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.