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…

FINE

Milling along the emerald countryside with a few mates on a Sunday. A nice way to spend one’s time.

Only it’s not Sunday, it’s Monday or Friday, just after bastardian rush hour. Still a pleasant pastime, however onlookers deem it necessary to grumble into themselves,

 ‘Should they not be working rather than riding those feckin’ bikes….’

Those onlookers may sometimes receive a Churchill victory salute, or on other occasions, verbal excretion may be punted at their aural toilets.

Most of the time they are ignored. As we are an elitist group. A cult of wasters rebelling in daytime/anytime labour. We have cause, we have purpose. And those onlookers aren’t part of it.

There comes certain times when intruders come upon the club. These people are, of course, welcomed, but with them comes a question, and that question sparks a mushroom cloud in my, reasonably large, partly air-filled, head…

“HOW’S TRAINING GOING?”

The query is like a virtual brick being thrown at my face. I am nearly in the ditch from the shock of this ruthless inquiry. My mind dazzles with an aurora of thoughts, experiences, figures and, most importantly, responses.

I catch myself on and start addressing the question. Where do I start?

By zoning out to November 2013…

Training’s going okay and I’m zipping along to my occasional place of work at the time: A Furniture Outlet on the Boucher Road.

My job there was to facilitate rich old people in buying expensive cushions and curtains. The job did itself, I was happy, I just had to scrub up on my Countdown knowledge.

So I’m riding along with some Ginger Culchie from Newry, and as he wonders what all these metal boxes with wheels on them are, whilst speculating where all the horses have went, we hit a pelican crossing.

The pelican crossing hit me back. I’m on the ground, splayed in front of the yellow-painted metal box offender.

My knee is damn sore. The only thought in my mind is that I have to go to work. I get to work and the only thought in my mind is I should probably go to A&E. I go to A&E and the only thought in a Consultant’s mind is I shouldn’t ride my bike for two weeks.

DILEMMA. 14 days of non-riding purgatory followed that cruel day. My method of escape had led to my imprisonment.

The best way to describe those days would be the scene in Danny Boyle’s film, ‘Trainspotting’, where Mark ‘Rent Boy’ Renton is trying to abstain from the use of the Class A drug, Heroin. Rent Boy’s parents lock him in his bedroom, which leads to some trippy scenes and a dead baby crawling along the ceiling.

My experience didn’t have the baby, but it did have a lot of the 90s rave music. And I spent a lot of time in my bed.

Basically an identical ordeal.

After November, training picked up again, but never up to the same standard. I wasn’t getting the hours in, my head was a cacophony of white noise; voices in my head bellowing me to do contradictory things, when all I wanted to do was ride my bicycle into the sunshine.

Another problem: there was no sunshine! Mother Nature’s piss was, and still is, not welcomed and did not catalyse training developments.

But then came the light at the end of the tunnel. A very bright glimmer near the equator and to the left of Africa: Gran Canaria. I high-jacked a ride on a trip there with Phoenix CC, professionally put together by John Cole, and it truly got my training back on track. Whizzing up mountains can do you the world of good, especially when you can get 3000m of climbing done in 5hours.

Now back on the homeland, Coach Cormac is finally happy to see some steady miles put into the training diary, putting weeks of head-butting the nearest object to him, while looking at my training files, to rest. The man is a genius, and the cheat code to get me past that level I couldn’t complete. With him, I have a set of targets to work towards, as well as adding a good bit of wood to my already firing ambitions. Without him, I’d still be working out what key it is to open the garage door.

So right now, I am in Cycling Zen, enlightened by my winter’s experiences, which have made me stronger for the season coming ahead. I have plenty to get my teeth stuck into once the season starts and many exciting events await me.

Zoning back to the conversation….

By now we’re at the coffee stop. I’ve been in my own world for 40minutes now, and as I bite into my raspberry and white chocolate scone, I sink my teeth into reality. The questioner in question gave up about getting a response about 39minutes ago. I give him a glance and interrupt his conversation about mudguards, blurting out the answer,

“FINE. TRAINING’S GOING FINE.”

