a quentin tarantino film

Jackass

I punctured. Just like last week, only more inconvenient.

Too many mechanics spoil the rider: One wants the chain on the 11, one wants it on the 14 and another lazy frog wants you to replace the wheel all by yourself.

Up and running again with some new rubber, glued to a rear windscreen. Well, not as glued as a recent predecessor, who’s teeth marks from a few weeks ago are still fairly prominent on the heated glass. I purse my lips for protection. After all, I’m riding a flimsy piece of carbon, clad in condom head-to-toe, with polystyrene on my head, whilst travelling 45mph, 15cm behind a car. SAFETY IS PARAMOUNT.

The car takes a left at a roundabout, levitating over a small triangular traffic island. I don’t see this kerb stoned protrusion, but my new rubber does. It glides across it ever so smoothly. I would say it was the fastest ever endo. No Guinness World Record staff present so not official.

That was one my 9 lives if I were a cat. I ain’t no pussy.

Rás Mumhang-on-a-minute

I did the tragic, cruel but beautiful 4 day stage race in the south-west of Ireland. In the grandeur of National colours. What a moment…

1st Stage: Mountains Jersey.

2nd Stage: Puncture before 1st Cat Climb.

3rd Stage: Puncture before 1st Cat Climb.

4th Stage: Crash

A severe low point. I was weeping, and I mean WEEPING, against the yellow wall of the Fossa Travel Inn, on the phone to my girlfriend, currently in France visiting me… only I was back in Ireland.

I had spent the last 6 weeks crashing, or puncturing, in the cold rain of France. What kept me going was, ‘But Rás Mumhan should be good this year: I’ve never done this much good racing before it…’

Then I head-butted the ground on the last stage, splitting my team issue helmet in half.

A couple of hours later, I was on a flight to Nantes, then drove a car 150k back to my French apartment. I have no memory of this travel, apart from leaving a nice Dublin hotel at 6am.

Again, SAFETY IS PARAMOUNT.

What I should remember

Strepsils and Eye-drops

I was in the middle of a Brittany based stage race. I had woken up with a sore throat, but no Strepsils were on offer.

Forty-five minutes before the start, in the rainy town of Saint-Pol-de-Leon, I hunted for my honey and lemon flavoured relief. A pharmacist took my money, and handed me over the goods, open-mouthed at the lycra-clad knob, glaring back at her.

The way back to the van, via a cobbled street, the Strepsils box disintegrated and the tabs fell out. A car ran over them half a second later. 

Crushed Strepsils are better for digestion.

cobbles in question

I’m now an hour into the wet-and-windy stage. I’ve been painfully blinking in 59/60minutes since the flag has dropped. An unwelcome insect’s burial ground is in my eye. Insects are never welcome in my life, let alone my eye.

I go to the doctor’s car to get help, which escalates to grabbing the car, downhill in the rain at 50mph, with a madman trying to put an eye drop in thine oculus.

Nevertheless it worked. There is a fine line between genius and madness.

BUT SAFETY IS PARAMOUNT.

Disease

I was doing my home stage race, the pride of my racing career, when I contracted the just-fuck-him-up virus.

The first stage I hyperventilated, losing minutes and any GC chances. The fifth stage I got tendinitis which lasted to the end, accompanied by diarrhea for the last couple of days also.

But I got to the end of it, and it meant a lot more than the illness-free Rás I did before.

It set up a platform for the rest of my season.

Got there in the end

Johnny Cash

The National Road Race Championships were probably my most commendable result of 2015, with 9th overall and Silver in u23.

I came back from a 2 week track camp on the Tuesday,

Drove down and rode the Time Trial course on the Wednesday,

Did the Time Trial on the Thursday,

Slept on the Friday, spun out on the Saturday,

And raced on the Sunday.

Why didn’t Craig David sing about it?

For me, the race itself was like squeezing the last few ounces out of a bar of toothpaste. It HURT. I was completely goosed, with no kick at all. I rode like a big Massey Ferguson.

