Nadia's cycling blog

Go elsewhere!

2010-10-01T10:37:00.000-07:00

I'm no longer using this blog, having consolidated my activities in one spot. If you want to know more about my cycling adventures, go to http://nadiawilliams.wordpress.com See you there!

Delightful little jaunt

2010-01-18T07:37:00.000-08:00

At last I am able to go out cycling again, after hurting a tendon in early December. Yesterday, I headed out into the Cooleys, and boy, was I overwhelmed with gratitude for the wonderful privilege I have of living where I do.

This hill is one of my favourite sights. I can see it from my bedroom window, and usually it's the most wonderful contrast of dark green against the lighter greens and browns of the mountains behind it. Winter's brush, however, has added a silvery touch to my hill that made it look contemplative and wise.

I must have posted photos of this path loads of times before, but I just can't help it, I take a photo everytime I come by here with the camera.

What struck me yesterday was that while the sum of the things to see around me was beautiful,

every little separate component was beautiful to me, too.

I love - love - looking at damp soil rich with bits of leaves and bark.

I love looking at moss softening the lines of rocks and trees. I just so love everything around me.

How can anyone not love this place? I'm so often asked if I don't miss South Africa's sunshine - how can I, if I have this instead?

I stopped for lunch at Ravensdale Park. There's a small car park there, surrounded by trees, and a few wooden tables with benches. And now I did the first thing that is probably not very serious-cyclist-like: I pulled out my lunch box and, yes, my flask of nice warm tea.

I felt a tiny bit silly when two other cyclists, also on hybrids like Ronan, whirred into the car park. They looked very cycle-ish, and did serious cycley stuff once they'd stopped like drinking water from their water bottles (not tea from a flask) and talking seriously with each other, probably about serious cycling stuff.

Then... well then things got worse. Whirrrrrrrrr-thwack! I heard behind me. A woman on a mountain bike had cycled past, flew onto the tarred surface over the last dip and skidded to a halt. Whirrrrrrrrrr-thwack! another mountain biker, a guy this time, followed and pulled up beside her. They were clad in proper mountain biking gear: mountain bike shorts over winter tights, mountain bike tops, enough logos to cover a sports car between them. They pulled off their full face helmets and started excitedly discussing the route they just did while more of them whirred and thwacked past me until there were eight of them gathered in the little parking lot.

There was enough coolness beside me to power an air conditioning system for the entire Burj Khalifa (Dubai Tower). And I was about to do something really, really terrible. You see, I usually take my netbook along to spend an hour or two writing when I stop for lunch on a cycling trip. This time, I hadn't felt like it, so I'd grabbed the other project I'm working on at the moment. Yes, I was clad in sort of semi-cool cycling tights. Yes, I wore cycling cleats, which I suppose are also cool, though I'm more concerned about the fact that they're really practical. But what I was about to indulge in, in sight of these ultra-cool cyclists, would cancel out any coolness I myself might have scraped together. It was worse than the lunchbox. It was worse than the flask of tea. It was...

Yes, I sat in Ravensdale Forest Park and worked on my crochet project. To crown it all, I thought of how ridiculous that was and kept laughing my head off while stitching, so I don't suppose that made it any better. But most probably the cool mountain bikers didn't even notice me.

Once my fingers got too cold to keep stitching, I packed everything away and headed home. It felt so good to cycle like this again that I was sorely tempted to go farther than the 30km I had determined I would do. However, that is precisely how I got hurt in the first place, so I disciplined myself to not overdo it.

Stats:

Distance: 31.42km
Average: 19.0km/h
Max: 37.0km/h
Pedalling time: 1h38.41

It was a good day, and a not so good day

2009-12-06T12:05:00.000-08:00

Please remember, you can click on the photos for larger views.

As dit pap reen, moet jy skep

That's an Afrikaans saying that means when something unusually generous comes your way, you must make use of the opportunity. Literally, it's: "When it rains porridge, you must scoop it up." And there should be an umlaut (I forget what the English word for it is, but that's the German for it. In Afrikaans it's called a deelteken) on the second e of the word 'reen'.

I thought of this saying today when I headed toward Portadown along the Newry Canal Towpath. The wind was at my back, so I enjoyed the easy pedalling as much as I could, knowing I'd have to cycle right into that wind later, on the return journey.

I'd set out this morning having decided to just bite the bullet and do a 100km outing. It was a psychological thing I needed so as to really know I was back in my cycling routine, all the disturbance of this last year behind me. However, I didn't want to overdo it and possibly injure myself, so I chose the exceptionally flat towpath to give me that mental thing I craved, without breaking my body.

