The author Myles McCorry – writes from the trenches of the An Post Ras 2012
The Ras peloton every year throws together a group of men of different ages, abilities and very different backgrounds. Without their shared love for the sport their paths would never cross. Some are young and gunning for the pro ranks. Others are older and more worldly. They nurse a more modest dream; to simply get around the week and say, ‘I was there’. Cuchulainn CC’s Myles McCorry is now 40-years-old but has unfinished business with this race. He’s riding because he abandoned in 2007 and can’t leave defeated. In this dispatch from the Ras, he writes of his feelings on the start line on Sunday and of his sense of place in it all. He writes too about the bonds that bind the Men of the Ras.
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An 11-sprocket is a wonderful thing. Looked at in isolation it is a shining star of speed, engineering and power. I need one; need it like a baby needs a nappy. I am usually not strong enough for one. It's just that this week there are 80 men ahead of me in the line out who are. And for long sections of today's stage to Kilkenny they toyed with theirs. So many times I hit the lever today; body swinging on the edge of the saddle for an extra gear, only to be out of bullets.
Le Grand Depart, Dunboyne, Co Meath
Standing on the start line in Dunboyne the 170 riders in five-man teams are called to the start. The famous good guys first - the guys with matching-and-free-everything. They get paid to be here. Then the international teams – oh-so-well-groomed; the best riders in their country. Then the Irish and English teams who get a free bike and kit – the boys who are undeservedly unpaid. They are young, good guys who want to be full pros. Looking fit, lean and committed.
Then called to the line, in front of a thousand cheering fans; us plebs. Many among us are men with jobs and families and a dream. This far back in the crowd the only things that match among the team mates are the jerseys. We are the boyos in 'clubs', not 'teams'. The ones with odd bikes, messy large bottles and worn shorts. Mostly good first cat riders, but lacking the finesse and stunning muscle definition of the paid pros.
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The darkness of the leg skin colour in this event is directly correlated to how far forward in the bunch you will be on the start line; deep tans up front, milk bottle chic to the rear. Team UK Youth and the French 'Provencal' squad look like they have been trapped in a sun bed - then rapidly coated with Ronseal. Around me, on the other hand, are razor burns and panic.
Ahead is 1,300kms and 29 climbs over eight days and I can't wait. An hour and 51kms later, I could have waited. Just savage. In the regional cat 1-2 races I normally compete in, a line out lasts for 30 seconds until the five good guys realise the bunch is back upon them. After two hours and 103kms covered, I imagined my ears were bleeding.
Relentless attacks hammer the front of the bunch without submission. Everyone is fresh and keen. On the final KOH, I am the last man in the bunch and I am broken. With 40km to the finish, twice I raise an empty bottle for service from my team car. Twice my speedo reads over 55kph. I give up and spend the last 40 minutes eyeing every half-full biddon in the bunch. The drinks therein seductively sloshing about in other riders cages.
I call in the cold kilometres I endured in December. And I hang on. With 10km remaining I smile and congratulate myself on a bunch finish. With 5km remaining we turn into the Kilkenny Ring Road with a 4 lane climb. It stretches like Everest into the clouds, perhaps only 50m of a rise. But I am dead now. Cramping thighs mean I can't get out of the saddle to respond to increased pressure as the dark-legged men attack.
I make it, just about. But I am damaged - 29.4mph for 92 mile. A NODE4 lad (with brown legs) wins in style but that victory is diminished by my team mates effort. He has -9 eyesight (-9.5 is clinically blind). At 50kph, avoiding traffic islands in the last 1km, he utters these words to me: "Myles, my last contact (lens) blew out and I can only see colours. Ride in front and call any obstacles.”
Tomorrow is 98 miles to Gort with five categorised climbs.
Mother of Mercy, pray for us.
Myles
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