But nobody else noticed, I survived in the break, unfortunately at the wrong end of it.

I must say, pretending I was Omagh-man Marc Potts for the race made it a lot easier.

‘Gowan Pottsy, son!’

‘Get gardening, Potts!’

‘Show me the clay, Potts!’

The last two may be satire.

I’ll always think how I would’ve done if the champs were a week later, with all the fast miles in the bank beforehand. Ifs and buts, sighs and tuts.

The Linguist

The best result I had in France was 6th overall (2nd in u23) in the AggloTour, due to finishing 3rd in the last stage, which was laps up a brutal 10 minute climb. It was a real confidence booster, showing what I was capable of, and what I should’ve been doing all season. There was nowhere to hide on the course, and I certainly wasn’t hiding.

I lost the sprint on confidence. In a carbon-copy situation in Ireland, I would’ve wiped the floor with my breakaway companions.

But I didn’t. I waited. And I finished 3rd.

The last k was the last few minutes of the lap’s climb, gradually sloping off. The freshest man would’ve won. They just had to go after 500m to go. I was out of my comfort zone in the French countryside, and I didn’t think straight. I treated it like a fast, flat sprint, waiting last minute, which was never going to work. The first sprinter to sprint, won.

Afterwards, the commentator forced me to give him an account of my day, which involved some humming and me pointing at the hill, pronouncing it to be, 'trés dur’.

The Linguist… more like ‘The Pianist’, by Roman Polanski: violently depressing, making you want to shout, ‘NO, NO, NO, NO!’ near the end.

Valerie

My loyal companion to it all was the team’s van, a lengthy pink VW, named Valerie.

On a good day she’d shudder to a start. Her max speed was a cool 100kph (downhill).

She is currently in a coma (flat battery). Someone reversed her into a wall last week so she is still coming to terms with that.

She’s taken me everywhere, and we’ve seen many highs and lows together. But we got through it.

And we’re better for it. And stronger.

We’ll look back at those days and take them as motivation for the next ones.

Not sure where I’ll be next year, but one’s thing for sure: I will NEVER accept cheese and wine as a post-main-course meal.

I will get my cake.

And I will eat it.

Follow @DanBikeStewart and @DaveRaynerFund on Twitter

Special thanks to all who've helped me get to this point. I will continue to work hard with your gratefully welcomed support.

LA CRÈCHE

A great tool of the modern era is that of the social network. What a day we live in: through caressing a plastic block’s screen, you can have your unnecessary opinion projected to millions. I am truly thankful, as without it, I wouldn’t be able to broadcast my ramblings. Well, I could write them on walls with my own blood; but that would limit my word-count.

However, with pros come cons; and I absolutely loathe when cyclists refer to our outside world as ‘their office’.

It is in no way an office. A cyclist isn’t clogged in an oxygen-depleted container, filled with other sweaty colleagues trying to make a buck. A cyclist isn’t exposed to the monotony of the greyscale nine-to-fiver. A cyclist doesn’t have to chortle at an obnoxious trump on the other end of a phone line just to get a bonus at the end of the month.

A cyclist’s life is freedom.

A cyclist gets to explore so many different cultures and landscapes, their day-to-day visuals rich with exotic languages, fascinating people and jaw dropping landforms.

You could say I am labelled as one of these folk.

I thought I’d take you for a day in my life: ‘La Crèche’. Where I’m back at the nursery, learning by doing, living the simple life.

I’m taking you through a Tuesday. It seems the most productive day of a week.

Prepare to be WOWed.

I am always woken up at 7am by the church bells of Kervignac church, and Tuesday was no exception.

This remote little village in the centre of Brittany, about 5k from Hennebont, is battered by these religious fog-horns on an hourly basis.

I can’t admit to appreciating them. I’m not a morning person, and the church bellowing doesn’t help. Their hour notifications are somewhat crueller: they ring at four minutes past the hour; torture for a lad like myself who likes dotting the ‘Is’ and crossing the ‘Ts’.

