopped at a Maxol garage for a protein bar and Muller rice. and sat outside by the blocks of turf to get ready for the last 150 km. The night closed in and with it, dark clouds and a gusty wind. I pulled out the arm and leg warmers and zipped up the windbreaker. There would be a headwind on the way back, but at this point rain and cold would be hard to take. I stood there for a while blankly staring out at a forecourt full of shouty teenagers in cars, revving and beeping at each other and felt slightly nauseous. It was hard to keep a point of reference and stay focused , and I briefly wondered what the hell I was doing. I thought of work on Tuesday. What would I say I was doing over the weekend? Some of my colleagues would arrive in after an 8 km commute, like they had just trekked across the Arctic. Hmm...... I would say nothing by the water-cooler. After refueling and re-hydrating I felt better, and saddled up to roll out towards Bunclody. The rain soon stopped, the wind died down and as the traffic eased off I developed a steady pace ploughing on with greater purpose into the enveloping darkness.
I rode on through the night. It became a blur of headlights and empty towns with the midsummer sun forming a sliver of light across the horizon. Some time later I came across a house on the side of the road with a recessed gateway. I figured I could sit against the wall where the sweeping lights of passing traffic wouldn't catch me, sparing me a distraction and themselves an unusual spectacle. I sat there for a few moments with the bike propped against the pillar. The lack of exertion provided a soothing glow, while the weekends sun on my skin kept me warm against the cool air. I drifted off to the sound of intermittent traffic and the sensation of an occasional breeze on my face. Lingering at that halfway point to sleep in a sort of suspended animation was pleasurable, . Some time later I was rested enough to continue and pressed on. Before long I rolled into the final control in Athy stopping for a coffee and donut, where I was surprised to see that the garage worker wasn't at all surprised to see me., and offered me a receipt. The sun came up heading towards MountMellick & Tullamore and with it the Monday morning commuters to Dublin. In order to make the times acceptable they must keep a high speed, I reckoned, which caused me some irritation as they overtook, narrowly missing traffic approaching from the opposite direction. Still, the sun was shining and I was feeling good. My rear wheel had loosened causing slack on the chain, displacing the energy put down on the pedals. It had been like that for quite a while, a common problem with track frame fixies. I didn't care and winced at the thought of stopping for maintenance. My brain felt like it had shriveled into a ball and its remaining functions were now turning the pedals and thinking of food. At this modest speed I was on track to make the cut off.
Along the outskirts of Tullamore was a mess. I was trying to calculate finish times based on fluctuating speeds and missed a few turns trying to find the route through to Clara. I did, eventually, and by 8.25 or so was nearly there. With a few kilometers to go, I was expecting a puncture or something, when up came a tractor from behind trundling along at a fairly pedestrian speed. I took off with a feeble thrust of power to hitch a ride in the slipstream but couldn't keep it going. It did, however, serve as a virtual slingshot flinging me up the road, shaking me out of some tedious plodding. A few cars beeped at me as I rolled up Clara's main street. Minutes later I was turning into the Aspire center, the last bit of concentration deployed to keep the bike from slipping on the gravel driveway surface and to twist my foot from the pedal. After 74 hours and 55 mins, I had 5 minutes to spare and had clocked 1034 km on the Garmin. Let me just say I could have happily done without those extra kms, but to paraphrase Kevin O'Sullivan from the Borlin 300, there was unlikely to be an extra charge for them.
I sat at the kitchen table in the upstairs control area, shaking a few hands and trying to answer a few questions but the words came out as monosyllabic gibberish. A shower and a change back to my civvies restored some sensations of normality. I packed up the bike and bags, and bade farewell to Marcello and the remaining riders and volunteers , who were busy tidying up. I then made my way to Clara station in the morning sun for the train back to Dublin. Thankfully there was no trouble with bike storage this time and before long I was gazing out the window at the passing towns and fields of the Midlands. I reflected on the unique perspective the ride had afforded me, when for three days life was reduced to little more than cycling and eating, punctuated by the occasional nap. Towards the end, perhaps even as much as the entire second half, fatigue and dehydration had worn me down. I really couldn't tell if I was tired, dehydrated or just unfit. It turned out , after further consideration, that I wasn't drinking enough water. Weirdly, during the final 400 km I didn't even feel thirsty. Exertion had interrupted the regular flow of these signals I figured. Now things were returning to normal, the episodes of physical pain were agreeably erased while other details of the ride were honed super sharp through moments of suffering. I had felt certain I had spent too much time in the upper HRM zones, although without a monitor I couldn't confirm. At least I didn't blow up completely. All things considered, it was decent result. Arriving at Heuston I joined the throngs of utility and commuting cyclists setting off down the Quays, and began to reacquaint myself with the dull rhythm of everyday life. It was enormously satisfying, as if I had just returned from another planet. The legs were feeling good and I was in surprisingly good form. The next brevet would be a few weeks later - the Brownstuff 400 - a hilly route across the Wicklow and Waterford hills to Carrick on Suir and back up to Rathfarnham. Named as such due to its colour on the ordnance maps - all brown with very little flat bits. That would turn out to be another testing event, 24 hours of hilly isolation. It would also be the last ride before travelling to France in August. for Paris Brest Paris.
A big thanks to Marcello for the organisation, tasty food, hospitality and encouragement. To Anna, for giving up her spare time to pander to a bunch of crazy riders, to all the other volunteers, to the participants for the company and camaraderie and to the senior club riders who mentored a rookie randonneur..... chapeau to one and all.