"ROF" Ride: My Rás Blog by Ronan O’Flynn

Stage 1: Dublin Castle to Multyfarnham: Shiny Orange Shoes

And so it begins. The organisers of Rás Tailteann 2016 chose Dublin Castle as the departure point for the 8 day International road race to commemorate the centenary of the 1916 Easter Rising. The cobbled yard of the castle was spilling over with team cars, riders and supporters on Sunday morning as I sauntered in on my bike having cycled the few kilometres from Clontarf on a crisp sunny May morning. There was a great buzz around the place as each team was introduced up on stage by Declan Quigley, the official race commentator. By coincidence I had been introduced to Declan a few days previously in Joe Daly´s bike shop in Dundrum, him being a well known Orwell member and me being the new addition who had joined a few months previously. He had squeezed some information out of me then about my sporting background and as I bounced up the steps with team mates Brian, Stephen, Manuel & Jamie I heard this familiar voice from Eurosport cycling coverage mention the former Castlegar senior hurler who had made the transition from pucking sliothars to racing bikes on the Irish road racing circuit. It was a nice confidence booster ahead of what would no doubt be 8 gruelling days of pedalling along the high ways and by ways of Ireland.

Not long after, the Rás peloton headed for Clonee and the official start point for stage 1. En route we passed through the Phoenix Park where a large group of Orwellians (is that what they call us?!) lined the main avenue offering their support to the team. It was great to see so many from the club turn out to cheer us on; no pressure now! The neutralised zone was fraught with nervous riders jockeying for position and at times it felt like the race was already in full swing. Once the race proper got started, it didn´t take long for the pace to ratchet up and riders constantly jumped off the front looking to be part of the "break of the day". The peloton buzzed and swarmed from side to side across the main road as riders dived for shelter and looked to catch the wheel in front. At one stage there was a sharp reduction in speed and the inevitable crunch of carbon as riders collided. The first collision of the day took place just to my right and I could see a UCD rider getting launched threw the air out of the corner of my eye as I whizzed by breathing a sign of relief that I had escaped this time. I later learnt that Manuel Fontain, our Spanish import to the team had come a cropper in this same crash but had come away relatively unscathed having landed on some other poor unfortunate soul.

As the stage developed I settled into the cut and thrust of the race. My legs felt pretty ok and I was able to hold my position in the top third of the peloton as it sliced through the Meath countryside, one minute bathed in sunshine, the next doused with heavy rain showers. I regularly saw Stephen Barry in my line of sight, he was looking strong and holding a good position in the bunch. My main moment of pressure was after the only categorised climb of the day some two thirds of the way into the race. Some pro or other put the hammer down on the descent and the resulting line-out saw me lose the wheel in front for a period. I managed to re-group and soon we hit the Westmeath county boundary having passed through Cavan at some stage (or so I was told as I´d never seen the signposts!). As we made it to Multyfarnham for the first time the reduced peloton had absorbed the break and I was feeling like I could make a good start to my first Rás with a decent stage placing.

Pride comes before a fall, or so they say. One minute I remember admiring the shiny orange cycling shoes of U23 National Champion Eddie Dunbar with about 10km to go, the next some rider came a cropper to my left hand side for some reason and came careering into my path. I had absolutely no time to react and was sent spiralling over the handlebars at warp speed (Strava would later correct this to approximately 50km/hr). The crash took place on a narrow section of road in the middle of the peloton and as my body made contact with harsh Westmeath tarmac I could hear the screech of brakes, the cursing of riders and the crunch of metal on carbon. Bikes and bodies piled into me from behind after I had completed my acrobatic 360 degree tumble and I quickly scrambled to the ditch to avoid further damage. The scene was like something from a war-zone. It took me a few seconds to confirm that all my limbs were still in place, though all four were minus varying amounts of skin. My right knee had taken the main impact and a large area the size of my hand was cut red raw with road rash. My bike too was looking worse for wear, that is once I could locate in under the pile of others in the middle of the road. The lovely shiny new Dura Ace wheel that I had taken out of the box two days previously was a crumbled mess and my handlebars looked like they´d been gnawed on by a Great White Shark. I guessed that the bike wasn't fit for the run in to home so when trusty team mechanic Fionn appeared with two wheels I asked him to bring me a spare bike. He duly returned with his own bike taken from the team car roof (now that´s dedication to the cause) which I gingerly mounted and cycled the final few kilometres to the finish line with a saddle that was about 4 inches too low, assessing my injuries and ruing my misfortune.

I lost just over 3 minutes to the winner, some lad called Taco from out of town who´d powered up the home straight with the chasing pack out of shot. My first port of call after the finish line was to the Order of Malta ambulance to be attended to by the race doctor and the attending paramedics. I managed to win that race and was first to be seen. Ten litres of antiseptic spray and a roll of band-aids later I was sent on my way but not before being advised by the local town simpleton to try some nettles on my wounds- as if I had´t enough problems! Back at the team car all were present and accounted for. Jamie had punctured early on and had fought valiantly to re-join but with no success. Brian got caught up in another crash but without being involved directly. Manuel was only sporting a muddied pair of shorts from his fall and Stephen had been in my group only to lose contact shortly before I met my Waterloo. All in, it was an eventful day yet we were reasonably content to be able to cycle the 10km back to Mullingar to our hotel as a cool down.

Back at Camp Orwell, our super soigneurs Mary and my girlfriend Aishling awaited with smiles and some level of sympathy ("ah sure you´ll be grand, it´s only a scratch" aforementioned girlfriend said as I recounted my brush with death and the lost certainty of winning the first stage of the 2016 Rás.) Taco didn't know how lucky he was!

