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!