The time has finally come. After all the months planning it, talking about it, training for it, it's here. Le grand depart begins on Saturday morning and all of a sudden Rome seems a very long way away. Still nothing but sunshine, good food, better wine and the odd ache and pain to look forward to. Sure what else would we be doing?
Not to sure what Hugh O'Neill and the rest of the earls would have made of it all. Carbon fibre forks? Power bars? Chamois cream? Hotels? - far from all of that he was reared. I don't think that he could ever have imagined that 400 years after his epic journey through Europe a group of fool-hardy (or is it Hardy, you fool?) cyclists would follow in his footsteps. So here goes and minus the beards, shields and spears we're set.
Thanks for taking the time to have a look and donate some money. Keep an eye on the blog for updates.
Here's to Hugh.
GC
Friday, June 27, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Tee Minus Seven
Saturday 21st June…already! Jesus, this day week and it will be all happening. As with all trips (but perhaps even more with this one due to the fact that we've gone public with it), the pressure to be ready for the start line is over five bars...seven bars being the optimum bicycle tyre pressure.
No, hang on. Maybe pressure is the wrong word. “Pressure is only for tyres” as Hardy would say. No, it’s not pressure, it’s just the to-do list gets longer the more I do! How’s that?
My current to-do list is written on the back of white envelope that originally contained my now lost Ulster Bank Credit Card statement. The list reads something like this at present: 1. Service bike; 2. Wash bike; 3. Book accommodation (let’s not go there! – 6 hotels booked, only 16 to go); 4. Agonise over whether to pack one jersey or two; 5. Learn Italian; 6. Shake off head-cold; 7. Buy sun cream, ass cream, strawberries and cream; 8. Sleep; 9. Cut handle off tooth-brush; 10. Attend my cousin’s wedding; 11. Stay sober at wedding; 12. Pay for consignment of EPO; 13. Administer EPO.
I have no idea why I need strawberries and cream– perhaps I’m subconsciously aware of Wimbledon. Tennis? Ah, now there’s a sport! Tip a ball around a lawn for an hour or two in the sunshine. Sitting down every 15 minutes to eat a banana and drink a cool glass of Robinson’s Barley Water. No such thing as wind, rain, chevrons, the bonk or washing your smelly shorts in a hand basin in a poky hotel bathroom in Verdun. A few grunts as you send your backhand down the line! Easy-peasy...but enough, I digress.
And that’s it! I have the answer. I’m a digresser! A procrastinator! A dosser! I write a list of things to do, feel a brief sense of accomplishment for having organised myself and then head off and do something completely different. Instead of tackling any of those 13 items this morning, I’m on the computer writing this blog. A bloody blog! A month ago I thought a blog was the type of house Zig and Zag lived in on Zog! Honest, it’s all that new to me.
In the meantime the list gets bigger – 14. Carbohydrate load, 15. Buy shirt for wedding; 16. Find and pay credit card bill; 17. Learn how to play tennis…
GC
No, hang on. Maybe pressure is the wrong word. “Pressure is only for tyres” as Hardy would say. No, it’s not pressure, it’s just the to-do list gets longer the more I do! How’s that?
My current to-do list is written on the back of white envelope that originally contained my now lost Ulster Bank Credit Card statement. The list reads something like this at present: 1. Service bike; 2. Wash bike; 3. Book accommodation (let’s not go there! – 6 hotels booked, only 16 to go); 4. Agonise over whether to pack one jersey or two; 5. Learn Italian; 6. Shake off head-cold; 7. Buy sun cream, ass cream, strawberries and cream; 8. Sleep; 9. Cut handle off tooth-brush; 10. Attend my cousin’s wedding; 11. Stay sober at wedding; 12. Pay for consignment of EPO; 13. Administer EPO.
I have no idea why I need strawberries and cream– perhaps I’m subconsciously aware of Wimbledon. Tennis? Ah, now there’s a sport! Tip a ball around a lawn for an hour or two in the sunshine. Sitting down every 15 minutes to eat a banana and drink a cool glass of Robinson’s Barley Water. No such thing as wind, rain, chevrons, the bonk or washing your smelly shorts in a hand basin in a poky hotel bathroom in Verdun. A few grunts as you send your backhand down the line! Easy-peasy...but enough, I digress.
