WHY

Haven’t written a blog post in a while so I thought I’d share with you what has recently been pickling my mind.

My conundrum is pretty general, but I'm confident a lot of people have asked themselves the same question.

Why the hell do I do this?

This query tumbled into my mind as I was on the turbo in the garage, yet again, during a monotonous school weekday evening.

Initially, I think about the door confronting me as I get the turbo producing a smooth, consistent drone, registering happy numbers on my Garmin and an even power output. I’m fairly confident I could paint the door blind-folded due to the amount of hours I’ve spent sitting on my bike, staring at it. To be honest it’s not a bad door to stare at; it’s not your average door. The model is a stable door, giving you the opportunity to have a peak into my bleak back-garden if you’re feeling in that state of mind; or if you want some air circulation in the ridiculously dense atmosphere that is my garage.

I opt for it being completely closed. I spend enough time in the freezing cold and I’d rather sweat like a pig than shiver like a horse shedding flies. After all, it is a nice-looking door.

There’s a humble window in the middle of it, so I still give myself a treat once in a while: a glance into the suburban concrete-flowerbed-lawn-covered jungle.

But as my hot sweat condenses on its cold wooden surface, I wonder, in any other situation, would I have given so much thought to an inanimate object which is merely a tool to keep some things in and some things out? I ponder more deeply, why do I spend all this time only in the company of a fecking door? I could be...

...watching tv, surfing the internet, studying, pretending to study but actually watching tv and surfing the internet, making a nice meal, giving up on making a nice meal and buying an equally delicious takeaway, spending time with friends, going on facebook/twitter and annoying people who I want to be friends with or researching things which would enhance my life better than staring a stupid door...

The ball had started rolling. I couldn’t get this thought out of my peculiar mind. I wondered for days, why on earth did cycling tickle my fancy? Did I choose cycling, or did cycling choose me?

However, a few days back I had an epiphany. I had woken up late, burnt some toast, and couldn’t find ANYTHING I needed to embark on the forthcoming steady ride. An accurate way to describe my mood would be frustrated, annoyed, angry but fundamentally, grumpy.

A crisp morning greeted my scowling eyes as I slammed the garage door down and threw myself over my bike and ‘got on with it’.

I went over Craigantlet to get out of busy Belfast. It would probably rank as a Cat 3 climb in most races, but it felt like a ‘Hors Categorie’ incline on that morning. I zigzagged my way toward Newtownards, reaching the Portaferry Road, continuing along the coast. As the gradient mellowed, so did my temper. I gazed at the hundreds of birds flocking on Strangford Lough, taking a well earned rest. The sight flushed the negativity of the morning out of my system, and I was just a kid enjoying a bike ride. Nothing mattered anymore. I had no stresses, no downs, just ups.

When I got home, all the gunk in my body had been ejected onto the roads, and all the gunk in my conscience had been thrown up into the tailwind on the way back into Belfast.

I felt fresh.

I racked up my bike on the garage wall with utmost satisfaction. I had found my answer. THAT is why I do it. THAT is why I spend an incredulous amount of time staring at a green stable door. THAT is why I punish myself day in and day out, instead of livin’ it up, like you’re ‘supposed to’...

Without that ride I would have been grumpy and groggy for the foreseeable future. I may have still been in that mood now if I hadn't gone out on my bike. Without cycling I would be a raving psychopath, always annoyed and acquire little to no knowledge about doors. Without it, a few more stress lines would also be added to my forehead as well.

I hadn’t even considered how the racing element of cycling had benefited me greatly! I have met many people, travelled to many different places and have gained many a precious memory by attempting to go faster than others on my bicycle.

One of the best feelings in my life to date is the crowd at a race. Whether it be a handful of people waiting to bring their companion home after a day at a race who have nothing better to do than watch the race unfold, or hardcore enthusiasts lining the streets in some Belgian Village on a sweltering hot day; being the centre of their entertainment on the centre stage is why I went for THIS sport.

Why do you do it?

Twitter: @DanBikeStewart

Facebook: facebook.com/DanBikeStewart

Something Else

Last weekend was the National Junior Road and Time Trial Championships, the pinnacle of 2012 racing for many juniors across the country. It was based in Blackrock, a coastal town within a stone's throw away from the halfway town between the two capitals of the island: Dundalk.

