Dungarvan, Co. Waterford
Sunday 30th August 2009
Went on the Sean Kelly Tour of Waterford on the weekend. I headed off on the Saturday to spend the night in a B agus B as the start time was listed as 8:30am Sunday. Woke up at an ungodly hour to be ready for the start. The weather was threateningly overcast but calm and quite warm.
There were 3 rides to choose from: 50km, 100km and 160km. The 100 and 160 followed the same route at the start so you didn't have to commit to a particular distance right away. I was tentatively planning to do the 160.
The start
I got down to the Sports Centre in Dungarvan for about 8:00 and was assaulted with the largest assembly of bikes and riders I'd ever seen. A huge number of people turned up for the tour. I had done the wise thing and signed up the afternoon before where I was given a complementary Sean Kelly Tour of Waterford jersey and a goody bag of..um..advertising flyers mostly...and porridge. Luckily I was able to spot the motley crew that is the Orwell touring group and we stood around for a bit next to the shoreline until the start. Half an hour later a strangely damp-looking Sean Kelly made an appearance and raced up to the front of the throng which was well out of sight from our view point. A brush with greatness.
After posing for a group picture, we were finally on our way. We carefully picked our way out of Dungarvan in a vaguely orderly procession past waving and clapping Dungarvanites and started on a steady uphill grind along the N25. As we moved farther along we got a bit of space to sort ourselves out. The cyclists with the panniers and the helmets tipped back on their heads with their heels on the pedals started to sift to the back. Now the groups started to form. John L. and I got into a rhythm of bridging up to a group, catching our breath and then bridging up to the next group. We made a fair bit of progress. It was still impossible to tell how far we were from the front, though. There seemed to be an endless number of cyclists ahead of us.
Seskin Hill
John and I continued our progress along mostly flat roads for the first 40 or so kilometres until we came to the first wheat-from-chaff sifter near Carrick-on-Suir. Seskin Hill is a Category 1 climb. Short, sharp and nasty. You had to be out of the saddle for most of it to stop the front wheel from popping off the ground. I was cursing the guys with the extra small chain ring as they floated by. It was all I could do to stop rolling backwards. It was a winding bit of road too so you didn't know how far it was going to go on. I succeeded in getting about 50 metres from the top before I tipped over sideways. So sudden was my capitulation that I managed to take out the guy who was sitting on my wheel. I felt a bit bad about that. And to make things worse, I could see up ahead there was a photographer. There was no way I was going to get immortalised on the sports page of the Waterford Examiner (or whatever it's called) walking up the hill. I waited for a break in the wheezing slow motion procession – enough to catch my breath - and hopped back on. I topped that hill with style. Our fearless touring leader Denis was not so lucky. In his enthusiasm to crest the hill, he ended up breaking his derailleur and having to do on-the-spot repairs. The rest of his day was spent with his derailleur in his pocket and a single gear to choose from.
A moment of enjoyableness
A well-needed water stop and on to the next leg. Here I left John and started on a mostly flat section that was bordering on enjoyable. 80 kilometres down and a food stop next with sandwiches, tea and toilets. Really friendly and helpful volunteers, I must say. Much appreciated. I met up again with a few Orwellians. Long, long line-up for food, though. I think I inadvertently managed to arrive at the peak time. Still, a refuel and an exchange of stories. As I went back to my bike to grab a water bottle for filling, I noticed a cloud of cyclists on their way out of the food stop. I couldn't pass up this opportunity to draft, so making do with the water I had, and shirking any further social engagements, I made myself inconspicuous at the back of a great gaggle of riders.
Powers the Pot
Next up was our first crossing of the Comeragh Mountains. The strangely named Powers the Pot was not majorly steep but unspeakably relentless at 7 or so kilometres long. It really takes a lot out of your legs. I managed to do quite well on this section. Although in my lowest gear, I was still able to spin quite well. The steadiness of the climb allowed you to get into a rhythm. I passed loads of people. A real confidence boost. The view over the mountains as you get near the top is supposed to be spectacular. I wouldn't know. I could see about 20 meters into the valley before it got all fogged up. There was purple heather at the side of the road. That much I know.