And that’s it! I have the answer. I’m a digresser! A procrastinator! A dosser! I write a list of things to do, feel a brief sense of accomplishment for having organised myself and then head off and do something completely different. Instead of tackling any of those 13 items this morning, I’m on the computer writing this blog. A bloody blog! A month ago I thought a blog was the type of house Zig and Zag lived in on Zog! Honest, it’s all that new to me.
In the meantime the list gets bigger – 14. Carbohydrate load, 15. Buy shirt for wedding; 16. Find and pay credit card bill; 17. Learn how to play tennis…
GC
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
It's ALL about the bike!
Lance is pants! While he was winning his seven Tour de France titles he published his autobiography entitled “It’s not about the Bike”. Ok he did make a miraculous recovery from cancer which has helped inspire thousands of sufferers throughout the world; but come on! What does he mean “It’s not about the Bike?” Course it is! He couldn’t have ridden to the corner shop for a pint of milk let alone the Tour de France without one?
In preparing for this mammoth (we may see one in the Alps) cycle I’ve recently broken the 3,000km barrier for this year. Now I’m not one to blow my own trumpet but I just couldn’t have done that distance without my bike! Have you ever tried walking any further than to the coffee dock and the Fig Roll shelf in a Statoil in LOOK cleats? No? Well it’s like wearing a pair of high heels, backwards...or so I’m told. And to walk over 30km, let alone 3,000km, in cleats and lycra would constitute a display of madness unseen since Suggs was wearing Baggy Trousers. No, and this may be over stating the obvious, but it’s ALL about the bike.
My bike is class...it’s black with a tinge of red and grey and it has two wheels, a saddle moulded into the shape of my arse (of is it vice-versa?), and an ultegra group set for those of you who care. I’ve had this bike for three years now and we’ve shared a lot together. I’ve ridden the bike sober, drunk and hungover. I’ve had the bonk on the bike more times than I can remember, seeing as how my sugar-levels were so low it was all a blur anyhow. I’ve eaten thousands of calories while pedalling freely at home and abroad. I’ve talked, laughed, cried, sent text messages, taken photographs and at times almost slept on my bike. Incidentally, sleeping on the bike is an art form that comes in handy on those hungover morning runs. I intend (once perfected) to patent the technique and teach it to budding Cyclesleep Masters who will divide and conquer night classes around the world. Spinning classes watch out.
You know Santy has a lot to answer for. All the pain, sweat and effort to be endured this summer is his fault. Back in ’80 or ’81 I awoke one Christmas morning to find a brand new blue bike with plastic wheels and stabilisers standing next to the Christmas tree. Now “brand new” for the economically depressed 70’s and 80’s was some feat...thanks Santy.
It would be 18 years before my arse again had the privilege of resting on the saddle of a new bicycle. My current bike is mark 6. In between I’ve had an array of two-wheeled mechanical forms of locomotion. The Triumph 20 was a legend in the Cleary household. Mam passed it to my older brother who fobbed it off on to me when his Motobecane came along. The Triumph 20 was older than I was at the time!
My first racing bike was a five speed ladies bike...you remember the ones with no crossbar? Ok, enough said. A Viking was followed by a Giant which I still see regularly on the roads around BH. It’s already helped to convert two non-believers and will be passed on to a third pagan in the near future.
My current bike is lucky to be alive. Last April, while out for a spin in the Doolough valley, it was violently assaulted by a sinewy, hard brute of a Conemara sheep. At 38km/hr. the front wheel hit the ram flush in the midriff sending me flying through the springtime air. The wheel buckled so much that afterwards its outline resembled the outline of PacMan as he gobbled a fellow alien. Thankfully, the bike survived, made a full recovery and is back to its best; or it will be after I give it its bike bath this week. Come the 29th June there will be no stopping us.
So it’s not about the bike? Yeah, right Lance!
In preparing for this mammoth (we may see one in the Alps) cycle I’ve recently broken the 3,000km barrier for this year. Now I’m not one to blow my own trumpet but I just couldn’t have done that distance without my bike! Have you ever tried walking any further than to the coffee dock and the Fig Roll shelf in a Statoil in LOOK cleats? No? Well it’s like wearing a pair of high heels, backwards...or so I’m told. And to walk over 30km, let alone 3,000km, in cleats and lycra would constitute a display of madness unseen since Suggs was wearing Baggy Trousers. No, and this may be over stating the obvious, but it’s ALL about the bike.