A silence seethes into the group, like an ominous grey mist, for 5 seconds, with everyone asking the same question, ‘How spaced out can this prick get’, before they continue their conversational quest in finding the best product to keep the mud away.

Training’s going fine.

 @DanBikeStewart

Oscillations

Suppose this is long overdue. Well here it is…

Most people knew what went on in my cycling season when I was at home, but what’s in the darkness for most people is what I did from June onwards. That, my friends is why I’m typing this shebang. To make it crystal, I’ll split it up into months.

JUNE: NOT THE PERSON, THE MONTH.

The end of June was when I resumed my cycler season after a long pause for some bland, but necessary exams. It had to be done. After doing all those homeworks from 1^st-5^thyr (U6 homework is a loosely phrased term, should be renamed commonroom-scribble-getitfuckingdone-work*), I didn’t fancy leaving this institution without some fancy certificates in my backpack.

It restricted the training I could do, but I aimed for the ‘short-and-sharp’ method rather than the preferred ‘knock-the-bag-out-of-yourself’ approach.

Irish Champs TT was my official comeback race. I was reasonably confident on doing well as I had finished first in every race I had done in the past two months (I last raced in April).

It was a tailwind on the way out. I realised this on the way back.

My TT thoughts-

WAY OUT: ‘I am trucking ! *looks at speedo* jeez that said 35 mph ! On the flat too !

Do you think you should fist pump before crossing the line ?

No, a casual wave to the crowd should do it’

WAY BACK: ‘FUCK. That is indeed a headwind. *looks down at speedo* 22mph ?! You’re going downhill man, get your shit together. Think of the post-race defibrillator, you can finish this.’

Managed to get 4^th in the u23, with 3 top lads ahead of me. In hindsight, those 3 lads were all competing for the Worlds’ spots, so I wasn’t that far away from some damn good pro testers.

National RR thoughts-

‘…..’

I had pretty bad chest problems during the road race. Went to the doctor’s after, hoping for a mobile defibrillator, but came out with a few new inhalers instead.

If I had a pound for every person who has asked me when witnessing me taking some Ventolin or Qvar, ‘Have you got real asthma’, I could buy them a few plasters for my response of a roundhouse kick to the face**.

The week after was the Newry 3 day. I’ve never hit this race in good nick, but I was in ok condition this time around. After teaching people how not to do the final 3k in the first stage, giving 3 seconds as a gift in the time trial, I knew I had to do something in the afternoon stage. Tailwind up Santa’s Grotto, good vibrations on the downhill, and then a 2s timegap sprint finish. All was good for retaining the yellow jersey on the Sunday.

The early hours of Sunday morning were spent playing FIFA. I don’t really sleep early but too much was going on in my boxhead to sleep anyway. Channelling it into a strategic football platform was the best way forward. Winning the FA cup is always a proud moment, in any situation.

In my opinion the headwind done me out of the jersey on the final stage. I didn’t look at the wind direction prior, which I really should have so the last 10 miles of chasing a break into a headwind weren’t the most colourful miles of my cycling career to date. But then I again I didn’t think someone would tow someone else into a yellow jersey either …

JULUGUST

I don’t want to make you weary so I thought I’d make a new month to speed proceedings up a bit.

The start of July I was flown off to the Cycling Ireland Belgium house. I was there to do a bit of kermis racing, then the Tour of Brabant.

In the first race back in Belgium I would say I was fisted, but forearmed would be a more fitting adjective. It was the start of a pretty frustrating run of races were I was goosed before the final. But I got to where I needed to be for the 5 day TopComp Stage Race: The Tour of Brabant.

We stayed in Kelly’s adopted hometown: Vilvoorde. The roads about there are a bit like the rock of Irish Cycling himself: Unrelenting, historical and indeed concrete.

