Having suffered post traumatic stress disorder during the bombing on the road to Westport, Cuchulainn CC’s Myles McCorry maintained his dignity by feigning deafness and a stroke. His pulse pounding in his eyes, he was happy to say goodbye to an echelon led by Olympic-bound Martyn Irvine.
An Post Rás Stage 3: Gort to Westport
Over a lovely piss this morning I exchanged pleasantries with Dan Craven. The former African champion (who could be a stand-in for the middle one in the Bee Gees) loves this race for vastly different reasons to me. He loves the line outs. I love when they end. He loves the climbs - an opportunity to attack. I love large bars of dark chocolate and Belgian beers.
After the start today I didn't leave the drops for over an hour. A tail wind and a night’s sleep had convinced 100 lads that this was their day. After doing 60kph, it is like birthday card money glorious when it slows to 48kph - it feels like a club spin.
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It is hard to fathom how someone thinks that they have seen an opportunity in attacking a fresh bunch moving at 55kph. The short-lived flurries in the first hour are driven by vanity, angry directors and blind faith. Every team wants a man in the move.
Tomorrow, I am going to propose we let one man each of the 15 strongest teams up the road at 50km and the rest of us can have a coffee and a chat.
After the mental roundabouts of Galway and the slippy Atlantic road, we headed out of Oughterard very rapidly. And then someone randomly dropped a hand grenade into the bunch. A Big One.
Crashing is part of the sport but it doesn't need to be compulsory. It's not the rider braking like an idiot at nothing; it's the feckers who hear this, panic and lock their breaks multiplying the madness. For the record, it takes exactly 76 riders to completely block a Galway road three-deep.
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My race day was effectively ended when Martyn Irvine decided to start a third echelon and regain the front of the bunch that avoided the pile up. His constant 500watts made me pull animal shapes on the bike. Chicken first - elbows waving. Five watts more brought on a duck-like bobbing head. And finally after the KOH, five watts more piled on made me dance like a copulating Jack Russell - in and out of the saddle but no gear to match the power available.
I signalled to the others that my time had come; rode up to the next guy’s bottom bracket to leave no gap and BOOM. Gone. When you feel your heart rate in your eye…. let go.
Friends in team cars tooted to get me on the bumper. I pretended to be deaf. Guys passed shouting for me to jump on. I pretended to have a stroke. Over the second climb I was just out the back of the cavalcade and a stunning sight opened up. We had entered a valley and the entire An Post Ras was visible.
(Please Google 'Paul Henry artist': he is an Irish painter who captured 19th century images of Connemara. Now look at one of these paintings and imagine a bog road across the middle of the mountains).
Far ahead I could see the flashing lead cars with the leading three riders (before they crashed) and four echelons snaking across the valley. The cavalcade was in splinters with single riders glued to bumpers spread over 2km of roads and venomous crosswinds. It was stunning; a proper Ras stage.
We tapped through at 38kph for the last hour, hoovered some bodies up and then we were caught by the stars who had been mutilated in the earlier explosion but were still riding for time. I hope they didn't look left at the finish line - the presentation was starting when we rolled in.
When we were getting changed the excuses started at a neighbouring team. Excuses my bum. They are transparent and self serving. No one really cares if you hit a hole or big foot jumped out and stole your wheel and you had to make a new one from sticks and branches.
It's bike racing. Good days and bad - all mighty stuff.
Myles
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