My bike is class...it’s black with a tinge of red and grey and it has two wheels, a saddle moulded into the shape of my arse (of is it vice-versa?), and an ultegra group set for those of you who care. I’ve had this bike for three years now and we’ve shared a lot together. I’ve ridden the bike sober, drunk and hungover. I’ve had the bonk on the bike more times than I can remember, seeing as how my sugar-levels were so low it was all a blur anyhow. I’ve eaten thousands of calories while pedalling freely at home and abroad. I’ve talked, laughed, cried, sent text messages, taken photographs and at times almost slept on my bike. Incidentally, sleeping on the bike is an art form that comes in handy on those hungover morning runs. I intend (once perfected) to patent the technique and teach it to budding Cyclesleep Masters who will divide and conquer night classes around the world. Spinning classes watch out.
You know Santy has a lot to answer for. All the pain, sweat and effort to be endured this summer is his fault. Back in ’80 or ’81 I awoke one Christmas morning to find a brand new blue bike with plastic wheels and stabilisers standing next to the Christmas tree. Now “brand new” for the economically depressed 70’s and 80’s was some feat...thanks Santy.
It would be 18 years before my arse again had the privilege of resting on the saddle of a new bicycle. My current bike is mark 6. In between I’ve had an array of two-wheeled mechanical forms of locomotion. The Triumph 20 was a legend in the Cleary household. Mam passed it to my older brother who fobbed it off on to me when his Motobecane came along. The Triumph 20 was older than I was at the time!
My first racing bike was a five speed ladies bike...you remember the ones with no crossbar? Ok, enough said. A Viking was followed by a Giant which I still see regularly on the roads around BH. It’s already helped to convert two non-believers and will be passed on to a third pagan in the near future.
My current bike is lucky to be alive. Last April, while out for a spin in the Doolough valley, it was violently assaulted by a sinewy, hard brute of a Conemara sheep. At 38km/hr. the front wheel hit the ram flush in the midriff sending me flying through the springtime air. The wheel buckled so much that afterwards its outline resembled the outline of PacMan as he gobbled a fellow alien. Thankfully, the bike survived, made a full recovery and is back to its best; or it will be after I give it its bike bath this week. Come the 29th June there will be no stopping us.
So it’s not about the bike? Yeah, right Lance!
Annagh Wheelers - La Raison d'Etre
Some people often wonder why we do it? Why do we sit on a hard saddle the size of a monkey wrench for 100 odd kilometres Sunday after Sunday in all weathers? The sweat, effort and pain involved in pushing the pedals into a head-wind up Barnacarroll hill; why bother?
Well, some would think we do it out of a desire to keep fit; others assume that we like bikes and chains and oil and stuff; and yet others may quietly believe that it’s the love of lycra.
Some or all of the above reasons may be true depending on whom you talk to but no; the real reason we do it, quite simply, is the food. Yes, FOOD! Fig Rolls, bananas, chicken sandwiches, Fig Rolls, fruit scones, omelettes, Mars bars, and Fig Rolls…you name it, and so long as it’s crammed with calories, we’ll eat it.
Don’t ask us what it is, but food definitely tastes better after a couple of hours on the bike. You won’t know what I’m talking about unless you’ve devoured half a packet of Fig Rolls washed down with a cup of steaming coffee on a cold February morning outside a petrol station in Foxford having cycled 50km. You won’t appreciate how delicious the chicken sandwiches and pints of Guinness in Gill’s taste until you’ve completed the Mayo 200km. And chances are you’ve never had the opportunity to savour a bowl of cassoulet in Villefranche de Largais after 100 sweaty kilometres through the French countryside in June.
So, no longer content with the scones on offer in Healy’s pub in Pontoon, six foolhardy members of the Annagh Wheelers C.C. set off for Biarritz in June in search of la vraie cuisine française.
Our search took us from Biarritz in South-western France, through the Pyrenees and the Cevennes to Avignon and finally to the Alps and Grenoble. We averaged over 100km a day (60 miles) and never missed a meal…apart from one and God, were we narky.
We travelled solo which meant carrying everything we needed for a two week holiday on the bikes. (You would be surprised how little you need when you have to carry it over, amongst others, the 1,909m ascent of Mont Ventoux.) Needless to say we had very few creature comforts. Although some people’s view as to what constituted a creature comfort, as against a necessity, differed.
