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.