I wanted to get there on Friday so I could have a scoot round the time trial circuit before the real thing on the Saturday. I was kindly granted that wish, and I set off for the TT recon just after I booked into the palace-like B&B we were staying in, opposite Dundalk's National Institute of Technology. It had a big wind turbine, which was cool.

The course felt like an original timetrial course, with a bit more added to it. The fact that it was a National TT Course meant it had to have a bit of zest, and I suppose that was what Cuchulainn CC came up with.

The lap started on the Dublin Road, a big wide expressway, exposed to the wind and with many differing road surfaces. It was a lonesome 8 miles until the first roundabout on the course, involving a tight back-the-way-you-came turn. A few kilometers later you took the second left on the junction heading for the motorway, which was even more covered in potholes and bumps, zinging the TT up a bit. At the massive motorway roundabout, you again headed back the way you came. This was a far faster turn than the one previous, as you could stay on the aero bars for the whole of the duration.

The route returned back onto the Dublin Road for the last punishing km's of the 31k course. The gradient was a mixture of flat and unwelcome drags, but a fast run-in nonetheless. It was a challenging course, and the winner on Saturday would be a worthy winner, Cuchulainn had definitely got that right.

Up at 0630, breakfast at 0700, out the door for 0800, on the turbo for 0855.  Everything ran like clockwork.  I arrived on the line at 0927, and was in the correct frame of mind to put all I had into the TT.  I had a planned to go out steady into the 8 mile headwind, then try and nail it on the run in, when everyone else would be more fatigued.

My start was a disaster. I had to wait three minutes as I was the first junior off, allowing ample time for cars waiting behind to get past. The R132 is a long, straight stretch, so upcoming cars were visible from at least a mile away.  However, when I departed at 0930, it was timed superbly so that 2 cars came out in front of me as I was setting off.

I was pissed off to say the least, and it took me a while to calm down and settle to my schedule again. The maximum time that I had lost was probably about 5 seconds, so if I lost a place by that much I would be enraged.

The 8 mile stretch was agonisingly slow. I had in my head that everyone else would be going faster at this point on the course and was only relaxed when I was travelling 50kph.  My Belgian Project Counterpart Matthew Doyle started a minute behind and every second of that timetrial, I was thinking 'he might catch me'.

At the first roundabout I saw Matthew entering as I was exiting. Had to get the finger out, he was too close. I trucked it to the next roundabout, hoping to see Doyle miles behind, but I never saw him. He was already going round the second turn as I exited. Now I was panicking.

The turn back onto the Dublin Road was another fast one, which you could stay on the aero bars for; at least that's what I thought...

300m before the turn TWO cars passed me.  It REALLY annoyed me this time, and at this stage in the test, safety was not at the top of the list, so I went round them and cut them up on the turn, surrendering for the less aerodynamic position on the bull bars.

Why the hell would you overtake someone so close to a junction?  I was going 50kph anyway so I was hardly making them go at a snail's pace behind me.  People like that on the roads need their brain checked, and maybe some analysis of what they're actually doing wouldn't go amiss; before thinking that they can perform any task just because they are in a tin box with a lawmower engine, that can go marginally faster than the machine I'm powering with just my legs.

Doyle didn't catch me.  I was happy at that.  I knew he was a better tester than me; but I'm pretty sure I would've pounced on him if he passed me, so neither of us could have finished!  I got the bronze medal, and Matthew got a silver, with the clear-cut favourite being the clear-cut winner: Ryan Mullen.

I was content with my result. The people who had deserved to beat me, had, and I performed to the best of my ability on the day.  I lost 40 seconds to Doyle, but I don't think I would have got many back if drivers had chosen to drive accordingly.

The result instilled confidence in me for the road race.  I was out on the road bike straight after lunch, giving  the road circuit a recon. The lap was quite rolly and twisty, but nothing as taxing as the torture assault courses designed by evil Belgian men which I had competed on in weeks gone by.

Sunday came and I was upbeat. The timetrial had shown my form was good, so hopefully I could maybe steal the coveted jersey in the road race. I knew Sunday was my last chance to get in the Junior World's Team. I had to deliver.

On the startline I was calm and relaxed.  I had a plan.  I had analysed the course. I was going to stick to my plan. I knew where to attack.

The course of action was simple.  Follow the other favourites for the majority of the race, get in the decisive break, attack where I decided to attack yesterday in the recon (on a steep uphill before a junction going from a cross wind to a tailwind 5k from the finish), and become an Irish Champion. Piece of Cake. However, you can never have your cake and eat it...