I enter most days with a thought of vicious blasphemy.

I return to slumber, until about 9ish.

I grab my phone in attempt to survey the world without opening the shutters. My current WiFi is woeful, which leads me to halt internet information gathering, and return to my latest read: ‘Gang Leader for a Day’ by Sudhir Venkatesh.

After receiving a jewelled recommendation, I’ve become encapsulated. It details a sociologist who manages to waltz into one of Chicago’s most dangerous areas, and hits it off with a prominent gang leader, known as ‘JT’.

Judging aside from his blasé observations of crack dealing, prostitution and beatings; I am astounded as to how similar a sociologist behaves to how I act amongst the average Breton.

I see myself listening and studying, scared to exhaust my French, noting their mannerisms and behaviour, akin to Venkatesh.

I finally give up, and get up and drag myself to the coffee maker. I’ve reduced my caffeine intake since last year (http://tinyurl.com/o6o7wur), and replaced a hefty majority of it with the liquid herb: green tea.

However today I feel groggy, so I need a good slap in the face from Dr Caffeine, and he surely delivers.

I’m back bouncing, so I start to make breakfast: some muesli, shredded coconut and walnuts, lathered in natural yoghurt, topped off with honey.

I’m living in a kooky apartment at the moment. It’s a charismatic settlement. Basic in structure, it has a double bedroom with an en-suite, and a kitchen; all you need. It’s easy to heat up, and easy to clean up; and when July comes, this little flat won’t be far from ‘Le Tour’ action, with stage finishes in Plumelec and Mur de Bretagne not even an hour’s car journey away.

I cloth myself in my pink uniform and get out the door with my bike under me, into the sunshine. I have enjoyed learning that a Brittany spring is an Irish Summer.

This year, my winter lasted 2 weeks at Christmas time, as for the rest of it I was somewhere milder; which was great.

But that’s life in la crèche.

These country folk give you the same look they would if they are eyeing up the camera for a mugshot. It takes a while to get used it to it, and you learn they are waiting for a ‘salut’ or a ‘bonjour’.

I get out into the Brittany outback. Today, I’m doing a pretty brisk two hours. It flies by when you are blessed in such a great location.

You are either wrapped in oaks and pines or hand in hand with seaside and beaches; it truly is a wonderful part of the world.

I return to ‘studio un’, get some protein down my gullet and carry out some light stretching. I have a gander in the fridge to see what I’m going to have for lunch.

I find some double cream, rice, eggs and chorizo. What do you make?

Scrambled eggs with the consistency of mashed potato of course!

As the water with the rice gathers energy to boil, my mind wanders out the adjacent window. Thinking about anything and everything, I am in my own little bubble, just like the hundreds of others within the rice saucepan. Thinking about the future, thinking about the past, theorizing and planning, living and learning.

I fall back to reality when the rice erupts and I have to turn the heat down. I mix it into the poteggo mash and engulf.

The second session is next up: 30second efforts, 3 of them.

It’s hard to fathom how so much pain can be inflicted in ninety seconds. No matter how each thirty seconds go, you are left panting, exhausted and demoralised. Chris Hoy, Daniel Stewart and Joe Bloggs all feel exactly the same after an anaerobic effort.

I hate these intervals with a passion. As each second passes I feel the lactic acid sinking its venom deeper into my muscle fibres, ripping them apart; whilst my lungs are trying to turn themselves inside out, instead of pushing the bad air out and good air in.

I shower, have some more protein and collapse on my bed. My legs have clocked out for the day.

I’ve taken too much caffeine and my mind is still whirring. I want to sleep but my eyes can’t shut: they’re like a rabbit’s facing headlights.

Instead of napping for an hour, I lounge for an hour.

I get up to eat some more food. Hating the stereotype, I have some pasta. But not any old pasta; I’ve heaped every worthwhile vegetable from the local supermarché into this Bolognese. It is DELICIOUS. After all, I made it.