It may have been Confucius who said “the bigger the bag, the greater the load”; however nobody told James. He may not have had a spare tube but he carried a travel iron in panniers that would have safely held the population of Luxembourg. In fairness, he was, without doubt, the best dressed cyclist on the trip.
There were many highlights over the two weeks – the climbs (and descents!) of Col de Marie Blanque, Col d’Aubisque, the Tourmalet, Mont Ventoux and Alpe d’Huez were special. So too were the salads the size of a small Welsh vegetable garden, Grahame’s and Hardy’s pizzas in Lannemezan, Mike’s sock washing exploits under the Pont du Gard, the judo music festival in Remoulins, the pigeons in Avignon, Martin’s dessert in Veynes, Bernard’s homemade carrier and the many, many pichets de vin rouge.
So, after cycling over 1,270km in thirteen days, climbing 18,274m (that’s twice the height of Mt. Everest) and spending 58 hours in the saddle, do you still wonder why we bother? Well, it certainly is about the craic, the scenery, the sense of freedom, and the personal challenge. But above all it’s about the food and if you don’t believe us why not come and try it for yourself. All you need is a bike!
The Annagh Wheelers leave every Sunday morning at 9ish in their weekly quest to Castlebar or to Foxford or to Ballinrobe (depends on the wind!) for coffee and Fig Rolls.
GC
Well, some would think we do it out of a desire to keep fit; others assume that we like bikes and chains and oil and stuff; and yet others may quietly believe that it’s the love of lycra.
Some or all of the above reasons may be true depending on whom you talk to but no; the real reason we do it, quite simply, is the food. Yes, FOOD! Fig Rolls, bananas, chicken sandwiches, Fig Rolls, fruit scones, omelettes, Mars bars, and Fig Rolls…you name it, and so long as it’s crammed with calories, we’ll eat it.
Don’t ask us what it is, but food definitely tastes better after a couple of hours on the bike. You won’t know what I’m talking about unless you’ve devoured half a packet of Fig Rolls washed down with a cup of steaming coffee on a cold February morning outside a petrol station in Foxford having cycled 50km. You won’t appreciate how delicious the chicken sandwiches and pints of Guinness in Gill’s taste until you’ve completed the Mayo 200km. And chances are you’ve never had the opportunity to savour a bowl of cassoulet in Villefranche de Largais after 100 sweaty kilometres through the French countryside in June.
So, no longer content with the scones on offer in Healy’s pub in Pontoon, six foolhardy members of the Annagh Wheelers C.C. set off for Biarritz in June in search of la vraie cuisine française.
Our search took us from Biarritz in South-western France, through the Pyrenees and the Cevennes to Avignon and finally to the Alps and Grenoble. We averaged over 100km a day (60 miles) and never missed a meal…apart from one and God, were we narky.
We travelled solo which meant carrying everything we needed for a two week holiday on the bikes. (You would be surprised how little you need when you have to carry it over, amongst others, the 1,909m ascent of Mont Ventoux.) Needless to say we had very few creature comforts. Although some people’s view as to what constituted a creature comfort, as against a necessity, differed.
It may have been Confucius who said “the bigger the bag, the greater the load”; however nobody told James. He may not have had a spare tube but he carried a travel iron in panniers that would have safely held the population of Luxembourg. In fairness, he was, without doubt, the best dressed cyclist on the trip.
There were many highlights over the two weeks – the climbs (and descents!) of Col de Marie Blanque, Col d’Aubisque, the Tourmalet, Mont Ventoux and Alpe d’Huez were special. So too were the salads the size of a small Welsh vegetable garden, Grahame’s and Hardy’s pizzas in Lannemezan, Mike’s sock washing exploits under the Pont du Gard, the judo music festival in Remoulins, the pigeons in Avignon, Martin’s dessert in Veynes, Bernard’s homemade carrier and the many, many pichets de vin rouge.
So, after cycling over 1,270km in thirteen days, climbing 18,274m (that’s twice the height of Mt. Everest) and spending 58 hours in the saddle, do you still wonder why we bother? Well, it certainly is about the craic, the scenery, the sense of freedom, and the personal challenge. But above all it’s about the food and if you don’t believe us why not come and try it for yourself. All you need is a bike!
The Annagh Wheelers leave every Sunday morning at 9ish in their weekly quest to Castlebar or to Foxford or to Ballinrobe (depends on the wind!) for coffee and Fig Rolls.
GC
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