2km into the race, Mullen was trying one of his trademark attacks of trying to break away early, do the damage at the start, and hopefully build up enough of a buffer to stay away until the finish.  He was sneaking up the bunch and I was right on his wheel.  He attacked and I was right on his wheel.  But then it seemed much, much harder to stick to it.  I wasn't getting more fatigued, he was just getting farther and farther away.

I noticed I was starting to make a clunking noise with my chainset, a similar sound of having a very rough pedal stroke.  Now everyone was passing me.
Matthew was near the back and started pushing me saying, 'Come on, let's go!'
I knew something was wrong and waved him on.  I got off the bike and stuck my hand up.  Every car went past me.  There was no break formed yet, so where was the neutral service?  Team car 9 stopped and Mark McKinley jumped out of the car.  He found that the chain had wedged itself between the jockey wheel and the caging for it.  We got it back on and I was stuck to his car for a few kilometers.

I looked at my Garmin and was impressed when I saw 64kph reading.  Then I remembered that I was inches away from a squeaking car bumper and thought better than to look at idle stats.  The towbar was getting more and more menacing, trying to grab my front wheel as we swung around corners.  I peaked out to look up ahead and saw the ambulance (ie the back of the cavalcade) right in front.  I patiently moved up from car to car, getting closer and closer to the main bunch, which was thankfully all together.

I was just passing the comms' car, coming onto the right hander exactly 2km from the start/finish when I heard two pops, and air searing out of BOTH my tyres.  This was beyond a joke, beyond bad luck.  This was SOMETHING ELSE.

Mark stopped for me again, gave me 2 new wheels and repeated the same procedure again.

I could see the luminous green and yellow vehicle getting closer and closer but then I felt the familiar clinking that I had felt at the start of the race.  The centre of the jockey wheel and exploded.  Game over.

I had tried everything to stay in the race and it just wasn't to be.  I wasn't that disappointed when I stopped; but now, a few days after the whole episode, with an opportunity to reminisce, I was just so deflated at what happened.  I built the rode bike back up after the plane journey home last Thursday, and everything was okay.  I rode the bike on Saturday for 30km and Sunday for another 10km before the race and everything was okay.

Intact Jockey Wheel (left) and not so (right).

The time the jockey wheel managed to self-destruct was when I needed it most: in one of my most important races of the season.  It denied me a chance to get a very prestigious win under my belt.  It denied me from having a small chance of going to the Worlds.

I got quite annoyed at some juniors just giving up.  Not because they where physically incapable of completing the race, but because they thought there was no chance for them to win.  Quitters never win, winners never quit.  Ryan Mullen didn't win on Sunday, but he was in the worst state crossing the line.  I saw at least 15 cyclists mosey off the back of the bunch after deciding they had had enough of this camaraderie for one day.  I saw Ryan cramp up 3 times and fight to stay with the bunch and pull back the successful break until his body really did have enough. I respect that a lot.

'It's not where you've been, it's where you're going.'  My brother told me that.  A great quote that can be adapted to many different situations.  I mustn't look back and moan about what happened any more, I should look forward and see where I can seek redemption.  In this case I hope to win the Ulster Championships in Ballymoney; or at least collapse trying.


I think this will be my last blog for a while.  I may do one in the winter if I get bored, but I highly doubt it!  If not I will resume during the 2013 season, hopefully not needing any luck, and maybe a nice shiny new bike if anyone would be kind enough to give me one !

Until then, see you.

Dan

Practise what they Teach

Three races have been completed since my last blog post. All packed with lessons that have been learnt, calories burnt and all concluded with sore legs.

The first was deep in the Flanders, in Sint-Maria-Lierde, near the French border. Getting there, we had to cross some of the highlights of the Tour of Flanders course, including the famous, or some would say infamous, climb: The Koppenberg.

Luckily my race didn't include that climb, but it was equally as hilly. There was only a heavy cobbles section for about 6 feet, which was...enough. A climb started 1k before the finish and continued for half the course. The circuit was finished off with a bumpy downhill, surfaced in slabs of concrete, which my lower back got in a strop about after the race.

I felt good at the start, for once. It was a good day, and I was in a good mood, so I went into the race with a bang. I kept on getting into breaks, but there were always people present willing to get into the break, but unwilling to make sure it was the definitive one. Even a pasty boy, balling at them in a harsh, foreign accent wasn't enough for them to sort their life out and do some work.