Stage 2: Mullingar to Charleville: A Date with Damien

Stage 2 sign-on was in the disused army barracks in Mullingar town. First port of call that morning was back to the ambulance to seek fresh bandages for my war wounds. Mary, the friendly paramedic, who by coincidence hailed from Ballinteer, was more than happy to tend to my "near fatal" wounds. My little visits to the ambulance for bandaging were to become a feature of the week. Poor Mary showed great patience with me! Earlier in the morning Stephen Barry had announced his departure from the race due to a family emergency. In difficult circumstances for him he had visited the room of each team member and wished us the very best for the rest of the race, advising us to grasp the opportunity that was in front of us. It was a very moving gesture.

On the start line in Mullingar town, Taco was looking resplendent in his race leader’s yellow jersey while I sported a new replacement Orwell jersey that was only handed over by our Directeur Sportif after I first produced evidence of my written-off original and had faxed photographic evidence of my wounds and a Garda accident report to the club committee in Dundrum!

Once the flag went down it was hammer and tongs again. I have a recollection of the National Champion Damien Shaw going on a solo effort up the main Mullingar to Tullamore road before obviously realising that even he wouldn´t be capable of time trialing solo the full 183.7km to the finish line. The attacks were frequent and helped drive the pace well over 46km/hr for the first hour. My legs were feeling pretty good again and I even found myself following Conor Dunne from the JLT Condor Team up the road on a little break at one stage. That lasted about 3 seconds before it ran out of steam. My next rush of blood to the head was when I chased across a small gap to Chris McGlinchey. The chasing pack let us go for about 4 seconds this time. Taco could sense the danger and wasn´t taking any chances. I dropped back into the pack and told myself to cop on and conserve my energy.

It took well over an hour for the break to establish on the stage and surprisingly it consisted of only two riders and neither a pro. ASEA´s Brian McCrystal followed UCD´s Eoin Morton up a short climb on a narrow road ahead of the pack and all of a sudden the peloton decided to sit up and admire the Offaly countryside. The pace became pedestrian and no doubt the two county riders rubbed their hands with glee as they set off to establish a gap. No better men for the job. The rest of us sauntered along the narrow country roads, some riders even pulled in for a nature break. One could have whipped out the picnic basket and had a sandwich the pace was so slow. This continued for some time until a few kilometres before Nenagh when the speed picked up after word of a 6 minute gap filtered back from the moto marshals. I was on the wheel of Damien Shaw in the middle of the bunch on a grass lined boithrín (that´s a small country road for the Dubs reading this) when someone messed up a bottle grab and came down in front of the shamrock wearing national champ. The end result was a second crash in two stages for me though this time I was lucky enough to have Mr. Shaw cushion my fall meaning that only minimum damage was done and Mary wouldn´t have to sell the ambulance to finance more bandages to wrap me in.

In the short time that I was out of action, entangled with Mr. Shaw on the ground, a gap opened with the main bunch and I was forced to chase back on through the cars with a few more unfortunate souls as we entered Nenagh town. As we reached the main street the cars started backing up and closing off the path for me to get through to the pack and in a split second decision I swerved through some street furniture bollards and zipped along the paved pathway as I roared at spectators and shoppers to get out of my way. The scene was a bit like something from a Hollywood car chase as on-lookers dived for cover into shop doorways. A gap in the bollards opened up and I hopped out on to the street again feeling that I´d probably caused enough Tipperary hearts to quicken already. Shortly after I made it back to the relative comfort of the peloton and tried to make my way through the pack before the only categorised climb of the day.

That category three climb proved a step too far for me and a fairly large section of the pack as a couple of pro teams drilled it from top to bottom. The climb was only a couple of km´s long but was very steep in spots. A large group of locals had gathered in various spots to witness the pain on the faces of the riders, a good indication that this was a known tortuous path for local cyclists. As the elite pack opened a gap I collected my breath, licked my wounds and joined in with some fallen comrades and started on the lonely road to Charleville but now without the buffer of bunch of skinny pros to set the pace and break the wind. Our grupetto expanded in the following km´s as riders joined from behind or we swallowed up riders from ahead. The initial gusto of many riders to lead a chase soon gave way to wheel sucking and generally loitering at the rear. A few small groups jumped off the front and I found myself in the third one of these. My energetic companions were Shane O´Neill from Nenagh and Paul Kennedy from Velo Revolution. We puts the heads done and opened a gap from the larger group behind, making our way south through east Limerick villages and towns to be greeted by curious farmers staring over hedges and cheering school kids enthusiastically waving green An Post flags.

It felt good to be pushing on like this in our own little group, turning honestly, making our own way and not sitting in and letting the race pass us by...at least that´s what my naive little 2 day old Rás legs were telling me! The km´s fell away from us and eventually we soaked up a few more riders due to our gaisce though we were still some 10 minutes down on the leaders when we crossed the finish line inside the county of Cork. We made 4 minutes on the larger group we had escaped from but the effort expended would only be found out in days to come. Tired and drained after four and a half hours in the saddle, we soon heard that those brave county men that had broken away from the peloton on the by-ways of Offaly some hours before had managed to evade the baying pack and strike a blow for suffering county men of the Rás. A stage win for Morton and another what-might-have-been for the likable and indestructible McCrystal. Back at base we settled into the routine of massage, dinner, bed and settled down to recover and prepare for the road to Dingle in the morning.

