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The guy riding next to me is wiping cow shit from his face. The rider in front of him has just ridden through a patch of it that had been liquefied by the torrential rains. He curses out loud and everyone is grinning. Winter’s here.
October heralds the beginning of winter training spins, when everyone starts to put the miles in to build up a base of fitness for next year’s season. The first couple of weeks had been fine, but the real rough stuff began the weekend before last. There were high winds as we headed out towards Wicklow through Tallaght, which saw the group buffeted around the place. Each gust would see riders seemingly move a foot or two sideways and then struggle to regain their line. As we moved south west, taking back roads south of the main Blessington Road, we were forever riding into the wind.
You ride in double file, rotating counter clockwise. The pair on the front take a few minutes into the wind. Then the left hand man drifts back a little, his partner drifts into his former spot and the next rider from behind moves up.
I’ve always loved riding in a group like this. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Working together, taking turns to shelter each other from the wind, you can move at a far greater pace than you can ever hope to achieve alone. Nestled in the middle of the bunch, there are times when you hardly have to work at all, just keeping the pedals turning as you are carried along in the train.
Watching a group working well together is slightly hypnotic. A rider in front will veer ever so slightly to avoid a pothole, calling the obstacle out. The call moves down the ranks and the riders part and rejoin in a ripple. It’s like those nature documentaries. One animal in the herd makes a move and the rest follow.
Of course, there are times when it is like a pack of hyenas. Something you learn quickly is that one thing cycling clubs don’t lack is mouthy people. It comes with the territory. Like any sport, the competitive instinct means that there’s plenty willing to voice their opinion on how things can be done.
There is method to the madness most of the time. While riding in close formation has its advantages, the downside is that you don’t get to see what’s ahead of you until it is almost too late. You rely instead on the warnings being communicated down the line. In addition to this, the actions you take have an effect on everyone else. Jam on the brakes too suddenly and you’re bound to hear all about if people narrowly avoid crashing into you from behind.
Of course, there are always differences of opinion on what should be called out. What you think is a slight indent in the road may be viewed by someone else as a massive pothole that will ruin their fancy Zipp wheels. After a while you start to filter out some of the voices. If you listened to everyone you’d be driven mad.
I turned off when we reached Blessington, having to be home early that day. One other rider came with me as I headed off down the N81 back into town. The great thing about the wind is that sooner or later you’ll catch a tailwind and we had it all the way home. He tucks in behind me and we drive along to Brittas and on to the top of the Embankment. This is a descent I like, a wide stretch of road, straight enough to allow you to bump it down into your biggest gear and really crank up the speed.
On the dual carriageway in Tallaght the wind was still behind us and it was relatively easy to spin it up to 60kph. I was home in no time.
By Sunday of last week my legs were as stiff as boards. It was a very unfamiliar sensation to say the least. While I had been riding a lot over the past week, it was still nothing too out of the ordinary. No, the reason my legs were fried was that I had given up smoking.
Smoking and cycling are not an obvious combo and it’s been my guilty little secret ever since I’ve started riding. I’ve had a few attempts at quitting before, but always fell off the wagon, usually in the middle of a stressful week in work.
While non smokers might think you can’t do much in the way of cycling if you’re a heavy smoker, the reality is that you can kid yourself into thinking you can get away with it. As long as you put the training in, there’s nothing to stop you from racing, doing long sportives like the Wicklow 200 or indeed, humping it up big mountains in Spain. But deep down you know that you can be a much stronger rider without it. You feel it most on the climbs, when you just can’t get enough oxygen in to prevent you from slowing down. Hard efforts, like chasing on to the back of a group, cost you much more and it can take an age to recover and get the heart rate back down to a sane level.
Once you quit, you feel the benefits almost immediately, so much so that it almost feels a little unfair. Surely one should have to suffer a bit more to reap the rewards? So, three days off the smokes I spent a Monday morning in the mountains revelling in my new found lung power. I started off with the climb from Rathfarnham to Killakee carpark, which goes up Edmondstown Road and onto Cruagh Road. It’s long been a favourite of mine, a nice long stiff hill right at the edge of the mountains. Usually I suffer a bit on this one but that day it felt a whole lot easier. My legs kept turning the cranks at a brisk pace and there were no flashing lights and alarm bells from the heart rate monitor.
