The Contentment of the Long Distance Bike Rider!

When your Chiropractor sits you down, tells you to take a deep breath and then tells you that you are never going to be able to run on the roads again, what do you do? Well, after you have dried your tears of self pity, you try to see it as an opportunity, not a threat. You realise that you may have a dodgy L5 and several discs in your back that are far too close for comfort but you have two arms for swimming and two legs which can cope with sitting down – for instance on a bicycle seat!

Funnily enough I had emerged reasonably unscathed from Ironman IX at Moravia in the Czech Republic (226 kilometres of swimming biking and running in 13 hours and 45 mins.) but had been unravelled by the demands of a mere 10K race two weeks later. The back was rebelling, the natives were restless, the discs were far from gruntled etc. Even standing at the sink doing the dishes was too painful (honest dear!). So we came up with back strengthening exercises and more effort would be made to strengthen the core. One thousand sit ups, press ups and abb crunches a week put me in the right direction and rather than mope about I cast a wizened eye over the forthcoming possibilities. My good friend Sammy Moore the jeweller told me about the Lough Neagh Challenge. It was to consist of an 87 mile ride round the British Isles greatest under utilised tourist resource and with a bit of luck would be pancake flat because the last time I looked the roads round the Lough, if not quite at sea level, should at least be at Lough level.

I then fell, as I often do into bad company i.e. Richard Baker, Manager of Northern Newspaper Group, RB, being a rock climber had kept himself in great shape and loves the outdoor pursuits like the hills and surfing and had been riding a bike for only twelve months but had taken to it like the proverbial duck to water.

So as one door closed on marathon runs, another opened with marathon rides. After a 6.00 a.m. rise! there was an enormous crowd of 500 of us near Portadown who had assembled like a throng of hornets for a 9.00 a.m. start. It was dry, it was bright there was only one problem, the group seemed to think it was a 10 mile sprint, not an 87 mile slog. We took off like a scorched bat out of hell. As an Ironman Triathlete I was notoriously one paced (and that pace was slow) I was hanging onto Richard’s back wheel like a grateful leach.

One of the good things about these rides however was the social element. Built into every trip was one or more tea stops. This gives the rider an opportunity of stuffing themselves with cups of sweet tea and tray bakes and sandwiches while we of course try to convince ourselves that we had done something to deserve them. The first stop was at Ballyronan (well known to the Triathlon community for a huge race every August) and after we had foolishly joined the Apollo train we were drafting shamelessly of them but we thought it was good for the young ones to be giving it Dixie at the front of the chain gang while we gratefully accepted the hospitality in the same way that we accepted the food etc. – us, freeloaders??

Soon we were back on the road letting the Apollo train leave the station without us for the next trip to Antrim. This was a more restrained pace and 30 miles later we were sitting at a tent in Clotworthy House at a table making Desperate Dan looking as if he had merely a normal appetite... Now it was time for real men to stand up and be counted. The last 30 or so miles was to be into a block head wind. RB and I soon realised that a bunch of disparate souls that we were passing secretly wanted to be in a much more efficient machine so we corralled 12 or 14 guys and told them that we would be going faster but it would actually be easier for them. They looked a bit quizzical but when you have got Baker giving you orders you don’t say NO! Very soon we were organised in a military fashion and every 60 seconds there would be a huge booming voice shouting “Change!” and the bloke at the front right of the peloton would move up and over allowing the bloke on the slip stream to share the pain and the pleasure of driving the train and dealing with the head wind. We had some passengers who were reluctant to become bonafide train drivers but we were only doing it for their own good!

The miles rolled by. Ok the wheels fell off the train eventually but we made much more speedy progress than if we had been merely a band of one or twos. I wouldn’t say we were a Band of Brothers - more a band of second and third cousins but we got there. In fact Richard & I look disappointed as we suddenly found ourselves back at the start/finish after a mere 84 miles as opposed the promised 87. We were robbed! But I think we could cope... There were no showers but yet another cup of hot sweet tea – I think long distance cyclists could drink tea for Ireland! – and soon two smelly blokes were on the road back to civilisation.

Sammy Moore and Mervyn Marshall were hot on our heels. Incidentally we may not have been minded to walk down a traditional route near Portadown on the Garvaghy Road but we had no trouble cycling down it!