I’d say the previous forearming in other races got in the way of a good result in this one. I was in the perfect position and felt good to get in the break for the first stage, but pussyed out of it. Big regret. I’ve learnt for the next time to just YOLO it so I won’t regret it when looking back.

This race also produced the biggest save of my cycling career to date. The second stage went down through a small village, which happened to be a fast descent. There was a ramp in the road which could be easily spotted by a driver moseying through the location at 20mph. However, when it’s a mad Belgian biker attacking at 40mph, risk assessment is brief.

So I’m about 60^th wheel in the bunch and see this attacker (we’ll call him LycraMan) elevate himself about 2feet in the air. LycraMan was on his feet when I was just about to pass. But then he did what no other superhero would do: he lifted his bike into my direction of movement.

I didn’t have enough time to react. His rear wheel grabbed my gear lever’s hood, yanking my handlebars to the right. I was sitting on the toptube now, werkin’ dem hips. The bike was slithering down the hill, and the guy behind thought he’d give me a literal forearming.

In a few seconds it was over. My hood was bent, my rear brake was fucked but I got through the stage no bother. Safe to say I’m next Robbie Madison.

30 DAYS HAS SEPTEMBER

After a few weeks back in Belfast, I ventured back out to Europia. A few days with my friends Rik and Sabien and then I moved onto Le France.

I think my body is like a treadmill. You have to press the up arrow quite a number of times before it’s at the pace which you want it to be at. Belgian racing, again didn’t start well, but it ended well. I ended up getting into winning breaks in the last couple of races which was ego boosting/confidence building for going south.

I got a 4 hour train from Lille to Nantes. I think this is where the reality set in.

I was looking out the window, observing the train whistling through French countryside. As the completely French intercom gained a minority of my attention, I realised I would be nowhere near anyone I have ever known for the best of a month. The intercom reinforced that I really should have paid more attention to French in school. The only way I was determining when I was in Nantes was by the time, but when the train stopped in the middle of the tracks for no reason, my plan was totally scuppered. It was a pretty stressful final hour to say the least, my face pressed against the window for most of the time, seeing what each platform was called. I nearly collapsed with relief when I saw ‘Nantes Gare’ on a crumbling rusty sign, 500m from my get off point.

I heard a few horror stories of people who stayed in France but my living conditions were pretty good. I got fed well, and I had a bed. What more could one want ? 

Initially I stayed in Nantes in the Team Manager’s home, in his office, but then I was taxied to Mayenne where I lived out the remainder of my stay in the team apartment. The apartment got pretty cold at night, and I had to pay for food while I was living there, but it was still pretty sweet for £0 a month.

My first race was in Plouay. Before the pros took to the stage, there was an amateur race in the morning which I took part in. It was pretty brutal and I was happy enough to finish. There was about 150 starters and 50 finishers, so it was a good start to the French campaign. I was told to eat cake in the morning for some reason. Lesson learned: eat more cake.

It showed the strength in depth we have in the WorldTour peloton. Pippo Pozzato won Plouay in a bunch sprint whereas my race was a war of attrition. It was a forest-soaked lap with two walls included. Clearly not vertical enough for the pros.

I raced the day after Plouay, but my body wouldn’t jumpstart in the first 50k when the break went. I tried bridging across, but didn’t have the horsepower to get over the final 20 seconds. I won the bunch sprint, but it didn’t really could when there was a 15 man break up the road.

This was when the clean run of things stalled. Next race was two longs laps through some picturesque fields and then led onto finishing circuits in and around the town which were drawn/risk assessed by a three year old on acid. I was happy enough, the French didn’t like to messed about like the Belgians did in the bunch so I thought I’d had the upper hand in this case.

I didn’t make it to the crash-derby finishing circuit. At 4k there was an unexpected right hander. it was easily negotiated, I would just have to grind the gear I was in to get up the hill we turn onto. I pushed down hard on the pedals, but my chain gave up, and let go, aborting its job and flung itself into the ditch. This left me powerless and nowhere to put my momentum. For a moment I sat on the top tube, but my front wheel began to become magnetic sucking my head into its field. Causing me to be flung over the handlebars and onto my finely tuned arsehole. DNF.