Half of Ireland is under water at the moment, but here in Dundalk we have had no problems, in spite of the unusually heavy rain. However, cycling along the towpath I saw the effects of the higher rainfall clearly. The kind of ridge you see in the water, around the middle of the photo below, is the normal riverbank.

On this photo, the green ridge running parallel to the path is the normal riverbank.

Like I've mentioned, the wind was at my back, and I took full advantage of nature's help to cover about 45km. I then stopped for lunch at Scarva, and decided to turn around there. The reason I didn't do the whole 56km to Portadown was because I felt so good, and so fit, that I thought it might be nicer to head back and trail through the mountains a bit instead of following the nice but almost over-familiar route I'd first set out to do.

It's hard to describe how eerie it was to cycle this part of the path. The fields on both sides were flooded, so you basically cycled along this elevated path with water on both sides. The photo doesn't communicate quite how weird it looked.

Once I got back to Newry, I'd only covered about 65km. Going straight back home would be 25km, more or less, so I definitely needed to add some distance there to reach my goal for the day. I wanted to head back across the Windy Gap pass at first, but it's a seriously hilly route for an unfit body. Then I thought perhaps I should just go for Flagstaff pass, which is shorter, but in all honesty it's even steeper. I was worried about overexertion. Instead I opted to go around via O'Meath and Carlingford back to Dundalk. It would be about the right distance, and it's a very flat route, so I could take it really easy and avoid injury, I thought.

I was about half way to O'Meath when I started becoming aware of the tendon in my upper right leg. That means it didn't hurt, but it officially notified me that it was about to start hurting. I pedalled as easily and gently as I could, and I almost got away with it. Almost. By the time I got to Carlingford, it was nearly dark, and the tendon had not got any worse, as far as I could tell.

The last bit home was reasonably flat, so I just took it as easy as I could. In spite of that, I think I will need to go on anti-inflammatory drugs again, as it was hard to convince myself as I came into Dundalk that the tendon was still not quite hurting. Hopefully, because I will not have left it as long this time as I did last time the same bloody tendon gave me hassles, I won't have to skip cycling next week.

And maybe even if I do have to rest, I can still go for a little run. It is, after all, a different kind of exercise, I'm sure it won't affect the tendon if it's hurt enough to put cycling off the menu for a week or two.

But yes, I will ask the doctor first, and I will be obedient if he says not to.

Bugger. Should have stuck to the original plan and just cycled to Portadown and back.

Distance: 109.2 km
Time (pedalling only, excludes stops): 6 hours 22 minutes
Time including stops: About 9 hours
Average speed: 17.1 km/h
Maximum speed: 54 km/h (down Newry hill)
Odometer: 5113.9 km

Back in the saddle

2009-11-28T13:28:00.000-08:00

I've really neglected cycling this year. We had a pretty tumultuous time, with two moves in three months, the first being very chaotic, the second being... well, you can read about it here. Whatever the reasons, I didn't do nearly as much pedalling as I did last year.

Today, for the first time in months, I had a really wonderful cycling adventure again. I am and always will be in love with two wheels and pedals. There is just nothing like it to give you a sense of delight in life, in this stunning country, in your health and strength. It's like a psychological cleansing for me, and I am left happy, relaxed and feeling fulfilled when I get back home.

In truth, I dawdled this morning and left late. Having to drop off a coat for Lara, who was visiting a friend on the other side of town and forgot to take one, I chose to cycle from the west side of Dundalk out towards Forkhill.

This quickly takes me out of town and into the country.

I'm always aware of what a privilege it is for us to live in this country, but today the beauty all around brought it home to me yet again. Even the most arbitrary little corner can really touch your heart.

I have a particular soft spot for Roche Castle, for some reason. This is just an old ruin, nothing to write home about and certainly very unimpressive compared to many other castles. It's only the size of a big house, really. But to me it's a particularly impressive place, where, when you let yourself be still, you hear the echoes of those who lived and died there. I took this photo on the part of the road when it just becomes visible. It was so beautiful.

I'd started the trip wearing lined track suit trousers over cycling shorts, my sealskin socks with my cleats, a long sleeved tee shirt and fleece jacket, and my Eskimo gloves. Most of you probably know that I have very cold hands and feet, and this is probably my biggest challenge with cycling in winter: keeping my fingers and toes from freezing off. I was very quickly too hot, and changed into thinner gloves and a lightweight cycling jacket. The track suit trousers were too hot, but I had to keep them on as I didn't take my proper cycling leggings. This was a big mistake, and I must remember to not do that again.

