Part III: Take me down to the Paradise Village

My first race in Brittany was Kreizh Breizh Elites, or KBE. It is a massive race weighing in at UCI 2.2, with 200 odd starters and some of the best up-and-coming riders in the world weighing in on the startline.

After getting soaked throughout the rás, I was blessed with a sun-kissed KBE. I was in great nick for it, and a part of me says I should’ve done better. I had the best legs I had all season. I just wish I got to France earlier so I would’ve been able to adapt to their way of racing sooner, which would’ve made me more competitive in the biggest stage race in Brittany.

I did a criterium the day after the last stage of KBE and came 4^th, underlining my form. Three riders from the same team got up the road and I was the idiot stuck in no man’s land, who had to chase them for 90 minutes.

A week after, I got my first win in France.

Similar to Ireland, French racing destinations are ghost towns, with a start banner planted in them for the day. The regional cycling community flocks to said location, as well as a charged up commentator, and a bittersweet symphony unfolds.

The race was in Melrand. I had driven the team van to the race, and I was wheezing the whole way there. My lungs were not in good shape. I have asthma, but it seems to be like a premiership football referee: inconsistent. Some days I wake up and have the lungs of an elephant, and on others I wake up and have the lungs of the mouse that the elephant is scared of.

Today was a mouse day. I rolled up to the start, chilled out because I didn’t really see much of an outcome in the race. The circuit was about 7 or 8k. It was lumpy, typical of the Breton countryside, with a 5 minute climb about 4k before the finish. With a moderate ascent, came a moderate descent, and a few dodgy corners which were welcomed with open brake callipers.

Halfway through, I was in the break with about 20 other guys. I haven’t the foggiest how I got into such a great situation, as I sounded and felt like a pig after a marathon.

I was squealing for air, on my hands and knees (still keeping the pig comparison going), and completely red (or some would say pink) in the face.

But I made it to two laps to go. We were approaching the now, bastard, of a climb, so I thought I would just mill up it. I did, and no froggy French climbers, built like a crisp packet, were able to attack. Mission accomplished.

I thought, ‘If this stays together for the last lap I have a chance of getting up in the sprint.’

Two kilometres before the climb, everyone was looking at each other. They were playing cat-and-mouse a whole 6k before the finish. My lungs may have felt like bubble wrap after all the bubbles had been burst, but my legs felt okay.

I was thinking about an attack. Teammate Foley was in the break too, so if I was caught, I’d just blame him for not winning the race. Love/Hate.

I launched one and didn’t look back. I never look back until a good minute of ‘chin on the tank’ effort. This is where the struggling in early season became a benefit. My legs were jet engines, and it didn’t matter about my lungs. I could suffer through it all. I wanted to win this and at the time, I was in the best position to carry out what I wanted -off the front with 5k to go.

I reached the foot of the climb and had a Jeffrey Juke over my shoulder. The break had split to shreds and two Frenchies were allez-ing towards my tail. I absolutely buried myself up the climb. I thought I was going to die at the top, which lead me to carry out a descent where I was not worried about dying, the speed I was going.

There was a tight right hander at the bottom of the descent, and brakes would’ve been a pathetic way to concede the bend. I went through it flat to the mat sideways, didn't have enough of a run off, had to go onto the grass verge between the tarmac and the ditch, but got round it.

Phew.

I won the race without any other competitor in sight. If you said I was going to achieve that the morning before the race, I probably would’ve greeted your claim with a phlegm-filled, chesty cough.

Part II: Self-harm, Racism and Bonuses

The tank spewed flames out of the exhaust in Belgium a week later. 

I was there to put some hard racing in prior to the National Championships in June.
For 15 days, I rode 6 races within 42 hours of training. Of those 6 races, I finished in the top 10 four times, as well as getting a few prime envelopes along the way.
The slow start to the season was blessing in disguise: I learnt how to suffer like a dwarf with a gorilla on its back, which meant when I had transformed into a rocket ship by June. My body was able to go into new levels of pain.

Cyclists are just self-harm addicts.

From self-harm I moved onto the National Time Trial. For about 2minutes it felt okay. For the following 46 after, my muscle fibres were being ripped out, like a terrier would rip the stuffing out of a fluffy toy. I got a bronze medal out of it, so all was not lost.
The road race was like the rás. I believed I had the legs to ride the race to the ground but in the end, I missed all the moves. I was just too busy looking at the green, green grass of Mullingar instead of the green, green jerseys of 3 anPost-Chain Reaction riders up the road.

I was ecstatic when I got picked for the European Champs in July. It had been nearly a year since I was last picked for a proper u23 Irish team, so to be called up again was an awesome privilege.

I believe the experience made me racist.

While the torrential rain started to cascade down, I was thinking, ‘Fuck off, Switzerland, Netherlands, Germany, Kazakstan …’

The only jersey I wanted to see was a soaking green one. All other nations where inconvenient, unnecessary.