One week later RB and I and a bunch of the Coleraine cycling mafia found ourselves outside Belfast City Hall at another unearthly hour on a Sunday morning for the Finn McCool ‘100 Miler’ to Coleraine up the East Coast. This wheeze was Trevor Ringland’s idea to raise funds for the Sports Charity, Sparks. There were 50 or so bikers who obviously didn’t believe in taking the easy option. We were promised a flatish first 50 miles then...... well let’s just say we were also promised great views at the top of various hills after Cushendall. The Lord Mayor of Belfast, Tom Hartley is a keen cyclist and not only talks the talk but walks the walk. His bike was produced and unencumbered by his chain of office around his neck, he set off beside us. I quite like the sound of my dog tag swishing around and setting a rhythm for me but I don’t know if I could cope with the heavy burden, in every sense of the word, of a major heavy duty chain of office when I am about to do 20 miles an hour. The Lord Mayor much have known the weather forecast because after 8 miles he peeled off then it started to rain. Now, this wasn’t the soft gentle Irish rain of mythical legend, this was a heavy soaking solid sheet like rain and of course it was accompanied by a cold strong wind which battered us. There wasn’t much you could do about it though except grit your teeth. There was only one problem, how do you grit your teeth when they are already chattering?

There was a welcome tea stop at 20 miles North of Belfast but at £3.00 for a scone and coffee, I was glad I didn’t have to treat the family, just Mr Baker. The comfort of the cafe was somewhat diminished in the knowledge that as soon as we stepped out the door and threw a hesitant leg over a sopping soaked bike seat we were back in the land of the cold and wet, still, it was all character building stuff.

Thankfully there were no more crashes as we had one when we left Belfast. One cyclist slipped on oil, came down while I was at the front I then heard that dreadful combination of slipping and sliding then a big thud as a rider hit a deck. Before he had come to a halt, Trevor was on the mobile and had an ambulance from the nearby Whiteabbey Hospital removing him to a place of safety. Thankfully both were ok but it spooked the bunch.

We had a chance to wring out our socks and shirts at Cushendall Golf Club and a bowl of hot soup has never been more gratefully received. In fact two bowls later I was over staying my welcome so we headed out, back to reality. Soon the dreaded hills were no longer a future challenge they were with us, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.

Baker and I soon got the troops mobilised and we paced ourselves up the first big climb trying to take it easy. We still wanted to know our own names at the top of the hill and there was another 45 odd miles to go, so it was a case of “After You Claude” on the hills. The pain in the legs and the lungs was tempered by the magnificent views we could just about discern through the driving rain. Why is Antrim’s East Coast not thronged with tourists? We go all over the world but there are very few places to compare it with the Antrim hills as we swooped under bridges and climbed over millennia old rock formations. As we got out of the saddle and hung on to the handle bars and as we weaved and swayed from side to side it was... just ... good.... to ..... be alive.

Eventually every hill was conquered, every bit of tarmac vanquished and we arrived, after an Allpe D Huez type hill on the other side of Ballycastle and after another climb near the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge a most welcome stop after 70 miles we felt the back of the challenge had been well and truly broken – the rain even stopped! We had perspired and now we were inspired by the promise of a hot shower and a chance to get off our wet togs. We assembled a bunch of privates and corporals and soon we were rocking and rolling past Dunluce Castle towards Portrush, then Portstewart and into Coleraine and the Ring Road.

Trevor had warned us that although we could see Nirvanna ie. Coleraine Rugby Club/The Finish Line we actually had to bike past it down the Dual Carriage Way and up the Mountsandal Road. I swear I head quiet sobbing behind me as we spurned the chance of an easy finish. Several quick kilometres later we were indeed basking in the adulation of well wishers at Coleraine Rugby Club where the changing rooms reminded me of the finest hotel room – luxury, luxury! They even had a bar selling alcohol. This was all very civilised, there was only one fly in the ointment. We had been promised ‘100 miles’ and my computer clock showed a mere 97! You wouldn’t have wanted me, dear reader to miss out on the promise of a Century Ride (as the Yanks would call it)so I went home, ate like a man who had last seen food the previous century and then strapped myself onto my torture device/turbo trainer, to do not three but 4 miles just to make sure I hit the magic 100. Hey, it was just an excuse for another hot shower!

I was then busy for the next two week ends commentating in Glasgow and Groomsport but Sunday the 1^st September saw young Baker and I again heading out of Coleraine, this time to Ballygally near Larne for the John Lindsay Torr Head Challenge. This was a mere 70 miler but had 4 Tour de France type climbs which would test man and machine alike. This event was organised expertly by Team Madigan with once again the proceeds going to charity. Over 150 of us pulled out beside the hotel (which I had helped David Patton reconstruct in the Summer of 1976 but that’s another story)and there were obviously several guys at the front who were quite anxious to make it to the first tea stop in record time. Rich and I were being pulled along at 23 miles an hour and the miles rolled by effortlessly. In a bunch it may be easier but you have to keep the hands on the break hoods in case there was a sudden braking movement up ahead. As they haven’t yet invented break lights for the back of bikes, you have to be extra vigilant. I saw my good friend Colin Loughery and Alistair Bratten near the front of the bunch and soon we had our own first stop of the day. I don’t know who invented the legend that is the tray bake but I didn’t want to appear churlish so I scoffed quite a few purely not to offend the industrious crew who were putting them on the table just as fast as we were despatching them. I then met up with my good friend John madden, Ireland’s leading veteran cyclist. Thankfully John was just out for a very slow spin of 70 miles and was recovering from an Awards Ceremony where he had triumphed the night before.

