Wherever the Road Takes Me
Colm O’Rourke on how cycling was the ideal respite from GAA
Colm O’Rourke reveals how cycling was the perfect respite from GAA for him
HAVE bike, will travel — that’s the motto. It reminds me of the old TV series called Then Came Bronson from the late 1960s. At the end of each series, Bronson, the cool clean hero, would be asked where he was going next. Of course, he had a shiny Harley-Davidson under him. His reply was always the same: “Wherever the road takes me.” It is a bit like that on the bike; once you get on the road it can take you anywhere, if those damned motorists would only stay out of the way.
I started cycling seven or eight years ago. Many of my friends had either stopped playing golf and were looking for a way of keeping fit, or, like me, taking a break from football. In my case, I had just been dumped out of managerial office; the only other absolute guarantee in life along with death and taxes.
If you get involved with club or county management it is just a matter of time. In many ways football shafting resembles the Mafia; nothing personal, just business. It comes to everyone in time.
Anyway, my friends were getting bikes and riding gear so I decided to investigate further. With a dodgy knee it could only be helpful. Anything which gives exercise to the muscles around the joint and is not weight-bearing has to be healthy.
Just to be sure, I took on the Tour of Meath, which is 100km, on a mountain bike to start with. Most of my mates were not keen to be seen with me on this trip — they in their nice cycling vests, shorts and racing bikes and this bogman lining up alongside them with old runners, tracksuit bottoms and a bike which had just as much rust as the rider. The great thing about riding a bike, though, is the helmet. It makes you almost anonymous.
This trip taught me the folly of thinking Meath was a flat county. If you travel up Tara, Skryne, and the hill of Slane you will be screaming for oxygen.
But on I went, too thick to stop, and got home, sun-burned and absolutely whacked. If I was going to do this sort of thing again I needed to take it a bit more seriously.
First thing is to get a proper bike because when you turn up at these cycles everyone is comparing their latest toy. The weight of it, where it came from and the price is the jargon of the road.
You could buy a good second-hand car for the price of some of these bikes and they still need to be pedalled. Then there are the tops, shorts and shoes. It will certainly end up in thousands. Add in winter gear and it can begin to become just as expensive — or maybe even more — than the golf club membership.
The Bike to Work Scheme must be the greatest bonanza for bike shops. Ten years ago most of these people fixed the odd puncture, sold children’s bikes at Christmas and stood forlornly at the door of their premises chatting to all and sundry.
Now they are experts on the latest models from the Continent. Bikes are like cattle in the marts — they are sold as much on weight as anything else.
I started, like most, with a second-hand rugged model, and all the other accessories came as well. A good pair of shorts is essential because if you head out on a cycle for a few hours you would need an arse like a Rhinoceros’ hide. You will suffer if you don’t have a nicely cushioned pair of shorts.
I followed a very select group of cyclists, which included at various times Justy Ward, Whacker McDermott, Dessie Rogers, Derek Harford, John Norris and anyone else who could be picked up along the route and given plenty of abuse for a couple of hours.
Nobody and nothing was sacred on these trips.
On one occasion I had to get off the bike going up Bellewstown Hill. Such good news could not have travelled quicker by Concorde and the laughing and sneering when we returned to base camp, and especially at work the next day, was testimony to the complete lack of Christianity among this group.
The lesson learned is never, ever get off the bike. It is better to get sick on it than off it.
After an early season of twohour spins, we all entered the Ring of Kerry. This was the same for me as the Tour de France in the Alps. There is a bit of a carnival spirit about this event. Down on Friday, the cycle on Saturday and then the Munster final between Cork and Kerry on Sunday.
We headed off around seven in the morning and there was a certain amount of fear in tackling 185km. It all went fairly well until we got to Kenmare, had a good break for refuelling and then took on Moll’s Gap.
We should not have stopped for so long, as the lactic acid builds up and it gets harder to pedal. Up and up the climb goes and every time you go around a bend you can see a snake of cyclists in the distance and every twist in the road you go round never seems like the last.
Yet getting to the top and the last part back into Killarney brings a great sense of satisfaction — something like Edmund Hillary experienced when he conquered Everest!
It is also a great social experience, meeting so many people who all encourage each other, though it can be a bit dangerous.
With a lot of traffic on the road and thousands of cyclists, you have to be wide awake or you could very easily run into the back of another cyclist or get hit by a car.
The only thing is that everyone, motorists and cyclists, is travelling at a slow pace.
For all of that, the scenery on a good day is absolutely breathtaking. It is something to do at least once in life.
I do very little cycling now compared to a few years ago. Football management has come back into my life and there is nothing better than the smell of a dressing room packed with a team raring to go.
Winning the senior championship with Simonstown last year reignited my passion for the game — if it had ever gone away.
The health benefits from cycling are enormous. My knee gives less trouble and it was more or less pain-free when I was on the bike. When the weather improves I will be back on the road again, albeit for short spins and mainly on my own.
At other times I will curse the long peleton of cyclists who don’t pay much heed to motorists. The shoe is certainly on the other foot now, but cyclists in general could at times be a bit more traffic friendly, rather than two abreast on narrow roads.
Once the evenings get a bit longer I will be off again.
It will be on the quiet back roads of Meath where the traffic is light and where all the problems of the world can be solved in the fresh air.
Like Bronson, the journey will be wherever the road takes me.