Stages 3: Charleville to Dingle: Manuel's Angels

The sun was shining again on the morning of Stage 3. For the second day in a row, we felt like we were racing on the continent and not on this mild, moist island all Irish cyclists are so used to. Our team had lodged at the Charleville Park Hotel the previous night which was the official starting point for the race that morning. This meant a handy sign-on and minimum fuss before the race. Fionn had set up a couple of rollers outside the hotel and beside the team van, an hour or so before the race and after I had filled my pockets with energy gels, slices of homemade fruit cake (that had been specially baked by my mother the week before the race) and various other sources of nutrition I set my bike up on the rollers and got the legs warmed up for the stage ahead. We almost felt like pro's that morning with the sun shining down on us and the local crowds milling about taking in the buzz of the Rás. Alas that feeling wasn't to last so long as the race once again started at full pelt and many of us mere mortals clung on for dear life to the peloton. I managed ok for the first half hour or so until the race hit a long drag. I felt that ominous feeling of drifting back in the peloton as we neared the top of the climb and just made it over the top with the main bunch. The relief was short lived as a second drag loomed after a short respite downhill. This time I was starting from near the back of the field and soon riders stopped passing me out. Instead a gap opened between me and the rider in front, a gap that continued to widen. Brian Mc had been one of the last riders to pass me and had tried to coax me to hold the wheel in front. This was all to no avail and so Brian pressed on the pedals and closed the gap up to the rider himself. I watched helplessly as the gap grew and the peloton pressed on regardless. I cursed gravity, I cursed my 85kg human frame, I regretted all those extra helpings of dessert that I rarely passed up. I rued not having the quad muscles of Brian McCrystal. Stage 3 had pretty much ended for me before it began!

I hadn't been the only one to be abandoned by the peloton that morning. A whole army of county riders had been spat out from the main bunch before me and some followed afterwards too. I pressed on amid the team car cavalcade for a while trying to use the advantage of the cars to make it back to the bunch along with other willing conspirators. The catch seemed likely for a while but the main bunch obviously kept up the pace and I never made it past car no. 6 before the gap opened again and I was all alone on the way to Dingle. I rode alone for some 10km over the Cat 3 climb at the 50km mark, past my parents and youngest sister Siobhán who had travelled down from Galway that morning. They stood at the roadside sporting a maroon & white flag and proffering drinks and snacks to me as I rode by, a sorry sight, some minutes back from the action, annoyed that I hadn't stayed with the bunch until at least I'd past them. Regardless I trudged on and eventually picked up a rider from DID Dunboyne. We worked well together and by coincidence collected a second Dunboyne rider some km's down the road.

We pressed on past the mid way mark of the stage with an average speed still well above 40km/hr until a larger group of county riders caught us from behind. There were some decent riders in that group which didn't make me feel so bad about being left behind so early in the stage. The group worked reasonably well together, with the inevitable few dangling off the rear, conserving their energies, and we made our way through the outskirts of Tralee and on to Blennerville and the road to the Conor Pass. One of the results of being left in a group to the rear of a race like this was that you often no longer had motorcycle marshalls or Garda outriders clearing the route ahead of you. Here we were, a group of maybe 15 riders, racing in an international road race and we were sharing the road with midday Kerry traffic. This was particularly noticeable as we came into towns and villages where the main race body had passed through maybe 10 or 15 minutes previous to us. In the intervening period normality had been restored and the locals and repossessed the streets. Often, if no lead car was present you'd have to watch out for the yellow and black race directional arrows tied to a lamp-post or road sign to guide you on your way and if you happened to hit a traffic jam on the street, then tough luck, you'd just have to race around it and take your chances. Yes, the whole "feeling like a pro" didn't last that long that day alright!

The Cat 1 climb of the Conor Pass loomed large ahead of throughout that stage. The original plan had been to stay with the peloton until the base of the climb and just take it from there but as many of us were learning, the Rás peloton was nothing if not impatient and so by the time we made it to the base of the Conor Pass I had expended more than my fair share of energy. As the climbing began many of those aforementioned wheel suckers flexed their unstressed leg muscles and began dancing up the climb ahead of me. From the group that I'd started the climb with I was third last to reach the summit. I wasn't particularly worried and just kept my own pace. The local Kerry cycling fraternity gave me a warm welcome for the last 500m to the top, gave me a tingle down my spine and spurred me over the KOM finish line and down the far side. The descent to Dingle was refreshing and exhilarating. I barely pulled the brake levers from top to bottom and kept the speed up as much as possible to prevent anyone from catching me from behind. I rode into Dingle alone some 20 plus minutes behind the stage winner. I learnt that Brian Mc and his damned lithe climbers body had excelled on the stage, he had been in an elite group only a couple of minutes behind the winner. Manuel & Jamie came in in a large group of county riders only a minute behind me. They had been breathing down our necks for a lot of the stage without us really knowing it.

Ronan with his sister Siobhan (Photo with thanks to Tommie)

At the finish line I met with my parents and sister as well as my friend Tommie from Galway who had come south for a few days to follow the race and offer his support. Our usual support crew were at the line to give us immediate sustenance in the form of protein shakes and cans of coke. As we mingled and relaxed in the warm Dingle sunshine, the earlier efforts seemed like a distant memory. A couple of loitering American girls, commandeered the photogenic Manuel for a photo...our own Gallician maestro looked every inch the professional with his tanned skin and dark features, certainly more so than us milky white locals anyway! I couldn't resist photobombing the shoot much to the chagrin of girlfriend Aishling. Soon after it was back to the hotel for more R&R. Three stages down, five to go.

Stage 4 Dingle to Sneem: The Curious Case of the Safety Pin and the Toenail

The morning before stage 4 was pretty un-noteworthy. The only hiccup was a rattle in my front wheel which I picked up during the warm-up. Fionn was on hand as always and found a loose and bent spoke a result of my collision with Damien Shaw a couple of stages previously. He swapped my wheel for a spare belonging to one of the lads. I had already gone through my own two front wheels and wasn't even half way through the race! Once the flag dropped on the stage the usual suspects ramped up the pace at the front. There was a Cat 3 climb earmarked for 10km into the stage and it was the intention of all suffering county riders to make it over with the pro's. On this occasion I started in a good position in the bunch and kept that position over the top of the climb. Next up was the Cat 1 Ballaghisheen Pass some 80km into the stage. Before this the peloton snaked it's way through Castlemaine, Killorglin and Glencar. The pace was high throughout and I found the going tough on the short sharp ramp up through Killorglin and the following drag where the peloton lined out.