A bit of a tricky descent, another friendly water stop and onward to the crown of the Comeragh Challenge: Mahon Falls. As we turned into our second crossing of the Comeragh Mountains, there was a sharp right hand turn with marshals at the bottom and about 6 or 7 riders just sitting there. I thought, 'Ok, here we go. They're psyching themselves up for the climb.' I made the turn and started a bit of a short sharp climb that was over surprisingly quickly. I asked a guy I was passing if that was it? 'We haven't even started,' he said in a rather depressing tone. Turns out he was right.
Mahon Falls
Mahon Falls is another Category 1 climb. It is on par, as far as I could tell, with the Shay Elliott in Wicklow – but it seems longer. Lowest gear grind at an agonisingly slow pace for what seemed like forever. What was really aggravating about it was that it didn't even have the decency to look like a steep climb. It had a deceptive flatness about it.
On the way up, I kept passing these signs for porridge. Mahon Falls appeared to be sponsored by Flahavan's. This must explain the porridge in my goody bag. I thought I was cycling alone at this point but I realised there was someone behind me when I heard his heart rate monitor begin to beep as his heart rate settled in the red zone. It's the sort of hill where you die slowly inside (while looking at porridge adverts). Peering through the fog up ahead I could see this inflatable Flahavan's porridge display (I'm not kidding). That must be the top. Something to focus on. Nearly there. At which point I made the mistake of looking at what was beyond the porridge-y bouncy castle. The road switched back. There was something resembling a wall – with cyclists going along the face of it at what looked like a 45° angle.
Feeling totally betrayed by the deceptively placed Flahavan's bouncy castle, I suddenly had visions of myself tipping into the purple heather at the side of the road. 'I don't think I can do this,' I said to myself. Except Mr. Heart Rate Monitor had pulled up beside me and responded, 'Ah sure you can, almost there.' I must have spoken out loud then. I figured if Mr. Heart Rate Monitor, who clearly had been within an inch of going into cardiac arrest for the past 15 minutes, thought he could do it, I could do it too. He was being very encouraging. One final push. Only just made it. Great sense of accomplishment – once I'd finished coughing up bile.
Another spectacular view of the Comeragh Mountains at the top. Apparently. At least the tiny circle inside the fog pocket I was engulfed in was nice, I guess. I could see my feet. They were wet.
The descent
The descent was treacherous. I just couldn't see very far in front of me. The curves in the road invariably took me by surprise. I was having to squeeze both brakes on full and that still wasn't getting me down to a speed where I felt very safe. My brake pads and rims were wet with the misty rain and fog. The marshalling was great here. It was essential although you often didn't see the marshals until the last moment where a high speed change of direction was necessary. At one point I skidded rather dramatically past the Mountain Rescue truck. They must have had a busy day.
One more water stop in Kilrossanty where I ran into Sandra T. of Orwell. Sandra is both impressive and wildly annoying in her ability to look as fresh as a daisy after cycling for miles and miles in inclement weather. She didn't even look wet. I don't know how she does that. We linked up and started on the home stretch, which was generally downhill with a bit of rolling terrain in the middle for good measure.
I lost Sandra on one of the rolling bits, but she flew by in a group after I had paused at a surprise water stop near the end. I spent the last 15 kilometres or so in flat-out time trial mode trying to catch her. Well over 40 kilometres per hour. I thought I was alone, but near the end, I turned around only to see about 8 other riders in a death line behind me. Bastards. Some help would have been nice. About 1/8 of a mile before the finish in Dungarvan, they all decided that it was time to take a turn at the front. Feh.
The finish
We were all greeted at the finish by 'The Boys are Back in Town' on the loud speaker. Apparently this had been playing over and over for the past few hours as riders trickled in. The neighbours of the Sports Centre must have been thrilled. A great tour, challenging course, fantastically well organised. A reported 3440 people showed up for the start. Of all the starters, only 400 did the 160km. And I was one of them.