After the race I realised I’d bent the rear mech hanger in the crash. Easily solved. Throw the bike into the local bike shop and they’ll work their magic of bending it back into shape.

WRONG. In broken English, the Frenchman said,

‘We fucked up your hanger lad’

I had to do a bit of sight-seeing to find a new one but it was my own fault for not bringing a spare one with me. Another lesson to add to the big black book of hindsight.

I missed a race in my hanger quest, and then managed to finish off my stay in France with a chest infection. I was pretty peeved but it was an education. I learnt a lot off the bike as much as I did on the bike and I’ll probably go back again to race my bike soon; even if the people will argue with you for breathing the wrong way.

TT CHAMBER

I went home on the Friday before the Ulster 25TT Champs. It was a bit of a mammoth trip. I had to get a 2hour bus journey from Laval to Nantes after my Hungarian teammate kindly gave me a lift to there from Mayenne. Then I got the bus from Nantes to the airport where I had to wait 8 hours for my plane to show up. Then once in Dublin I had to make the standard coach up from Dublin to Belfast.

On the Saturday I was on my TT bike feeling a bit groggy.

Sunday was matchday. It was 53minutes of mind numbing pain. My whole body was numb from about two minutes in and I thought I was in France when I finished. It’s amazing where a bike ride can take you in your mind. I was pretty surprised at the result, considering I’d only jumped on the time trial bike the day before, but I kept the pokerface on, smiling while receiving the trophy, acting like I meant it to happen.

The week after I built up to the 100TT Champs. I was on the bike for the whole week, trying to prepare myself for the onslaught.

I didn’t prepare myself enough. 55miles in a niggle seared into my right glut going through the feedzone. I kept calm, thinking good poke and it would be grand. Going through the motorway roundabout the tranquil calm had washed away and I was shouting ‘FUCK’ as the pain spread deeper into the muscle. I wasn’t going to give up easily. So I thought I will re-evaluate my chances at the other roundabout. My condition just got worse and worse and I couldn’t really see clearly going through the second roundabout. I couldn’t sit on the saddle either as it was a tad painful. I thought it would be better to opt out of this one with a gratious retirement at the feed zone. That didn’t pan out very well and I collapsed in a heap, couldn’t breathe and was only rescued by a few puffs on Ventolin. An interesting way to mark off the season, but nothing ever seems to end in a normal fashion in my life, so it was a fitting way to end: with another plot twist.

There are a few people to thank for helping me during the season.

The people of East Antrim CC for supporting me throughout the season and giving me a bit of company when I ventured on training rides around that part of the country.

Cycling Ireland, for taking me under their wing and babysitting me for the majority of the summer. I learnt a lot and appreciated the opportunity.

The Bank Rollers. Thanks to all the people who took me to races this year and also my parents for handing out the goods when I needed them most.

And finally to Cormac McCann. I started working with him last September and I have come on so much since then. He has been a great help on and off the bike, letting me whine at him with my problems for him to logically solve.

Hopefully next season will be more fruitful, and I can get some trophies in races further from home.

So that was my season. It started off very well and I had to battle to get back to where I was after my two month exam break. There were many ups and downs but I’ve learnt a lot. There’s plenty to add to the autobiography. I think the best way of summing up my season is through Myles McCorry’s wise words:

‘Don’t sacrifice a good cycling career for a good education’***

@DanBikeStewart

*Homework is for home kids. I have a commonroom at home.

**I have never roundhouse kicked someone in the face due to poor flexibility/lack of motivation to transform thoughts into reality. I’m a Bruce Lee maybe.

***Just kidding, get you’re a-levels kids before you become waster trying to make the prolife.

THE MOTIVATOR

Thought I’d write another post to validate this blog’s existence. For those who know me, they would understand I could talk, or write, shite about any given topic due to my crazed abyss of a mind. However, in this post, I thought I’d choose something constructive, and maybe something other people can benefit from. Some people give their loose shrapnel to homeless people, I write blogs. Bono would be proud.