I retire to my bed and strum through some more ‘Gang Leader for a Day’. Another couple of sessions ticked, another day gone.

That was a day in the life, thanks for reading.

Follow @DanBikeStewart and @DaveRaynerFund on Twitter.

all cyclists are fruits

After a month of base training, whilst squatting in the Mallorca Cycling Ireland house, I’m heading to London for some downtime with a gem. I’ll then head off to France to start my 2015 racing campaign, with Hennebont Cyclisme.

What a jolly life cyclists/holiday makers have: frolicking and jet-setting, pottering across the globe.

This post gives you an insight.

I was never a fan of Shrek, but I would rather quote it than the Bible.

In the first movie, Shrek says to Donkey,

‘Onions have layers, Ogres have layers … You get it? We both have layers.’

Shrek posits the hardened, fearless and ruthless personality of his kind, through a common vegetable.

Cyclists are fruits.

this is an orange

More specifically, cyclists are oranges.

From the outside, they are shiny, colourful, happy people. The naked eye suggests their life is a breeze, they’re always in lovely places having a grand old time. And look at their legs; who can be annoyed when your legs look better than Pixie Lott’s?

However, their inside is mush. Physically and mentally; their innards are soft.

A cyclist going well is a normal human being not going well.

Physiologically, cycling turns your body into a shrivelled, bewildered old man. You walk at snail’s pace, you take regular naps, and you could thoroughly benefit from a stairlift in your home.

It’s a hard graft psychologically. You are always battling your emotions, living out of a suitcase, with no constant income. I now spend about 60% of my life in situations where I don’t have a clue what is going on, because my Spanish/French/German/Dutch is not up to standard.

Sometimes you ask yourself, ‘What am I doing with my life?’

It always helps when you know that others are playing the same quiz.

Jack Bobridge, a recent challenger to the world hour record, is an excellent case study. He was claimed to be the next big thing by many analysts, but never acclaimed his full potential.

Over the past years, he has battled with lack of form, illness and criminal charges.

This year it looked like Jacky Bobby was the original Jacky Bobby again, winning a stage in the tour down under, and securing the mountains classification.

But just when everything seems to be back on track, he misses out on an Hour Record he was expected to obliterate, by 500m.

Imagine how colourful his book would be.

What compels him to keep on riding?

What has troubled him to do the things that he has done in the past?

Jacky Bobby fully lit

Cycling is the cruellest sport known to man.

I have tried a lot of sports in my life time, and the only sport that is close to the cycling pain threshold is marathon running. But even then, cycling still wins the brutality prize because a race more or less always outlasts a marathon.

Cycling is a team sport rewarded individually.

A cycling career’s fate is two-pronged: You are either the individual who wins and gets the car, money and fame; or the individual’s helper who eats porridge every morning, with maybe some honey thrown in on their birthday.

It’s the most dog-eat-dog sport out there.

In a bike race, no one cares who you are.

If your legs aren’t good, no one cares.

If you crash, no one cares.

Nobody needs you to finish a bike race.

It’s only the cyclist’s sheer determination driving them to finish the race.

If a chicken can survive without a head for 6 months, an injury-free cyclist should be able to finish a bike race. Whether they’re number one or 30minutes down, they can always finish.

The time when you finish 30minutes down is when you learn about yourself the most.

After all this, I still find myself eager to get to France to ride bike races.

Is that the only difference between cyclists and oranges?

The juice inside a cyclist-orange is laced with some crazy hallucinogenic stimulant which makes you wholeheartedly dependent on pedalling a two wheeled bicycle?

Who knows.

All I can say is, I can’t wait to start my 2015 holiday in France on the 18^th February.

If you want a holiday yourself go to the Beechlawn Hotel on the 27^th February at 1900.

For more information go to http://on.fb.me/1DPkBJB - Remember to click attend.

Follow @DanBikeStewart and @DaveRaynerFund on Twitter.