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 …