The pattern of the race was attacks galore. I was determined to get in the coveted break that stayed away. I must've been in about 12 of them that day, but by about 50k, I was feeling the effects. I couldn't follow any more moves, and then I saw competitors spring off the front, get smaller and smaller, fading into the distance. THEY were in the coveted break. THEY were going to get the glory. One of THEM was going to win.

A few chase groups formed but I could only stay in the bunch, I was too spent. I finished deflated, feeling hard done by, but looking forward to the next race.

Dadizele was very close to our base in Beitem, with Sabien and Rik's friends, family and colleagues taking time out of their busy day to come and watch us pedal our bikes around the town for a few hours. Also, with a bike up for grabs and primes nearly every lap, the entry was high.

As ever, winning was high on the agenda. The arduous course tempted the same tactic: attack until you can attack no more. I got better gaps this time, and went past the finish twice thinking I'd stay away in this break, so no point going for the prime. Wrong. The dense crowds spurred on the peloton and they caught us easily.

With three laps to go, Teammate Matthew attacked going for a prime at the fast, slightly downhill finish. Surprisingly, it was unlike the other sprints for the primes and only 4 others challenged him for it, the rest of the bunch sat up. They got a gap and kept on working. I was (sort-of) happy. Again, I had squandered my energy and there was no hope of me doing well here, but at least Matthew was in with a chance.

With 2 laps to go, the attacks started and a chase group quickly formed. I was anxious that Matthew's break would be reeled in, like so many others had been during the race.

1 lap to go and the chase group had been gobbled up by the bunch. The pace was still frantic with Matthew and his other attackers were becoming more visible.

4k to go and the break was frighteningly close, they had only about 15 seconds to everyone else. This would be a cruel ending for Doyle, I thought in my head. We came to the stretched out chicane in the course and there was a crash on the second half of it. A boy from Crabbe came down hard at the front, holding up the bunch, and giving the break a lifeline. Matthew took the opportunity with both hands and stuck it to them with 2k to go (he says it was 1k, but we rode the course again the day after and I believe it was longer and into a headwind).

I rolled in with the bunch, again dissatisfied with my performance and was anxious to see how Matthew got on. I found that out instantly, greeted by Rik bellowing and Matthew grasping me as soon as he saw me.

He'd won! In Belgium! He'd beat Belgians, Frenchmen, and the majority of the US National Team. A wiry boy from Muff had beaten the best.

Celebrations were short lived, we still had another race to ride in Lauwe, and we weren't going to leave Belgium quietly.

We arrived there on a warm but humid day. I was determined to equal my teammate's success, so I changed my gameplan. I was going to leave it to the last 20k to do something.

Again, the course was lumpy. The only difference was that it was on narrow farm roads for quite a bit of the circuit.

The first attack went and it was the only attack. Three Americans got up the road and stayed there. I was still sticking to my plan and would only do something in the last stages of the race.

By 20k to go the Yanks had just under 2 minutes. It was still a bridgeable gap, with the help of a few others. I decided to attack on a climb just before the finish.

It was a prime place to attack. It was a long, winding climb, so you would be out of sight quickly. It lead onto an extensive downhill and a sharp left hander, so a gap could be built up quickly, if the bunch let up...

Which was the problem. Everyone had recognised this opportunity, and everyone was trying to get away. The maximum advantage I had was 20 or 30 seconds. I wasn't getting anywhere. I tried again at the same place, on the other laps but nothing worked.

I was trying to move up coming to the finish and stuck out like a sore thumb, exposed to the headwind, and was shunned to the bottom half of the bunch , unfortunately finishing there.

The race was filled with crashes, with only 22 racers actually finishing the race. I managed to come 23rd according to the results, but I still got my entry fee back so I wasn't complaining. Think I came around 15th so it wasn't that big a slump, or a position to brag about.

So today is my penultimate day on Belgium soil. Looking back, I have learnt a lot. I think I could've got better results with a different mindset.

During my time here I feel I have put a lot of pressure on myself to do well, going into races kicking the shit out of myself and expecting a good outcome, then feeling hard-done-by when I didn't get what I want.

With a good few races in my legs, reflecting back, I wasn't unlucky, I just should have interpreted what happened better.