The route to Glencar brought us on some winding narrow roads a midst beautiful Kerry landscapes and before we hit that Cat 1, that man McCrystal was at it again. He jumped off the front with a few more big names and yet again the pros sat up for a pee and a chat! This time the break was short lived and soon the pace picked up again. However on one of the very narrow and steep sections the peloton came to an almost stop and many riders had to clip out to keep their balance. Unluckily for me my chain slipped and by the time I got moving again I had lost position at the front of the field and now found myself languishing at the rear as the big boys pressed the accelerator at the front. I clung on under severe pressure until the base of the Cat 1 climb where I bid adieu to the peloton. Jamie and Manuel also came a cropper on the run in to the climb and we effectively ended up making the ascent in a group together. My family were waiting at the top of the climb to cheer us on as was the ever supportive John Busher, Jamie's father, who had fallen into the role of bottle supplier, deputy team mechanic, photographer and general morale booster for the week. As I crested the summit of the climb one of the team cars passed me out and the driver shouted to me to take care on the descent as race radio was announcing a crash down below. Sure enough bodies and bikes lay in ditches and entwined in barbed wire fences on the first few corners of the climbs. Bruised and battered riders were also re-mounting their bikes with noticeable gashes on their legs and arms and swathes of cloth missing from their jerseys. We were later to learn that the unfortunate Colm Cassidy riding with the Galway ITAP team was one of those prostrate riders, having broken his leg. Cycling was a tough man's sport.

Jamie, Manuel & I pushed on regardless and collected other riders en route. We made the finish line in Sneem in good shape, all three of us putting in plenty of turns at the front but still having enough energy to sprint for the very minor places some time back on the main bunch. I was second to the line of our group behind Robin Kelly from Waterford. You had to grasp the little things when you were small fry. At the other end of the field McCrystal & co. had failed to stay away however the 90kg Louth man had taken enough KOM points to wear the mountain jersey the following day, some feat for a man-mountain amongst a peloton of skinny assed pro's. Our own Brian Mc had once again excelled in the mountainous terrain and lost only minutes on the stage winner. That evening we retired to the Sneem Park Hotel which was situated literally at the stage finish line. The hotel was hopping with activity. In the queue for the dinner I got chatting to Martin Irvine, former track cycling World Champion and professional cyclist as well as Rás stage winner. He had retired from the sport earlier in the year and was now driving a sponsor around the race for the week. He was friendly and chatty and a great ambassador for the sport.

Sprint for the minor places in Sneem (Photo with thanks to John Busher)

Earlier in the evening a very simple task had set me up for a complicated and painful evening. I had been on my way into the adjacent hotel room for an ice bath and my post race leg rub when I whipped a towel off the back of a chair to bring with me. Unfortunately for me the chair tipped over and its hard timber edge landed straight on to the cuticle of my left big toe. I cursed and swore as I felt the blood and pain swell in my toe. The ice bath gave me temporary respite but as the evening wore on the pain became more noticeable and the black blood showed beneath the nail. I was beginning to think that I was the most unfortunate rider left in the race. My legs and elbows were covered with road rash from falls earlier in the week and now I was hobbling around with a dodgy toe. Before going to bed I took a safety pin, normally used to hold my jersey numbers in place and starting picking at the offending toenail with the sharp point to see if I could puncture the nail and release the pressure beneath. It took me some time and grimacing to pick a hole in the nail but eventually I saw a slight red hint of blood which quickly clotted. There was no relief. I gave up and retired to bed. I tossed and turned for a while but couldn't drift off due to the throbbing in my foot. I tried to find some painkilling tablets in my bag with no luck. Eventually I dressed in shorts and t-shirt and made my way to the hotel lobby where the Rás "night stage" was in full swing. I soon located one of the race doctors, Julian who was chatting with a group of relaxing race and team officials. I advised him of my woes and he duly gave me a shopping list. "Come back with a cigarette lighter and a large safety pin" he advised me. A few minutes later I found myself seated in the lobby of the hotel with that cigarette lighter lit in my hand and my ailing foot propped up on a radiator as Dr. Julian brought the blunted end of the safety pin to a red hot molten state. One onlooker held a phone as a spotlight on my big toe while another used his to record this late night surgery for posterity. "It must be red hot" advised Dr. Evil as the pin point got redder and redder and I inhaled and forgot to exhale. Eventually he stabbed the pin at my blackened nail and within a few seconds he punctured it and out spurted a large pool of blood, covering the hotel radiator and floor and splattering my ankle, such was the pressure beneath. The blood thirsty audience were satisfied and returned to their pints while I felt some relief. A couple of painkillers later I was back in bed and sleeping. The next morning I filled the team in on my late night exploits. "So did you sleep well afterwards?" asked Aishling. "Not great" I responded. "No wonder with the fire alarm going off for ages" she replied...."What fire alarm?" I said. I had never heard it! I guessed the infamous Rás fatigue and the injuries were catching up on me.

Stage 5 Sneem to Clonakilty: View from Behind

The morning began with the now customary visit to the Order of Malta ambulance. Mary was waiting with fresh bandages for my wounds. This time however I had the added complication of a still throbbing big toe. The second race doctor took a syringe to the nail and took out some more blood and gave me an anti-inflammatory for good measure. I was feeling a bit nauseous with the pain and not at all in the mood for riding a bike for 4 hours. I got only a short warm-up complete before the race director was calling the riders to the start line. There I ended up standing beside Brian McCrystal in his "polka dot" jersey. I wished him well for the stage. If only I'd tied a tow rope to his saddle while congratulating him on his feat of yesterday! The following four plus hours proved to be some of the most challenging I'd spend on a bike since taking up road racing some 18 months previously. I was shelled out the back of the peloton after less than 30 minutes of frantic racing that morning. I reckon there were probably no more than 10 riders behind me on the road when that happened. The pack were to tackle the Cat 2 Caha Pass after only 40 kms but I had already been spat out the back a few km's outside Kenmare.