Of course, when you’re feeling this good, you never settle back and enjoy the view. There’s always the temptation to knock it down a cog or two and up the pace as you near the top and of course I couldn’t resist. Afterwards I pushed on to Glencree and went over the Sally Gap, turned left at the crossroads and over Djouce before heading back towards Enniskerry and the two short climbs before and after the village.
Two days later I got further proof of the benefits when I went out after work with my friend Paul. Since the evenings are getting shorter, we decided to do a couple of loops of the aforementioned Edmondstown Road climb. The hill has been a regular opener for our spins over the past few years and Paul, who’s blessed with a climbers build, can drop me like a stone when he feels like it. We pushed it pretty hard on the lower part of the climb and once or twice I found myself distancing him, which is pretty unusual. On the final, steepest part we rode together, with me setting the pace and Paul glued to my wheel. Now was the time to see just how much of an improvement I’d achieved. I stood up and accelerated. He got back on. I did it again and he responded again. Near the top, just before the bridge he passed me and I couldn’t follow. Beaten again, but not as badly as before.
Once at the top, we descended via Stocking Lane and cut accross again to Edmonstown Road for another run up. Neither of us was planning on going quite as hard this time. Already the light was going and, with the road shrouded by trees, it was time to turn on our lights. It was my first opportunity to try out my new front light, which had arrived the previous week, a Light & Motion Solo halogen lamp with a rechargeable battery. Straight away I was impressed and called to Paul to look around. “Jesus, is there any way to turn that thing down,” he said, squinting.
By the time we were going down Stocking Lane for the second time the darkness had really fallen and I took the front with the intention of lighting the way. It was almost as good as a car headlight in the gloom and we ended up barrelling down at near enough full speed before speeding home.
The next night I went for a fast spin to Malahide which was followed on Saturday morning by a spin with my usual training group. Half of them were on their way to France the following week for a trip to the Alps and wanted to get as much climbing in as possible. Cue a spin that took in every steep boreen in Wicklow. We started by riding from Stepaside up to Glencullen, over the Devil’s Elbow to Enniskerry before taking the Glencree Road.
The pièce de résistance involved taking a left onto Oonagh bridge and up the insanely steep climb to Balinagee and the Old Long Hill Road. It’s one of those roads that as much as a technical challenge as a physical one. Pull too hard on your bars and you risk popping a wheelie. Stand and you could lose traction on your back wheel and have it slip. Again, I had been hammering up the climbs and at this stage I was feeling fairly fried. One by one my riding companions passed me. From Long Hill we went over Djouce. While the others were pushing on to Laragh, via Lough Dan, I called it a day and went home over the Sally Gap and Kilbride. My legs were starting to complain.
So why does giving up smoking give you sore legs? It’s simple I suppose. Beforehand, my lungs would always give out before my legs. Now it’s the other way around.
Ivan and Tom take off in front of me. It's the last I'll see of them before the top.
If there was ever road to cycle up just because it’s there, Kippure has to be it. It isn’t even a proper road after all, but rather a private road to serve the TV transmitter atop it. Every time I rode by that gate on Military Road and looked up at the TV mast I got a little curious about it. Was the road rideable? Just how steep was it? And if you can get up, are you going to break your neck on the way back down?
Aside from hearing the odd report about some mountain bikers who’d gone up, the first definite confirmation came in July when a bunch of us were out for a long spin. In a spur of the moment decision, Peter and Ivan decided to race up it. It was foul day and within a minute the pair had disappeared into the mist. As the rest of us stood around shivering it slowly dawned on us that we had no idea how long they would be gone. Chilled to the bone, we carried on to Laragh and let the others catch up with us there. They made it down alive and since then people from the group have been venturing up.