Just after Forkhill, something odd happened. The mist that had hung around became thick and close, quite quickly. I could feel this sudden cold closing in around me. My fingers started getting way too cold, and I changed back into my Eskimo gloves. Less easy to solve was the problem of my legs really feeling the cold. It was a very weird feeling. Another reason to regret not having taken my proper cycling leggings. If I'd worn them, I could just have pulled the track suit trousers on over them.

Strangely, I still felt comfortable with the lightweight cycling jacket and tee shirt. That's always the problem for me, my torso is fine but my hands and feet just about fall off the ends of my arms and legs with cold. Even sometimes when I'm in short sleeved tee shirt and cycling shorts, I'll still have gloves on and have to 'claw' inside my cleats to keep my fingers and toes from freezing. A good friend of ours gave me some herbal tea which can really help with this, though. I wanted to save it for winter, and I think it's time to start drinking it.

I passed the entrance to Slieve Gullion Forest Park, and a little way on, by a quaint stone church, stopped to eat a banana. And to take a picture, of course.

This is the other man in my life. Ronan, I don't know what I'd do without you.

Feeling particularly good, I pedalled on towards Newry. However, having left so late, I had limited time and would not have been able to stop for a significant rest anywhere if I followed my planned route. Also, I would be cycling to Newry and then going back the direction I'd come from. I wouldn't normally mind, as more distance is a good thing, but time was tight - I'd promised to be home by six. I eyed a road turning east off the one I was on, cycling north. It would be ludicrous to turn onto an obscure little side path on a day I could see less than ten metres ahead, and therefore would be unable to identify landmarks to show me I'm on the right track. Also having already cycled three quarters of my route, unfit, and therefore a little worn out.

But hey, such trivialities have never stopped me before, so I checked for traffic and gleefully pedalled the way I vaguely suspected might be a quicker route to the other road I needed to be on if I ever wanted to see home again.

It was absolutely fantastic. I soon crossed the railway line, going under a bridge, and therefore knew I'd made the right decision (I knew I'd have to cross the train track at some point, at a certain angle, if I was going the right way). A bit of a head-scratcher here and there: left, right or straight? But I was lucky with signs to towns I was more or less sure were where I should go. Then lo, a little problem. A mist-shrouded fork in the road, not a sign in sight.

What to do, what to do!

Just after I took this photo, a car hared past me and took the right fork without a moment's hesitation. As cars are generally driven by people who have more of a clue where the hell they are than I do, I followed suit. It turned out to be the right decision.

I was blown away by how close I had in fact been to Carrickdale Hotel, the place where I wanted to stop for a cup of tea. This is useful to know for future pedalling insanities. It was very good that because of the shortcut I now had some time to stop, as I had little sensation left in my toes. After a cup of tea and a few more pages added to the children's book I'm working on (it was a fun piece to write as I got the hero's pony to bite the bad guy's snooty horse in the knackers), I left for home.

It was pitch dark outside, but I'd anticipated this and came prepared. I'd been caught in the dark before, on the Carlingford/Greenore road, and it had been a complete nightmare. Even though I had safety lights front and back, their purpose is to make others aware of you, not to light your way. There are few things as uncomfortable as cycling in very thick darkness, right beside a nasty little kerb that wouldn't kill you if you fall off it but would result in a nasty fall indeed, with safety lights that serve more to blind you than show the way.

So this time I stuffed Micky's head torch into my backpack before I left. I fit it to my cycling helmet and set off. Though still a little scary - perhaps because of it - cycling in the dark was fecking awesome (feck is technically not a swear word). This was true most of the time, but every time a car approached from in front of me it was a different story. I suppose drivers are programmed to turn their brights off if they see another set of lights. Sometimes only when the other driver turns theirs on. However, if you see a bicycle (they could not have missed me, not with my own 'headlight' and me being outlined in their sport-stadium-spotlight-quality space-beams), I suppose that kind of trigger malfunctions.

Time and again I was pedalling along just fine one moment, the next moment speeding along COMPLETELY BLIND into pitch black, heading into the middle of the darn road for all I knew. Even a trick my dad had taught my brother when he was learning to drive and which I later remembered and used successfully when I started driving, didn't help (what you do if a car approaches at night is to not try and focus on your lane as you normally would, but to focus on the painted line on the side of the road, just until the car has passed you. This way you avoid being completely blinded by the bright light ahead as you don't look at it so directly, and you avoid the disorienting light causing you to steer in the wrong direction as you orient yourself by the side-of-the-road line). Tonight, I could literally not see anything other than the car's headlights.