For example, in Sint-Maria-Lierde, there was a long uphill section, but the other half of the course was downhill so the winner would only get away at the twilight stage of the race, when the amount of possible victors had thinned out.

The same in Dadizele. The climbs were too short to cause serious time gaps and again, telling moves would only happen when everyone was weary, and their guard had faltered.

In Lauwe, the climb was as lengthy as the one in Sint-Maria-Lierde, but the narrow roads would mean an early break would be able to get away. And I should have changed my attacking site if I wanted to bridge to the leaders, instead of predictably going hard in the same place every lap.

These are things that I'd be able to estimate before a race in Ireland, but I was too highly strung to get a result to think about them here.

There are more positives than negatives on this trip though! I have found I can match the foreign competitors physically, have improved moving up the bunch and, obviously, have been taught many lessons in this 28 day learning curve.

I'll take this opportunity to thank the people who got me here. First and foremost Dany Blondeel for getting me and Matthew here in the first place. He runs the project on basically no funds, so help for future participants would be greatly appreciated.

Sabien Himpe and Rik Masil have been great Belgian parents, feeding us (which is quite extensive if you are me), taking us to races and giving us a place of shelter has been invaluable support.

And finally, Matthew. Thanks for putting up with me 24/7 and give me lots of free stuff when you've hit the big time...if I'm not there with you.

This trip has brought my form on, so I'm looking forward to the National Championships at the weekend. It will be great to compare myself to the lads who stayed at home, and the others who got chosen for the Europeans. Let's hope I get a result!

I will probably write a blog after them also, so until then,

Tot ton hé!

Dan

Lady Luck

Since the last post, I've done two races. Both completely different, in every element.

On Sunday I went to Deinze, on a quest to break into the top 10. With 12th in the previous race, I was confident I could do it.

En route to the race my head was in a good place. Beats were flowing into my ears, getting me tuned up for the future suffering in store.

On the startline, the Garmin-Cervelo Junior Development team rolled up. Emotions were mixed. On one hand, I was pondering how much of the handlebars I could eat struggling to sit on their wheels, and on the other I judged it as a good opportunity to see how good I was compared to them. I stuck with the latter hand, and the glass-half-full mentality, with my attitude still positive before the starting signal.

The circuit was very challenging, the majority of it on concrete, so the rhythmic, 'bo-bom, bo-bom,' was ever-present during the race. The only chance for respite on the course was a wide open road, however the opportunity was snatched on the day, as it was a block headwind on that stretch.

We were off. The pace was viscous, many riders bursting for the freedom of being up the road in the break. Burn, again. My legs were overloaded with those annoying toxins for yet another time. I was still relaxed, and went for the strategy of the previous race, to hide a bit, and bide my time for my pegs to give me the thumbs up to get racing.

But it was to no avail, my legs were in a stubborn mood and just wouldn't get going. I knew this would be a hard 80k. I hid A LOT; struggling to stay in the bunch, watching in agony the countless number of participants skipping away from me, fragmenting the race to pieces.

I finished in the top 40, I believe, however I think there was a mix up with my official placing. They had me down for 60th, the last finisher, when I remember being at the front of the group I finished in. I had too much pride to follow up the error, but it would have been nice to get my entry fee back (top 
40 get €5 prizemoney, the same amount it costs to enter).

It was a race to forget, and it really pissed me off. I was angry with how poorly I had performed. I'm glad I didn't do a blog quickly after that race, as I'm sure I would've had to take it down soon after!

The days went by and my focus increased on my next race in Kooigem. I was determined to do well here. I didn't care if my legs refused to function, I was going to do well, no matter what.

I didn't listen to any music on the drive to the race, I  wanted to be completely focused on my motive
to do well: get into the top 5, however top 10 was acceptable. And with teammate Doyle betting that if I got 10th he would camp in the garden, it was a goal that had to be scored.

This course was a rare one. It had a thing that Ireland had in abundance....a hill! It was a hard climb; every time we went up it was tough. Especially with KoH points at the top up for grabs on every other lap. It was a big ring ascent at the bottom of the block, flat out. These Belgians don't understand, you go slower up a hill, not the same speed as on the flat!

Over 90 riders signed on, and the start was mayhem. Everyone trying to get to the front and the race hadn't even started yet. The pace was again, frantic and my legs were again, fryer tucked. Jens Voigt
 mode was deployed this time, however, 'Shut up, legs!'