The T stop however was the end of the fun. Very shortly afterwards we were on the first of the major climbs of the day. As I heard my breath rasping I realised I was already in my granny gear (and my granny wasn’t even there to help me) and a new friend confided that he thought this road was “ill bred”. I replied that if this road was a child, it’s parents had certainly never walked up a wedding isle together. It was a real “hang on and hope” hill. Apparently lorries can’t get up it and if Torr Head is cut off by the snow in the winter they will have to fly in relief supplies by helicopter such as the steepness of the terrain.

One hill down, three to go.... On the second monster two riders in front had taken the easy option and dismounted. The smugness felt when passing them as they click clacked their way up the hill in their bike shoes was soon replaced by the gnawing envy that at least they voluntarily got off while I was faced with the mounting realisation that I could soon topple off. When your computer shows you are doing a mere three miles an hour and you’re maxed out with your heart rate going through the roof and when your front wheel is lifting off the ground, you know you are on a one on one fight for survival. The ignominy of the dismount is only averted by the anguish of the perpetual struggle.

Life is full of challenges however, if life was easy there would be no satisfaction in it. That philosophy means for me that for every sauna there is a needle cold shower to redress the balance. It keeps you from getting into the comfort zone, it keeps you focused, it keeps your feet on the ground – even if they are frozen. You enjoy the sunshine a little more if there is a bit of wind and rain before or after. Post Phoebus Nubilus is the Jack motto “After the clouds sunshine”. Well there wasn’t much prospect of the sunny disposition because while we made it up Heartbreak Hill Number 2 we could see, in the distance standing proudly like an erect guardsman the television mast overlooking Torr Head. You get a little concerned when you are told the top of the hill is “just up there beside the TV mast”. There is nowhere higher than a TV mast. You normally meet mountain goats and Kenyan athletes just before the summit; you expect to see Christopher Bonnington type figures with oxygen masks. Anyway eventually we hauled our sorry assess up and over the unclassifiable unrepeatable never want to see it again type road and I was told it is “All downhill”. Cyclists by sheer definition are optimistic people but they are also capable of telling great untruths. After a very fast downhill swoop (where I over cooked it on one corner and ended up on completely the wrong side of the road) we found ourselves at Hunter’s Pub in Finvoy where regrettably we merely had time to wipe the sweat of our fevered brows before we started the climb up to the vanishing lake. What was it with all this alleged downhill stuff? If allegations were made then bring me the alligators! We definitely going up hill for about 30 mins. However after an effortless and exhilarating three mile descent there was suddenly the delicious prospect of the finish line somewhere on down the jewel encrusted sunny coast. As we bombed through Carnlough I shouted to the Baker Man that we deserved an ice cream so we slammed on the anchors and treated ourselves to a ‘99’. I had read recently in “Peak Performance” that ice-cream was a high carb, high energy endurance food – honest! Fortified by the this knowledge, we were soon on the way back to Ballygally car park were we picked up a few stragglers along the way who were grateful for a tow in our slip-stream.

As we approached the Team Madigan Carvan for yet another cup of hot brew, the realisation dawned on me that my hat trick of long bike rides was about to end. The Tour of Lough Neagh was advertised as 87 miles, but in reality was only 84; the Finn McCool Challenge was meant to be 100 but was a mere 97; the Torr Head was promoted a 70 but was actually a mile short. Was I unfulfilled with only a 69. No, it was still immensely satisfying. The effort put in had been rewarded ten-fold. The pain was replaced with pleasure. I didn’t feel short changed. I felt no need to go the extra mile. I didn’t need to go the whole hog, 69 would suffice. I was content.

I had reached the finish line for 2008, Snow Patrol sing that “The Finish Line Is a Good Place to Start”. Will I be able to reach the start line, despite injury and infamy, in 2009?

My quest for a new non running form of challenge had opened up new vistas - the memory of those views around Lough Neagh and the Antrim Coast will live long in my memory. Running – who needs it? I had two wheels for consolation, 50 spokes for comfort, two pedals for pleasure. I enjoyed this triple challenge so much that I have decided that there will be one much closer to home next year. I think the Sperrins will prove equally satisfying. We will have quiet roads, steep climbs but will have the solace of a few tea stops along the way.

I am already looking forward to the Sperrin Super Sportive 100 K in 2009.

Dust off that bike in the garage, pump those tyres – as well as those abs – and see you on the road.