Tour of a few Yards

… I’m speeding past Portaferry with the lead group of the Tour of Ards, on our way to ascending Mountain Road for the second time. The first meeting was satisfactory, but I was praying that the hitters weren’t going to go up it any faster on this occasion

My prayers were not answered, as McConvey galloped up the climb, which was followed by a further stab in the stomach by McLaughlin. I was past my limit. The oxygen was queuing up to get down my windpipe and my muscles needed more. My legs, already angered by the injustice of having to haul me up this farm track, wailed in protest.

Everything I had was still 5 seconds off the back of the group.

I had rode the descent a few times with a few guys prior to the race. Every time I had approached the downhill, there were shrill warnings of the off camber right hander followed up by a tricky junction. This was all carpeted with a surface made by toddler smashing some tarmac together with his palms.

These warnings weren’t in my head this time; just heavy wheezing, vision impaired by salt, and pure desperation to latch onto the head of the race. I dropped down the safety hazard. At the off-camber part I used all the width of the road to hold my speed, eventually shooting back into the middle of the group.

Back in the group. Ecstasy!

Only joking.

Back in the group. Prolonged, unforgiving pain.

We made our way around the lough doo circuit again with no additional hassle.

Onto the main road home.

‘Will I get home in this group?’

That was the question I was asking myself.

We approached Kircubbin, and I was on a boat approaching the Normandy beaches on D-day. The realisation that these big guns were going to attack soon slapped my salt-saturated face.

The hill coming out of Kircubbin was the first war front. Mark Kane went, everyone looked at each other. It was like politely letting someone go ahead of you into an entrance, while they were trying to do likewise. Only neither of you wanted to go through that entrance, unless you were to run through it and slam the door shut behind.

McLaughlin attacked, and that was well covered by the remaining riders in the lead group: Hawkins, McConvey, Duncan and myself, still breathing through most orifices.

Although I was locked in the pain chamber, I took advantage of the lull after the Ronan-attack, and jumped across to Kane. I buried myself on the front, leading us both through Greyabbey and the rise out of it, effectively neutralising another attacking hotspot.

I looked around and to my dismay, the other pursuers were about two seconds behind, licking their lips like unfed dogs.

From here to Mount Stewart it was attack, attack, attack. The sky was red, the road was red, and the surf hitting the sea wall was red. Everything was RED.

Then we approached Mount Stewart. Oncoming traffic was queued back, blocking the right hand side of the road, so the space to attack was halved. McLaughlin gave another dig which was closed down by Hawkins, who came alongside him once he had sat up.

I went between them both and gunned it. This was my bid for the prize. If commentators were commentating on this race, I wouldn’t be mentioned:

Mark Kane, past Olympian.

Fraser Duncan, winner of last week’s race. And the week before that. And the week before THAT.

Peter Hawkins, Rás Yellow Jersey wearer.

Connor McConvey, 2^nd in the Rás.

Think they would follow the smick in the Audi top?

I honestly couldn’t tell you how far away I was from them, because I didn’t look back. Push, push, push. All I had for company was the guy on the motorbike, who was screaming words of encouragement. When he frowned looking behind, I pushed harder ahead.

5k to go, 3k to go, 1k to go.

‘I know where the finish line is and this is a long k. I can see it! Am I going to pull this off? 200m to go. Better look over my shoulder…

Yellow fluoro bounding towards me. I try and get up. I can’t get up. 100m to go. Nothing left.

5m to go. Fluoro passes.

Fraser Duncan, Tour of Ards winner 2014.

It wrecked me. I was absolutely gutted. I was agonizingly close to pulling off my biggest race win ever, in the strongest way ever. I didn’t. I was in bits, sulking in the corner, thinking how close it was. It was BRUTAL.

At the prize-giving I got myself together and realised 2^nd wasn’t all bad. I’d beaten strong pedigree, and couldn’t have gave anything else to go one step higher.

In the end, Fraser deserved it. He timed his sprint to perfection and nailed it. A worthy winner and unsurprisingly not his first of this race.

I learnt a lot from last Saturday, and maybe next year I can use those lessons to get that extra metre at the line next year.

Better viewing than Milan-San Remo anyway…