During our brief tour of Kenmare the pace had been so high that the peloton had lined the town in single file stretching from one end to the other like a daisy chain. I could only imagine the pleasurable sight witnessed by tourists and locals alike that morning as they gaped from the pavement. I on the other hand was in hell. I lost contact with the pack on a long drag soon after, my aching legs feeling like they were pedalling up Alpe d'Huez and not some minor blip in the road. I'd managed to get into the cavalcade after that and scrape back onto the back of the peloton but the omens weren't looking good. Sure enough at the next minor incline I faltered again and this time there was no coming back. A gap opened and soon I was alone and struggling. Team cars whizzed by. A rider who had suffered a mechanical sat on the back of a car bumper and casually tracked back to the peloton. I on the other hand was in meltdown.

A slow moving team car came abreast of me at the base of the Caha Pass and soon after followed Aidan Crowley & Ciarán Power, two veterans of the cycling scene. Crowley was on his 19th Rás, a permanent fixture in the race for two decades. Power had been a top level pro, raced the Giro and had the highest placing of any Irish cyclist in the Olympics road race. He had returned to Irish club cycling in recent years and was making his return to the Rás having won it twice in his hay-day. He had collected the county rider prize on the first stage with a super sprint as I clawed my way back from that late pile-up. And now here they were, the two veterans stuck with a struggling ex-hurler turned cyclist from Galway on his first Rás who could hardly spin the pedals. We collected a few more stragglers as we ascended the Caha Pass and on the descent I got some much needed recovery. The legs still felt like lead once we hit the rolling parcours however and as we tried to make it back to a bigger group up ahead I struggled. The two lads recognised the pain I was under and Crowley offered words of encouragement and even told me to "sit-in for a while and recover" while Power gave me the occasional push to keep me going. There was more camaraderie here at the back of the race than I'd ever experienced at the cutting edge of any contest. We were all in this together and we were leaving no man behind! Eventually we did collect a few more riders and the pace quickened. We were still the last group on the road and some calculations from the main men had us borderline for the chop. If we had a finishing time greater than 120% of that of the stage winner, we would be eliminated from the race. And the commissaires had been ominously towing the line all week with a number of riders eliminated already. To compound matters we had collected an official race lead car and upon questioning the driver he advised that he was out of radio contact. This meant that the race was so far up the road that he couldn't receive a signal from race radio. There were some murmurings from Power et al. I took the situation to be serious. We all got down to business and started rolling through. The route was lumpy and I found the going tough. As we entered Skibbereen we saw a large group of riders ahead and knew that we were making ground. The lads whooped and hollered like gold-diggers in the Wild West who had just hit a vein of solid gold. The rear of the race certainly wasn't where you wanted to be everyday but it sure was entertaining. I felt a growing affinity for the unfeted county riders of the Rás.

The miles rolled by and eventually our enlarged group, which now included Manuel & Jamie, reached Clonakilty and the finish line after a lap of the town and an unwanted ascent of the Cat 2 McCurtain Hill where I suffered some more. As I crossed the finish line I knew I was lucky to have survived considering how badly my legs had felt that day. My Rás life had flashed before my eyes and I had come out the other side. I lay on the front lawn of a random house at the finish line, utterly spent, drinking in the sunshine and respite of the freshly mown grass and already concerned for what lay ahead tomorrow. I had to be dragged from that lawn by girlfriend Aishling and packed on my way to the hotel for rest & recovery.

Stage 6 Clonakilty to Dungarvan: "That's Racing"

As I walked through the hotel lobby in Clonakilty on another fine summer's morning before Stage 6 I was intent on not getting caught in the same scenario as the day before. My body was tired but I'd had a decent night's sleep with no late night surgery or other drama to keep me awake. I vowed to get a good warm-up in before this morning's stage. Unlike yesterday I needed to be at the rhythm of the race from the very off. I decided to forgo the customary visit to the ambulance this morning. My cuts were healing pretty well on both legs, the worst one on my right knee now had a healthy scab and the knee joint wasn't as swollen as it had been earlier in the week. Besides there would be no need for the bandaging today. Aishling had assured me earlier that morning that I wouldn't crash today, it was a guarantee!

I put in a solid half hour warm-up out the road from Clonakilty. At first my legs felt dead and unresponsive and I could feel the fear welling in my chest momentarily. Was I destined for another day trying to out cycle the Broom Wagon, that vehicle feared by all competitive cyclists? As I pedaled on I could feel the lactic acid from yesterday's effort drain from my legs and gradually my power returned and I gained a bit of confidence for the stage ahead to Dungarvan. Back at the hotel I jumped right behind the lead car as it made it's way towards the ceremonial start in the centre of the town. When we reached the start line I was on the very front row between yesterday's stage winner, a tall Dutch lad and Ian Richardson of UCD, the leading county rider in the race. I felt a bit out of place as the TV cameras panned back and forth across the front of the peloton but I was taking no chances this morning. I was starting as I meant to go on.

We were given the off a few minutes later and once outside the town proper the flag dropped and the race was on. Immediately, riders tore up the wide main road attempting to get away. After only 6km's the route took up on a sharp left down a narrow country road. Soon afterwards a stream of pro's with their heads down rode straight over a crater like pothole that caused a string of punctures. Further drama was to unfold further up the road when a couple of the UCD and ASEA riders at the front of the peloton appeared to take a bad line around a corner and clipped a narrow bridge across a stream. Riders came to a halt and the resulting back-up caused a split in the peloton. I was caught on the wrong side of this split and was forced to chase back on for a number of kilometres with a large cohort of riders through scenic rural Cork. We had no sooner rejoined the front group when we encountered a nasty drag that further tested my already tired body. Things were looking ominous for a brief period when the Neutral Service car passed us out, a sign that we had reached the back of the peloton and were now slipping into the cavalcade. Manuel and Jamie were in the same boat as me and for a while I thought here we go again. Only half an hour gone and we'll be out on our own for the day. But for some reason on this occasion, the peloton sat up for a brief period which allowed us to rejoin. I immediately made a beeline for the front of the pack and vowed not to leave it for the day or at least until my legs gave in completely.