After a few laps I had anchored myself in the top third of the field and I was happy as Larry. My plan was to watch for any dangerous moves, and if they were all closed down, try a late attack up the inside, in the bike lane, as everyone else seemed to be neglecting it on every previous lap when coming to the finish.

I was just about to pop open the champagne, so proud of my glorious plan when the heavens opened...in front of us. We were pedalling towards the pending doom.  I was well positioned and we came to the first corner soaked in water.


BANG!


Carbon was flying in all directions, with bodies following suit. I had to track stand for a minute or so before I could get past the mayhem. The chase back on was hard but I was still determined to unleash my flawless strategy.


I made contact with the main field. Relief. Now to concentrate on how to get that good result I was hoping for.  There were lots of corners in the course, and after the majority seeing and/or hearing the clunk of metal earlier, everyone had learned it would be best to creep around the corners in order to stay upright. 


I was quite confident in my bike-handling in the wet. It was a weakness in the past, which I had addressed in the winter so it was an advantage for me to have a greasy, wet surface to race on. Not forgetting that I come from the land which seems to have a storm cloud magnet embedded into its core. These Belgians aren't used to racing in the rain, where as in Ireland it was just a condition you have to accept in most races!


The bunch were exiting a corner, and I was in the middle of the bunch, planning to move up further. The surface was still soaking.

AGAIN, clunk, clunk, clunk.


ANOTHER crash at THE FRONT of the bunch. I was travelling around 50kph at the time so had to lock up the rear wheel before I deployed the front brake to get the machine below me to halt before the battle scene, putting a nice flat-spot into Matthew's tubs I had borrowed for the race.


AGAIN, I had to chase, but this time I had nothing left. The reserves had been squandered on the last chase back, and I was pedalling squares. I was truly gutted.


For a while, I was TTing in no-mans-land behind the bunch. Well, sort of TTing, in as much pain as I could muster up, but when I looked down at my Garmin, the numbers I was putting out were now at face-palm level.


I looked behind, and a large group were coming up which had also been caught up in the crash. I waited for them, in order to gain a bit of temporary respite for the finish.

I managed to get 2nd in the sprint of that group, but the damage was already done. I was sullenly disappointed. I was craving a good result and I didn't get it. I did the right things in order to achieve that,such as stay at the front, but two crashes at the head of the field prevented me from accomplishing my task.  I had to settle for a mediocre 36th out of 93 starters. What annoyed me even more was I was really enjoying the race. The speed, the multiple corners, the cobbled section had me thinking in my head, 'This is what I cycle for'. Those emotions were then halted by other racers' interests of colliding with each other.

I would usually believe that you make your own luck, but at that race bad luck was haunting me like a storm cloud hovering above my head all day. I was pretty annoyed at the amount of people who couldn't ride their bike in the wet. I thought it was a fundamental skill, that in the wet you use your back brake before you even think about using your front. Why? If you lose your rear wheel in a drift, there's a good chance you can get it under control again. If you lose your front, you'll only know about it when kissing the tarmac. I guess it isn't. The fact that people from all over the world, some at the very top level, were all  present, and there were still 6 crashes in a 90k race.

I'm still hunting for a good result while I'm here which I truly believe I'm capable of, I just need Lady Luck on my side next time!

My next race is on Wednesday,so I'll hopefully have Doyle out camping in the garden by then!

Until then, vaarwel.

Dan

On the Way Up

After my race on Sunday, we went to a Pro Criterium in Roeselare on Tuesday night. It was supposed to be a race but it seemed more like a show to me. Ryder Hesjedal and Thomas de Gendt were the most famous there and where mysteriously let off the front in the last few laps, with Hesjedal cruising to the win closely followed by de Gendt, almost as if it was rehearsed...

Matthew and I went with our Belgian host, Rik Masil, who got us to wear these 'Dag Staf' t-shirts. We thought nothing of them, but when we started to walk about the crit circuit, random people started shouting, 'Dag Staf, Dag Staf!' to which they then expected a conversation in their local tongue. This did not happen, once they saw our deluded, sunglazed faces staring back at them, in a daze as to what the hell they were talking about.

We soon found out. 'Dag Staf' is the local fan club set up for local rider Staf Scheirlinckx. He is a seasoned professional, with very respectable results on his Palmares, such as 8th in the 2011 Tour of Flanders. He also had a beer with us after the race, and I can confirm he is a top lad, with about 3% body fat.