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It was my turn on Saturday. I hadn’t really pencilled it into my itinerary, but everyone else wanted to do it and I found myself lifting my bike over the barrier. I’d already done a few hills that day and was shaping up to go home. “I’ll get up it alright, just don’t expect me to enjoy myself,” was my comment when Ivan said it only got bad towards the end.
I let the climbers go off in front. I had no interest in trying to keep pace with them. The road wasn’t bad at all, better in fact than a lot of public roads you’ll find in Wicklow. The only downside was a lot of gravel, especially towards the centre.
The first 2km or so were a breeze and I was beginning to wonder if it hadn’t been talked up a bit by the time I hit the final section, which is pretty tough to say the least. The gradient appears to go well up into the teens and even in quite a low gear you find yourself standing and grinding on the pedals. That’s where the gravel can play havoc as the back wheel is prone to slipping when you’re standing. Right in the middle of the toughest stretch I encountered a Red Setter, who wanted to play. Just before I fell off, its owners called him back and held him as I went by. I forced a smile.
Bikes stacked outside the TV transmitter.
I’m was one of the last up. We milled around for a while taking photos and admiring the view. Then it was back down again, trying to pick a clean line through the gravel.
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Living on the north side of Dublin’s city centre, Howth is a regular destination for training spins. It is the only decent climb on the northside and you can get out there in twenty minutes or so. The first time I went up it as a relative novice on the bike I thought my heart was going to explode. These days I’m so familiar with the climb that I can use it as a gauge for my fitness. At first, simply riding out and getting up to the top seemed a worthwhile training spin. Now I tend to go up and down a few times before heading home. While it is possible to do laps of the Head, the state of the road between Howth village and Sutton Cross means that it’s more enjoyable and a better workout to simply turn around at the bottom of the climb and start all over again.
Sunday morning was a fairly typical spin. I’d arranged to meet a friend in Clontarf at eight and head up to Howth. There’s an off-road cycle track most of the way from Clontarf to Howth. Most of the time I don’t bother with it given that it’s usually littered with joggers, rollerbladers and walkers. The Howth Road further inland tends to get me out there a little faster. However, we’ve gone out early enough for the path to be deserted and can fly along quickly up the coast. For a laugh, both of us are wearing 1996 vintage Festina jerseys, which attract a few odd glances along the way.
At Sutton Cross we take a left to begin the ascent of the south side of the head. It is here that our differences as riders become apparent. Peter is around the same height as me but as a lean as a whippet. He’s a born climber. There’s no disguising what I am, a rugby player on a bike. We hit the slope at a remarkably fast pace and begin powering up in the big ring. I shouldn’t look down at my heart rate monitor, but I do. It’s going through the roof. My legs feel good though , so I’m banking that this isn’t going to hurt too much. At the top of the first and hardest section of the climb, he turns around and says: “We took that a bit fast, didn’t we?” If that’s what he thinks, I know I’m in trouble.
After the Summit, there is the brief respite of the fast descent down into the village. We decide to go back up the hard way, namely taking a right at the church and up Main Street and on to Balkhill Road. There’s a vicious little section once the road swings right and I’m glad I’ve got a compact crankset. I’d managed to break my own cranks a few weeks previously and I’ve borrowed the cranks from my wife’s bike. Peter is flying ahead and I’m valiantly trying and failing to keep up. At the top we decide to push on to Malahide, speeding down again to Sutton Cross and back onto the coast road towards Portmarnock.
Back on the flat we start trading pulls, each taking a turn out in the wind. Just as we reach Malahide I feel a wobble in my pedal stroke. At first I think my cleat has broken, but when I look down I discover my left crank arm has worked its way lose. I mustn’t have tightened the bolts enough when I was installing it. It’s a pain to have to fix this on the road but at least it provides a welcome breather. Once we get going again, we swing left after Malahide village and start heading homewards along Drimnigh Road. I’d never ridden this road before and, early on a Sunday morning, it is clear of traffic, allowing us to motor along in the middle of the lane. Peter heads for home shortly afterwards and I get the main Malahide Road back into town. 55km done and back by 10am. Time for breakfast.