The race continued a pace after that. A breakaway group formed that consisted of Irish rider Eddie Dunbar and ITAP main man Daire Feeley along with a couple of pros. Feeley was only 19 years old but had been lighting up the race from Stage 1. The diminutive Roscommon man was one of the strongest riders on the Irish scene over the past two years despite his tender years and seemed completely unfazed by the step up in class that the Rás brought. He attacked constantly and more often than not succeeded in getting in some break or other. By the end of the race he was to finish as the second ranked county rider which was an exceptional achievement considering the amount of energy he expended each day trying to get up the road. With the break of the day formed the Tirol Team of the yellow jersey holder Clemens Frankhauser came to the front to lead the chase and limit the time gap to the riders up the road. Dunbar for one, was one of the top placed riders on GC so it was in the Austrian teams interests to keep a tight rein on proceedings. The route today was undulating with a Cat 3 climb at 36km and further Cat 3's at 95 and 128km respectively. I made it over the first of these in good shape and worked hard for the following 50km or so to hold a good position in the bunch as the second major climb of the day loomed. I was regularly rubbing shoulders with some of the pros and strong county riders at the front of the pack and as the race rolled on I started to re-gain some of my confidence after the low of Stage 5 the previous day.

My situation was soon to change for the worse however and from an unexpected angle. Some two hours in to the stage I was at the front right hand side of the peloton no more than 20 riders from the front when we hit a small drag on a narrow country road. One second I was seated on the bike digging deep to hold my position in the relentless train that was the peloton, the next I had this strange sensation of my bike being sucked from me and then I was sent hurtling over the handlebars landing spreadeagled on the road. I was flummoxed. I had no idea what had just happened. I sprang to my feet and quickly assessed the damage to body and bike as the peloton streamed by. The large patch of road rash on my right knee from earlier in the week had been re-opened and I had gained new road rash on my left knee and shin. Both of my elbows were cut and blood streamed down my two arms. I looked down at my bike which was a tangled mess. My lovely Mavic rear wheel was almost doubled over from the impact, the rim split in a number of spots. My front wheel had come away from the fork with the force of the impact even though it hadn't been directly hit. It had four or five spokes missing. The rear derailleur of the bike was hanging lifelessly, it's hanger having snapped on impact. I didn't have time to fully assess the damage but I knew that I wouldn't be getting up on this bike and riding back to the security of the peloton any time soon.

I stood in the road, a bit dazed and confused. Someone picked my sunglasses up from the road and handed them to me. They had been thrown from my head with the impact and the lens were scratched and the frames were at all angles. These were the smart pair of Oakleys that I had treated myself to the week before the Rás. I stuffed them in my back pocket, their new found condition on serving to madden me more.

There wasn't a sign of a rider on the road as I tried to process what had just happened and simultaneously pedal my way back in to the race. It didn't take long for me to realise that the bike I'd been given was too small for me. I looked back the road for my team car not knowing if it had already passed and missed me in the commotion. Eventually it came into view. I pulled into the verge again and signalled for it to stop. I dismounted my temporary replacement and launched it with some venom into the ditch. If you've seen Peter Sagan after his Vuelta motorcycle incident of last year then that might have been me at this point. Alas it's the only comparison I'll ever get with the current World Champion! Fionn appeared with a spare bike from the roof of the car, one that had been set up to roughly match my saddle height. I hopped on board and my team car followed. This spare bike felt like the saddle was positioned too high so I asked Fionn to adjust it on the move. He duly hung out the window with allen key in hand as I clung to the window frame with the car hurtling along a narrow road at maybe 50km/hr. The exercise proved difficult but eventually the saddle was brought to a suitable height and I retired to the car bumper to see if I could draft back onto the bunch, an unlikely feat considering that I had lost several minutes with the incident. We soon hit the second Cat 3 of the day and I signalled the team car to carry on without me. My race was run here. It was a matter of making it over the climb then joining in with some group or other to struggle home within the time limit. Aside from the cuts, my left Achilles was now in pain. I'd aggravated it somehow the week before the race but had been getting by with a bit of strapping and minimum pain. After this latest crash however I felt a sharp pain in it with every pedal stroke. I pedalled on regardless.

I came across DCC rider Damien Travers soon after. I knew Damien from the racing circuit over the past two years. We had been in the break together at the Des Hanlon A2 earlier that year. We were a million miles now from a race leading break as we huffed and puffed our way towards Damien's home town of Dungarvan. He'd been caught up in my traffic jam and lost his place in the peloton too.

Passing through the town of Rathcormac I noticed an ambulance on the left hand side of the road. A bloodied rider from the UK based professional team of Velo was being stretchered into the back after impacting with a stationary van. This lad's race was over. At least I was still in the game I told myself though I silently wondered how I might next come a cropper; get run over by a wild horse perhaps, cycle over a cliff maybe!

With some 60km to the finish me and a few of the DCC boys latched onto a group of county riders who lost contact with the peloton on the second Cat 3. Manuel and Jamie were in this group. Same story different day then. We trudged on towards the finish line working well together. My legs were feeling good despite the crash. I rued what might have been. As we neared the town of Dungarvan and the finish line one of the Waterford riders, Keith Gater, passed down through the bunch and proposed that we let the two local DCC lads lead us into town. The proposal was met with nods of approval. Travers and his teammate came to the front with 2km to go and drilled it to the finish line, the rest of us stuck in behind, and the local crowd cheering them on. We may have been coming in to the very minor placings some 20 minutes behind the big shots but it was a nice gesture from Gater and a fitting one for two local hardy "men of the Rás".