I sort of solved the problem by, the first time in exasperation, pointing to the car, then covering my eyes with my glove for a moment, then lifting my hand away with an exaggerated movement. To my surprise, it worked - s/he dimmed the headlights. So I did that every time, and though a few drivers (I'm really working on not calling them idiots here, because I can understand it's not something you'd necessarily realise, that you're rendering someone completely blind, and that on a bike that is SCARY) only got the message when I repeated the action a few times, it worked in every instance but one. With this exception, I gave up and started coming to a very quick halt when finally it seemed to dawn on the driver what I was going on about.

I was soon on the well-lit bypass, so the trouble with the idi... the bright lights was behind me. I stopped for a moment on the bridge over the river. This photo really doesn't do justice to how beautiful the lights reflecting on the water were.

Ten minutes later, I was in our wonderful, fantastic, beautiful, comfortable new home.

What an amazing day.

Distance: 42.7km (I know, I know, I'll do better next time)
Time: 2h28m (that's pedalling time only, I was out for just over four hours)
Average: 17.2km/h
Max: 39.5km/h
Odometer: 4987.1km

Galway Cycling trip.

2009-03-20T08:12:00.000-07:00

I went to Galway for a cycling weekend over 13/14/15 March. This was by far the most disappointing cycling trip I've ever been on. I took a train from Dundalk to Dublin, where I had to cycle from Dublin Connolly to Dublin Heuston station. There I waited an hour or two for my connecting train, but it was all good as I had my laptop with me.

I stopped in Tullamore to visit Micky's cousin, my good friend, Helen Clements. After a lovely lunch there, I continued my journey to Galway City. I was delighted to find myself in a brand spanking new train, where there were electric sockets for passengers to plug in laptops etc. So I could work on my laptop and recharge the battery at the same time.

There was a bit of unpleasantness when a group of three youngsters, half drunk, started pouring beer over seats where they were sitting, and flung beer at each other. Another passenger fetched the conductor, and I supported his story when they protested their innocence. As it was already dark when I arrived and I was all alone in a strange city, I was glad the three had been put off the train at another station.

Friday night I ventured into Shop Street, but the noisy night life thing is not my scene and I ended up chatting to friends over the internet in my room in the guesthouse. Go figure.
Next morning I set out for the cycling bit of the trip, which I was really looking forward to. I was told that area is truly beautiful to cycle through. And at first it was.

That soon changed. The landscape was brown and, to be honest, compared to where we live, it was really quite ugly. I nearly wept with gratitude when I found something worth photographing.
It was a good long while before I saw this stream. Believe me, either side it was dull, brown, and not pleasant to cycle through. To crown everything, there was a horrible wind blowing, and I cycled right into it.

At last I reached Oughterard, which at least held the happy prospect of meeting a pen pal for lunch. I needed something positive to look out for, because generally the weekend was going for pot.
Thank god the lunch was fantastic, and my friend Martin was as nice in the flesh as he'd been online. Eventually I returned to the guesthouse in a much better mood, and lo, the wind was at my back. The cycling was good. And the horrible landscape didn't bother me any more, because the landscape of my mind was set right.

Sunday morning I took the time to photograph some of the lovely places I'd seen in Galway City. I crossed this bridge everytime I walked to Shop Street. The river flows really fast here, but the canal that runs out into it is very flat and calm. One time when I passed here, the tide was in, and the water level up. There was the weirdest effect there of flat, calm water suddenly and for no apparent reason turning choppy, as if by magic.

This is Shop Street, pedestrian only, lined with pubs and restaurants, where there's the loveliest vibe at night.Unusual attire for skateboarding.

These people really annoyed me. Really really. They went to sit and pose, and their male friend took a whole bunch of photographs. Meantime I patiently waited, camera out, for them to go away. They got up, stood right in front of me while checking the photos, loudly discussing them in some babbly language, then went to sit down to pose again! I gave up and took the photo with them in, and find small comfort in the fact that I caught them pre-pose, while they were still getting themselves perfect, and I pray if they see this photo that they will be horrified. The statues were less annoying.
On Eire Square, which was recently renovated, there's this monument.
I loved this tree. It looks so nice and tangly.
The journey back was uneventful, and I reached Dublin around 3pm. This bridge is just near Heuston Station.

I'm hoping to be able to cycle down to Dublin next weekend, where I'm attending the Phoenix Convention. Then sometime in either April or May I intend to cycle up to Belfast. It can only get better.

Day after Valentine's with my second-greatest love.

2009-02-16T12:34:00.000-08:00

Yippee! Warm weather after a terrible cold snap. I had a good feeling about Sunday, I just knew it was going to be fantastic. And oh, it was. I started out with my leg warmers and a long-sleeved shirt. The leg warmers were the first to go, as it really was quite warm. South African friends, I should qualify: it was around 8'C. This was enough to inspire me to blind passing motorists with the sight of my really, really white winter-legs.