I’ve chosen MOTIVATION. I wouldn’t say this will directly motivate you; it is just a way of me expressing my thoughts on when you are truly MOTIVATED.

Scenario one. You watch a video about some American footballer training on a beach, while some American narrator blabs away about how much this fellow wanted ‘it’. You come to the end of the video and feel philosophical:

‘Maybe I should do something with my life? Like this American lad has. I KNOW! I’ll put it on Facebook…’

This does not aid you in motivating yourself to do something. You are not motivated. You are the same as you were before, just a bit more inclined to run topless on the beach. And watch the Super Bowl.

I hate excuses. I hate when I ask someone what they want to do with their life and they reply ‘dunno’. What a stupid response. They are the number one professional analyst of themselves; it is completely impossible to not have an inkling of what you want to do with your life.

After the ‘dunno’ response, I go for the ‘What do you enjoy?’ number. This is usually greeted by a reasonably interesting feedback of what gives them pleasure in their lives, and what they spend a good amount of time doing. Then I jab in the bold statement of ‘Why don’t you do that then?’

This is where the abhorrent excuses come in, most of the time, translating to bullshit. ‘Blah I can’t do that, blah blah blaaahhh…’

What is the need for these excuses? Do you think the American Footballer didn’t come up against the same problems? Do you ever think it came across his mind when he was an 8 year old throwing an American football around his backyard with his buddies, that he would be filmed running up and down a beach, with another fellow countryman being dubbed over the video, garbling on about drowning someone to death?

I referred to my final question to this unfortunate individual (unfortunate as they are being scrutinised by me) as a bold statement. It’s not really bold, it’s common sense. Surely it’s logical that if you enjoy doing something, you should do it lots, you will get good at it, and then people will pay you to do it for them?

In my opinion, people are so caught up in this social escalator of doing what everyone else is doing in order to fit in. Get a boring job. Buy some grey clothes. Watch other people on TV do well at what you enjoy doing. They completely disregard that those stars where once them at one point. But those stars took the stairs (metaphoric poetry). But what would I know; I’m just a young whippersnapper.

Look at Peter Sagan par exemple. I don’t really like commentators, as they talk useless drivel all the time, but in fairness, I think everyone would be likewise if they had to fill the gaps in a 6hour road race. However these commentators don’t help themselves, referring to Sagan as a natural born ‘revelation’. It’s a complete lie. The man rode a bike before he could walk, and has kept riding it ever since. If you raised Dougal out of Father Ted the same way you’d have another Irish Tour stage winner.

There are so many more cases of this. Cav? Got his hole opened by my Uncle at the Tour of Ulster when he was a junior, and now he needs more fingers and toes to count all his Tour stage victories.

Just two examples of how motivation gets you to where you want to go. There’s plenty more where that came from. Hope you haven’t forgotten about the motivated American footballer…

For me, I am motivated to ride a bicycle FAST. Initially, I thought I just enjoyed riding my bike, but after taking a break from racing to do exams, I realised I crave racing more than smokers crave a cig. My MOTIVATOR is racing.

Constantly during exams I found myself staring at the vacant wall in front of me, lost in my own thought of when my next race would be, what I would have done to win that race at the weekend, find out indicators of who really is going well. My brain is plagued by thoughts of bicycle racing constantly. I was trapped in the humdrum world of revision, with no way out. It was hell, but it will probably be worth it. Or so they say…

At least I learnt what I enjoy.

That’s my thoughts on motivation. Hope you enjoyed reading.

Here’s Giavanni Ruffin running up and down a beach with some header harping on in the background:

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsSC2vx7zFQ

Follow @DanBikeStewart on Twitter

WHY

Haven’t written a blog post in a while so I thought I’d share with you what has recently been pickling my mind.