Wednesday was race day. I wakened early, as there was much to do. First on the list, clean the bike. Done. Next, give the bike a pre-race check up. Everything seemed to be working well, but Matthew pointed out that the cassette was bent. How does that even happen? It works for now, it'll do rightly!

Next, lunch. The food is so much better over here. Not the processed rubbish you usually receive from a local, humdrum supermarket franchise. The race was at 5pm, so I had to eat at 3pm again, which was expertly made by teammate Doyle: Pasta with a pepper/tomato sauce.

We got to the race, and queued up for sign-on. Once again, Fred-analysis was in full effect. My findings were that there was increase from the last race meet. Good!

In fact there were a lot of differences from my last race. I was more focused, less stressed and far more confident. I wasn't a shivering wreck on the start line this time, I was relaxed, in the shade, waiting for the foreign speaking men, to enlighten the procession.

We were off. It hurt. My legs were eating themselves AT THE START OF THE RACE. The game plan had to be changed. Hang in for a few laps and hope I recover. Still relaxed, however.

Plan B worked! Elation. Now to try and win the race. Attack, attack, attack, all over the show. Nothing was getting away. But as the 34 degree heat took its toll on the riders, the tides began to turn.

This race had big wide roads, so it was easy to get to the front. My relaxed attitude helped with that also, shouldering, elbowing, pushing people out of my way. What you can get away with in a corner here is amazing compared to at home. On one right-hander, I dived up the inside, blocking someone on the exit, causing them to slam on the brakes. I expected a Flemish mouthful, which was duly deserved, I would have done so; but none came. Why can't some Irish cyclists keep their mouth shut like these Flemish fellows?!

Then the fireworks started. On the hairpin bend of the circuit, I heard the clatter of carbon, spokes and rubber behind me. I didn't bother to look back, just focused on the person in front of me, who was giving it rice to get away, along with the 12 others ahead of him.

2km later on a straight bit of the course, a Scottish boy was beside me in the bunch. He did something that you should never ever do. I should know, I've done it before and learnt the hard way, for those of you who where there at the Tour of Ards this year! The Scotsman looked over his shoulder, drifted towards me, and then seemed to find my rear wheel attractive, so decided to give it a hug at 45kph. BANG! He was on the ground. I was not. So the Belgian Fight-or-flight defence mechanism kicked in, chin on the tank and flat out until the panic died down.

Surprisingly it caused a split, which I was in, with about 20 other riders. It was too big and the Flemish profanities rolled out. Again, attack, attack, attack. Many riders flying off the front. I saw 2 teammates go up the road and knew they would do well. I had to do something. So I attacked. 3 other boys came with me and we worked well together to catch the chase group behind the leading break. But then the stalling began again. Too many people in the chase group.

It was then 3 laps to go and the leaders where in sight. Attack, attack, attack. I was suffering this time, and could only follow. It was coming to the time where I had to dabble on the decision of either not chasing as I needed something left in the tank, or following the moves, but the leaders were never caught.

I motored in for 12th place, pipping the 13th placed in the line. I was happy with my result, to an extent. Yes it's an improvemt from the last race, but it still isn't top of the charts!

I must compare my results to ones I've got from home. If I want it to make it to the big time, get tons of free kit, live and breath cycling 24/7, be invited to the Roeselare Criterium, I have to always want to improve. If I'm satisfied with 12th, I won't get any better. So as long as the figures keep rising, I'm happy. I know I'm getting stronger with every race, but let's hope my next race I'll break into the top 10!

Until then, adios.