Back at the team car, my mangled bike perched on the car roof rack, the back wheel bowed like a concertina. The team retired to our self catering house on the outskirts of the town where we noted a small crack on the chainstay above where the rear derailleur should sit. I would have to look for another bike for the rest of the race.

Stephen Barry's bike got me through the second half of the stage but I didn't want to use if indefinitely; knowing my luck I'd write it off in no time and leave poor Stephen high and dry for a bike! I made a call to my old bike shop in Galway to see if they could sort me out with a frame. Fionn reckoned that the all the bits from my bike could be transferred to a new frame, bar the wheels of course. Nigel from Nigel's Cycles in the city came up trumps advising me that he had a brand new LaPierre frame in stock that was a direct replacement for my existing damaged one. I made the purchase there and then and arranged for my long suffering father to transport it to Dungarvan that night by pony express. Alas this was a far cry from a professional team where a shiny new bike would have been rolled out of the back of the team van!

Later at the race dinner the word spread about my earlier incident. County riders that I'd never spoken to before came up to me and offered their sympathy. The ASEA team manager noticed my new limp and open wounds and went out of his way to provide bandages and anti-inflammatories. The support from various sources was appreciated.

My father arrived at half eleven from Galway with the new frame. He drank a cup of tea and headed back towards Galway, his son in the race for another day at least. I handed the new frame over to poor Fionn who duly stayed up half the night building my new machine. True to his word a new bike lay assembled for me the following morning. It was like a scene from the fairytale The Elves and the Shoemaker. The only hiccup was that my chainset had been damaged beyond use during the crash, another indication of the forces involved. Fionn's own Dura-Ace chainset was now attached to my bike. The Elf really was pulling out all the stops for me!

Stage 7 Dungarvan to Baltinglass: One (Painful) Step Closer to Skerries

The overnight rains in Dungarvan gave way to a bright morning. As we cycled the few kilometres to the town that morning from our lodgings my body was feeling the effects of the day before. Despite another pre-race anti inflammatory my Achilles' tendon was biting with each pedal stroke. I also had developed a saddle sore on my "barse" over the course of the week and this too was causing me trouble (my nursing qualified girlfriend assured me this was the correct medical term for the area between one's backside and their "frontside"; who was I to question her!) . All in, I was feeling like a bit of a crock. Before the start I rekindled my relationship with Mary the friendly paramedic. She welcomed me back with open arms and a fresh mesh bandage for my wounds.

The carnival like atmosphere at the start line in the town served to brighten the mood somewhat. A trio of jazz musicians entertained the tired cyclists and curious shoppers alike before we were sent on our circuitous route to Baltinglass. The starting flag dropped shortly afterwards and there was no let up in the pace despite this being the penultimate stage of the 8 day race. There was a long uncategorised climb leading out of Dungarvan that was taken at such pace that it could have been a downhill. Numerous riders launched off the front of the peloton only to be swallowed up shortly after. McCrystal was at it again early on. I clearly remember his standout luminous helmet and shoes disappearing up the road for a period before being hauled back by the chasing posse.

My legs were feeling pretty good this morning though anytime I stopped pedalling I winced with pain to get them going again thanks to my inflamed Achilles. Lucky for me then that there wasn't much freewheeling involved from the start. I tried to keep my position at the front of the field from early on and even contemplated trying to get in one break or other during the first furious hour but thankfully I showed some cop-on for a change and restrained myself. We were some 55km into the race when the big boys really ramped up the pressure on a long drag on the way out of the Kilkenny village of Mullinavat. It was a familiar tale for me and numerous other county men who couldn't hack the pace. We were left to our own devices with some 100km to the finish line and the ominous ascent of Mount Leinster waiting for us before that. It seemed that the many days of hard cycling were getting to all involved as our group included a couple of Asea boys and some more heavy hitters who wouldn't be so used to making up numbers in a race.

I was re-united with my Orwell teammates Jamie & Manuel in the group as well as former team-mate Derek Joyce from Galway Bay CC but riding with Team iTap for this Rás. Brian Mc ended up slightly ahead of us on the road for the day, riding solo for a good section. Generally lads turned well in our group and we kept a decent pace with some of the more seasoned campaigners keeping us in check up and over Mount Leinster. The climb was a long affair particularly towards the end of a gruelling week and I was more than relieved to reach the top of the climb and grab a can of Coke from a generous and supportive onlooker. Any hopes of a handy downhill run in to the finish were scuppered shortly after as we encountered rolling terrain all the way to the finish line. A few in the bunch got a bit energetic in the final 10km or so which lined us out for a while. Surprisingly I had enough in the tank to close down a few gaps and still get up for 3rd in our mini sprint. I think stage winner Eddie Dunbar had received his podium kisses and bouquet of flowers by the time we crossed the line but nevertheless me and the lads were relieved to have another stage out of the way with only 150km now lying between us and the finish line at Skerries.

Stage 8 Kildare to Skerries: Hard Left Turn

Team headquarters was in Carlow last night ahead of a start in Kildare town this morning. We rolled out from Kildare at midday, an hour later than normal to facilitate a late afternoon arrival into Skerries and an expected large crowd of onlookers. The route today was billed as being a flat one yet there were in fact 5 Cat 3 climbs en route, one at 80km, one close to Skerries at 100km and then 3 ascents of Black Hills on the circuits in the coastal Dublin town. As always,the pace was hot from the off. Any hopes of a procession to the finish line with the yellow jersey holder quaffing champagne and puffing cigars as per the parade into Paris on the final day of the Tour de France were soon dashed as rider after rider jumped off the front. It took some 40km of racing before the break finally formed but before that both Brian McArdle and I tried our luck at getting involved. Brian and his breakaway companions lingered out in front for a km or so before being reunited. My initial was a bit shorter than that. I spotted Brian McCrystal moving up through the field at one stage and decided to jump on to his wheel. Before I could one of the NFTO pros got to it first and jumped in behind. McCrystal put on one of his trademark diesel engine surges that put NFTO boy under so much pressure that he had to move aside, giving me an almost apologetic shrug of the shoulder as he did so. I gave it everything I had to attach to myself to the wheel in front and managed to do so only before the big man decided that this particular move wasn't going to work out. With the two of us dangling marginally in front of the pack I was caught in two minds. McCrystal gave me the nod to carry on as he sat up so I duly put the head down and headed off into the unknown leading Stage 8 of the Rás.....for all of about 10 seconds. My little foray soon came to an end as a flurry of like-minded but stronger riders whizzed by. I settled back into the pack and licked my wounds as McCrystal soon after re-attacked and rode away with Conor Dunne and a handful of other heavyweights.