My conundrum is pretty general, but I'm confident a lot of people have asked themselves the same question.

Why the hell do I do this?

This query tumbled into my mind as I was on the turbo in the garage, yet again, during a monotonous school weekday evening.

Initially, I think about the door confronting me as I get the turbo producing a smooth, consistent drone, registering happy numbers on my Garmin and an even power output. I’m fairly confident I could paint the door blind-folded due to the amount of hours I’ve spent sitting on my bike, staring at it. To be honest it’s not a bad door to stare at; it’s not your average door. The model is a stable door, giving you the opportunity to have a peak into my bleak back-garden if you’re feeling in that state of mind; or if you want some air circulation in the ridiculously dense atmosphere that is my garage.

I opt for it being completely closed. I spend enough time in the freezing cold and I’d rather sweat like a pig than shiver like a horse shedding flies. After all, it is a nice-looking door.

There’s a humble window in the middle of it, so I still give myself a treat once in a while: a glance into the suburban concrete-flowerbed-lawn-covered jungle.

But as my hot sweat condenses on its cold wooden surface, I wonder, in any other situation, would I have given so much thought to an inanimate object which is merely a tool to keep some things in and some things out? I ponder more deeply, why do I spend all this time only in the company of a fecking door? I could be...

...watching tv, surfing the internet, studying, pretending to study but actually watching tv and surfing the internet, making a nice meal, giving up on making a nice meal and buying an equally delicious takeaway, spending time with friends, going on facebook/twitter and annoying people who I want to be friends with or researching things which would enhance my life better than staring a stupid door...

The ball had started rolling. I couldn’t get this thought out of my peculiar mind. I wondered for days, why on earth did cycling tickle my fancy? Did I choose cycling, or did cycling choose me?

However, a few days back I had an epiphany. I had woken up late, burnt some toast, and couldn’t find ANYTHING I needed to embark on the forthcoming steady ride. An accurate way to describe my mood would be frustrated, annoyed, angry but fundamentally, grumpy.

A crisp morning greeted my scowling eyes as I slammed the garage door down and threw myself over my bike and ‘got on with it’.

I went over Craigantlet to get out of busy Belfast. It would probably rank as a Cat 3 climb in most races, but it felt like a ‘Hors Categorie’ incline on that morning. I zigzagged my way toward Newtownards, reaching the Portaferry Road, continuing along the coast. As the gradient mellowed, so did my temper. I gazed at the hundreds of birds flocking on Strangford Lough, taking a well earned rest. The sight flushed the negativity of the morning out of my system, and I was just a kid enjoying a bike ride. Nothing mattered anymore. I had no stresses, no downs, just ups.

When I got home, all the gunk in my body had been ejected onto the roads, and all the gunk in my conscience had been thrown up into the tailwind on the way back into Belfast.

I felt fresh.

I racked up my bike on the garage wall with utmost satisfaction. I had found my answer. THAT is why I do it. THAT is why I spend an incredulous amount of time staring at a green stable door. THAT is why I punish myself day in and day out, instead of livin’ it up, like you’re ‘supposed to’...

Without that ride I would have been grumpy and groggy for the foreseeable future. I may have still been in that mood now if I hadn't gone out on my bike. Without cycling I would be a raving psychopath, always annoyed and acquire little to no knowledge about doors. Without it, a few more stress lines would also be added to my forehead as well.

I hadn’t even considered how the racing element of cycling had benefited me greatly! I have met many people, travelled to many different places and have gained many a precious memory by attempting to go faster than others on my bicycle.

One of the best feelings in my life to date is the crowd at a race. Whether it be a handful of people waiting to bring their companion home after a day at a race who have nothing better to do than watch the race unfold, or hardcore enthusiasts lining the streets in some Belgian Village on a sweltering hot day; being the centre of their entertainment on the centre stage is why I went for THIS sport.

Why do you do it?

Twitter: @DanBikeStewart

Facebook: facebook.com/DanBikeStewart