D

Intro - Smoked on the Start Line

Welcome to my blog. Sorry for the cheesy title, but couldn't think of anything else. So this is to keep me entertained while I stay in the pancake flat country that is Belgium. I could slob over Facebook all day but I thought this would be more constructive. I'm staying in Belgium until 15th August, hopefully in search for some good results and an education into their type of racing, a baptism of fire to say the least! Matthew Doyle and I embarked on the journey to Beitem, Belgium on Thursday. Everything went smoothly and with free WiFi everywhere in Dublin airport, I was delighted. We were greeted at Brussels Airport by Rik Masil, one half of our welcoming host family. Sabien Himpe is the other, both embracing our arrivals with open arms to which we were both very greatful and relieved! Now that the boring necessities of how I got to this tiny village near Roeselare are out of the way, we can get to the exciting stuff: The Racing. My first race was yesterday, at the GP Bart Verwilst-John Deere. I was shaking in the car journey down, more stressed than excited. Too many unknowns for my liking. How would I compare to my Belgian Competitors? How is my form after all that suffering in the Irish Junior Tour? What is the race circuit? Will I get entered in the first place? Queuing up to sign-on, I tried to analyse if there were any Freds that I would be guaranteed beating. Nope, none. All looked immaculate in their team-specced kit and matching bike; with their Oakley's shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. Worrying. Matthew and I then attempted to find the 6.8k circuit that we would be later hurtling around. However it was harder than we thought, as the cyclists spectators around us didn't seem to be great with helping us foreigners, in our foreign-speaking requests. So at the start line I was pretty stressed out with all these questions swirling around in my head. It was 25 degrees on the start line and I, Paddy Irishman, was red in the face and sweating already compared to all my Belgian compatriots. The lead car pulled away but we didn't follow to my surprise. The commanding Commissaire told us to wait as he patiently looked at his watch. At races back home, the comm would say 3,2,1....but everyone would have went by 2 and they could do nothing about it. I started at the front and was swallowed by the bunch quickly. Very fast start. In my head I was thinking, 'Have to get back up there, as soon as,' but carrying out this function was harder than I thought. With narrow roads and 11 corners on the circuit, it was a demanding course to move up. This task took me 15k to carry out, when it would usually take less than 500m of racing, and a brisk stamp on the pedals. In Belgium, everyone seems to be a bit more cheeky on the corners, I had guys on top of me coming into them and were in front on the exit. But by the end of the race I was as brash as they were, my fatigued self too exhausted to care. Heat. Something a boy from Belfast isn't used to. I can't actually remember when my body experienced a temperature over 20, and I underestimated it. Halfway through the race I felt my legs burn, with lactic and other metabolites, and looked down to see the forlorn empty bottle I had surrendering in my bottle cage. I took no mercy. It was grabbed and chucked forcefully towards Rik at the roadside, who was greeted with, 'Drink!'. Some would say a greet similar to that of Father Jack Hackett from Father Ted. The next lap, with the help of a smooth exchange from Rik at 40kph, I had got some more rehydrant to guzzle on. I could feel my legs thanking me, granting me easier access to shift this chunk of carbon and wheels below me. The drinking station was mayhem. There was always a lap after lap argument when bottles were unsuccessfully collected, which was indeed comical. So I had got my bottle, legs are recooperating, now to move up to the front again. It was easier than my first attempt, and there were 3 laps to go. Perfect. Stay here til the finish and I will get a respectable result. I really couldn't see myself getting any better, with my helmet grilling my head, slowing melting kilometre after kilometre. With 2 laps to go I was still in the same position. It was FAST. One team were chasing the break on the front HARD. But I could stay there. My pale, pasty legs were matching the power output of their macho, tanned ones. It gave me confidence. With one and a half laps to go,the team stopped chasing. I later found out their man was in the break which they mustn't had known, and there manager had probably bollicked them to stop dragging the bunch up to the leaders, hence the halt in the chase. I was well up the bunch now, and people looked at me to do some work. At first, I didn't oblige. Why should I do any work? I'm a one man team, baking in the Belgian sun. They started shouting at me. For some reason that worked. I started to nail myself at the front. With 4k to go, I remembered my plight to do 0% of the chase. I had let these Flandrians get to me, let them treat me like their bitch. I was annoyed and frustrated. I ignored the shouting this time. A few stares of death would have to do, I wasn't starting any arguments in my first race. Make friends before enemies. With 1k to go I was in an optimal position for the bunch sprint. The speed ramped up into a corner and I overcooked it. I was now riding in a muddy trench. Not good. I went from the front to the back of the bunch in one corner. That must be some sort of record! Coming into the finish, I was second from last in the main bunch. 45th of 57 starters. My emotions were mixed. On one hand, I was disappointed: 'These guys aren't that much better than me, but they all beat me!', and on the other hand,I was satisfied: 'These guys aren't much better than me, I can beat them!'. My next race is on Wednesday, in Peer (I think). It's supposed to go up to 27 degrees so I believe an ice bath warm up will be in order. I will also make my debut for my guest club in Belgium, Team Gaverzicht-Matexi. Should be fun! Until then, byeee... D