That breakaway was formed shortly before the well known Kildare town of Kilcock and it was on the run-in to the town that I thought if ever there was a chance to bridge across to such a break and escape the shackles of a chasing peloton it would be in a built up area with lots of street furniture and twists in the road. I was close to the front of the peloton at the time and I noticed Robin Kelly of Waterford ahead of me click down a gear or two and start to accelerate. He obviously had similar thoughts to me. I drilled it to catch his rear wheel and tucked in as close as possible. Just as I had achieved this we crested a hump in the road which I guessed was the bridge over the Royal Canal. We were really motoring and I had eyes only for the wheel in front, my view of the road ahead being blocked by the large un-cyclist like frame of Kelly, thus never realising that the bridge was immediately followed by a sharp left hand turn. My leading breakaway companion followed the course route but leaving me on a trajectory straight ahead. My back wheel locked up as I tried to wrestle the bike to follow him but in the end I was forced to abort and carry on straight ahead down a side street of the town on my own personal detour! This wasn't before a nimble bystander had thankfully jumped out of my way and avoided a nasty collision. I decided against continuing too far of course so was forced to turn around and re-join the race. By the time I made it back to the route pretty much the entire peloton had passed me by. I had gone from maybe 7th in the race to last place in the blink of an eye. There followed a furious chase to get back into the safety of the peloton where I later chatted briefly with Robin Kelly to ask how close he got to the break. He told me he had almost reached them alone. With two of us working together I guessed we might just have made it. I managed a rue smile. I had blown my chance at making the break on the final day of the Rás. While it would have been an achievement to stick with that bunch for any decent length of time it would still have been a great buzz for as long as it might have lasted.

In an unfortunate aside, my parents had detoured to Kilcock that morning on their way to the stage finale in Skerries to catch a glimpse of us as we sailed by. Unluckily for them they choose that very same hump-backed bridge to watch the race pass by and witnessed their kamikaze son as he failed to take that fateful corner. After that my poor mother was convinced that she'd never see me alive again. Three crashes, one involving a car and now this. I'm not sure if she has recovered yet!

The ride from Kilcock to Skerries was manageable. The Austrians kept the pace in check to keep the yellow jersey on the back of their man. The first and second Cat 3 climbs were manageable and just as I was thinking that I might hold on with the big boys until the final sprint, we passed through Skerries for the first time and hit the first of three ascents of Black Hills. The steep section half way up was too much for my tired legs and those of a lot of now familiar county riders. We chased with gusto back into the village but to no avail. We were left to complete the remaining two laps in a group of thirty or so. There was great support right around the circuit with the bright warm sunshine helping to flood the streets. On the final run in to town we lined up again for the sprint for minor places. I took third again, probably 103rd or more on the stage! At the finish line our trusty support crew were there to greet us for the final time as were friends and family. Eight days after rolling out from Dublin Castle, Brian, Manuel, Jamie and I had made it to Skerries after a helter skelter tour of Ireland. We embraced and posed for photos while offering salutes and nods to fellow county men who had suffered alongside us on the roads for the past week.

Final sprint into Skerries (Photo with thanks to Tommie Monahan)

My own personal Rás journey had started some 2 years previously. My mediocre club hurling career was coming to a self imposed end after another unsuccessful year with my club Castlegar; I dared not squander my entire sporting life chasing a sliothar for little reward. Instead I turned to cycling and joined Galway Bay CC. My love affair with cycling had started long before I completed my first club race with Galway Bay CC in the late summer of 2014. It started in the late 1980's, in the days of Kelly and Roche, Early and Kimmage, when the Nissan Classic had swept into Galway and we as school kids walked for miles to witness the riders fly by in the blink of an eye. My father was a keen cyclist, though he never raced, his spins often topping 100 miles on Sunday mornings. His stylish Cougar steel framed racer glistened in our garage alongside our BMX's and later mountain bikes. I spent my youth cycling around the local roads with my poor younger brother Padraig hanging on for dear life to my wheel. Formal racing never extended beyond a brief foray into mountain biking in our teens but the hurling started to suffer. Hurling was what you did in Castlegar. So my ambitions to race were set aside again only to be realised in my mid 30's. The long held ambition to race in the Rás started to come to fruition that first night I raced in that Galway Bay league race. 2015 saw me take to open racing and some 20,000km and countless training sessions and races later I had crossed the finish line at Skerries. All the long rides in hail, rain and sunshine around Connemara, the Burren and more recently the Wicklow mountains and north county Dublin had in some way paid off and I'd become a "man of the Rás". Perhaps naively I'd gone into the race hoping to make some form of impact, get in a break perhaps or even compete for a county rider prize on stage but at the end of the day maybe my biggest achievement was just to have survived and finished. It was a savagely tough and highly eventful 8 days, a truly rough ride, but in time no doubt, the rose tinted glasses will filter out the pain and I'll be left only with the many good memories.

Thanks to all the Orwell support team (including my ever patient girlfriend) for all their hard work and for getting us through the week in one piece. Thanks to all my friends and family who came out to cheer me on along the way and a special thanks to my parents for their support of me even in my sometimes life-endangering sporting endeavours.

Where to from here...Rás 2017....never say never?

All smiles on the Skierries podium (photograph with thanks to Sean Rowe)