I finished minutes off the lead group which was disappointing personally. Although, with the season I had leading up to it, and no massive races like this included, I think I should’ve been happier with my performance. In the race itself, I could’ve just sat at the back, finished in the main bunch and be that guy who has a respectable result but never gets anywhere.

However, I’m Daniel Stewart. I nearly hit my ego off the start banner.

I hardened up, got to the front and became part of the race.

Yes, it didn’t pay off this time, and the on-lookers who weren’t there but saw the result probably rated me as more of a wanker than usual.

Next time though, things will be different.

After the Euros I went onto le France, to guest ride as part of the Britanny based team, Hennebont Cyclisme.

I got on the plane in Dublin to go to Nantes, without really knowing much about where I was actually going. The only person I had to blame for this was myself, and my lack of knowledge around the French language.

Basically, if you only spoke French and were not concerned with knowing my name, where I live and what age I am, we would have a conversation of silence and maybe, if you were lucky, hand signals.

Imagine that, a boy who studied Spanish, German and French at one point, cannot speak any other language fluently other than English.

Cramming may get you results, kids, but it doesn’t actually teach you anything.

All this considered, I didn’t really give a fuck as I had nothing better to do in August. Lap up some Brittany sunshine and make the most out of a saturated racing schedule. All I was hoping for, was a roof over my head, anything else was a bonus.

As soon as I got off the train in Lorient, I was staring at the best bonus I’d ever seen in my life. Who that bonus was, I’ll keep to myself, but they know who they are.

Who knew I would’ve found a gem dans la gare.

My time in France got off to a great start.

Part I: Bono Knows

The Kardashians have a TV programme; wannabe pro cyclist, Dan Stewart has a ropey computer article. Not to worry, I won't be resorting to making any raunchy tapes to catalyse my success, for now.
It's me again, breaking through the fourth wall and letting you, the viewer, have a look, yet again, at my wacky adventures.

My 2013/2014 winter wasn't great all around. I got a job to raise some funds for my cycling exploits. However, in hindsight I believe it was a mistake.
It just didn't suit my active waster lifestyle. Having to work as well as train hard was much more difficult than going to school. It wasn’t a complete waste of time though: it made me learn how much I yearn for a concrete routine.
Back in the education days, I got up about 15 minutes before I left the house, scooted to my learning centre via mountainbike, actively annoyed teachers, got up to deviant activities with friends, went home, and trained hard.

Life, so simple it was.

During work, I had to go there and actually earn the pathetic minimum wage they were giving me. How unfair!

I came home from work wrecked; dragged myself onto my bicycle and attempted to train even harder than the years previous. To add to that, my shifts were always different week-on-week. No routine established.

As Bono would say, I was stuck in a moment that I couldn't get out of.
To all the amateur cyclists reading this, who have a job and/or kids: in 2013, I acquired a new-found respect for you. I couldn't do what you are doing right now. When I am middle-aged with the possible presence of kids, I will be spending my weekdays earning my keep, my Sundays riding my bike, and the rest of my free time cackling at everyone else.

So after this dishevelled winter, I hit the start of the season hard. Why did I hit it hard? Because I was the size of a well-nourished donkey.

Okay, I was about 3kgs overweight, but still unacceptable. Every race I entered, I was starting in scratch and getting an absolute toasting. I paid the extortionate amount of £14 to EntryCentral to beat myself to a gritty, sweaty pulp; when I could just get a friend to hit me with a bus and drive over me a few times after. It would’ve reached the same pain barrier.

I could never get off weekends, so I was doing a race in the morning, riding home, and going to work at 4pm in a semi-conscious coma. I had the work ethic of a sloth which had fallen out of a tree; but rules are rules, and I was never let off them. But I was never told I couldn't leave, so I walked out the door, and that was that.

I got on my bike and rode into the sunset, sporting a jolly pair of Ray-Bans.

Around this time, Brian Nugent of Cycling Ireland enabled me to gain assistance from the lovely people from SINI in University of Ulster, Jordanstown. This meant I had access to a Nutritionist, a Physiotherapist, a Physiologist and a masseur. Quite a team, but no psychiatrist, which leaves me still writing these blogs.
With this magical team, alongside my long-term coach, Cormac McCann, at my disposal, as well as no job to go to, my training got back to its normal routine. I was soon back to seeing if I could give myself a cycling-induced heart attack.

Torq started to provide me with nutrition to prepare me before and after the heart attack, which was also gratefully appreciated.

My form gradually progressed and I was building up nicely for the Irish holy grail of bike racing: the anPost rás. I rode the 8 day UCI 2.2 stage race with Phoenix CC, who I am forever grateful for letting me into their line-up.

How about you get your pulse racing!

The first stage I was under-dressed in the rain, so I had a bad cough for the whole week, but I don't think it changed the outcome. I wanted to get up in a stage and kept on nearly getting into the break. It was a frustrating race, but it was necessary. The red bleeping light was still on in my head, telling me I wasn’t where I wanted to be, yet. I came out of the race sounding like a thirsty husky, but also with some good hard training in the tank.

The tank left for Flanders’ fields a week later …