Ronan, my sweet darling, is still the best bike in the world. Second-greatest love after Micky!

I headed into the Cooley mountains, around Ravensdale, where there are numerous little hidden coves of tranquility. Hey ho, I think I was listening to really loud Snow Patrol when I took this photo. God bless the mp3 player.

I really wanted to cross the Windy Gap pass over to O'Meath, but astonishingly, I got lost. Actually, that should not be so astonishing, I make an art form out of getting lost. What is astonishing is that I got lost in a place I have cycled around in loads of times. At any rate, I cycled up a random little obscure tarred road, and lo, I ended up here:

Well. What to do now? The only way to go was here, and I don't have a mountain bike.

Hmmm. While I thought over my options, I did something about being too hot. Observe, pack taken off, as were gloves and glasses.
Next went the long-sleeved shirt, and yes, now I was clothed in my bra and cycling shorts out in the open. It was hidden from view.
Then, evidence of the first short-sleevedness in almost six months. Of course I had to just aim the camera more or less in the right direction, so the results were a bit random. I think this is a rare nice-looking photo of me.
Micky thinks this one is nicer, and it achieves the aim of showing the short sleeves of the hippie tee shirt I have now had a chance to wear.

I was sooooo tempted. I just wanted, wanted to go up this dreadful trail. But oh, no mountain bike! Nothing but a hybrid, a road bike really. No nice fat tyres that can handle things such as this. It would be madness to go up here:
So, of course, I did.

And I was rewarded with this:

Of course, I had to push Ronan much of the way, and walking through mud with cleats means poor wedges got all mud-caked. I had to scrape it away with a stick before I could clip into the pedals again.
Ronan was also a very dirty boy when we were done with our little adventure.

I finally did find the right way to go, but by then I was really knackered as I'd gone up and down all sorts of interesting-looking nooks and crannies.

I'd had a very, very glorious time, and went home, having done about thirty, thirty-five km. That's a pathetic distance, but truly, much of it was as steep as what I'd done in Switzerland. I had the most wonderful thrill when, in one place, I got going again after a rest and the front wheel lifted off the ground when I pushed down on the pedal. I'd wanted to do some hill training, and I think that would qualify as steep.

God, I can't wait to get out there again. I love cycling.

Switzerland Cycling Trip

2008-08-13T00:15:00.000-07:00

I just returned yesterday from a cycling trip in Switzerland. It was... an experience.

The adventure started on Friday, 8 August, really, when I went to my local bike shop to have the bicycle packed for the flight. It was a busy time for Danny, the bicycle mechanic, with people in and out, a pile of other bikes waiting for attention and me not only watching (I'd have to put it back together again myself when I arrived in Switzerland and pack it again when I left), but also constantly picking things up to look at them and interrupting with a hundred questions.

Saturday morning we got up at 3:30am and left for Dublin airport at 4am. My flight left for Basel airport at 6:30. I got through checkin with my bicycle no problem, as I'd booked it beforehand and packed it according to Ryanair's instructions. However, when I arrived in Basel and opened the box to assemble the bike... I found that in the previous day's chaos, my bike's saddle had been left behind.

No problem. I closed the box again and got on a bus to Bahnhof Basel SBB (train station), hefted my 15kg luggage which was packed in panniers and a bag very suited for cycling but hell to carry. I dragged my boxed bicycle, a total weight of another fifteen kilograms, after me. Lucky for me there was a bicycle shop just near the station, and I bought a saddle and seat post for the journey. Here is the bike at the entrance to the station when at last I had it ready:

Basel SBB was an experience in itself. There must have been a fancy dress something on somewhere, as people looking like this were all over the place. One lady wearing a teddy and suspenders was ahead of me in line to buy a train ticket.

When you get in the train, there's a special little compartment for bicycles. Here's Ronan, my bicycle, snug and ready for our journey.

It took me more time to make my way to Meiringen, where I spent the first night, than you'd imagine, as I am directionally challenged and awfully scatterbrained in spite of my best efforts. That night in my tent I had the Swiss version of a Mars Bar. The interior of the tent was soon in chaos.

There were loads of other cyclists at the campsite. Mine is the little green tent.

Next morning I set off on the route I intended to do. I aimed to complete Route 61, but back to front, as I wanted to get the longer train journey between Meiringen and Basel out of the way on the first day. I also wanted to get the worst part of the route, the climb up to Grosse Scheidegg, out of the way on the first day, not at the end when I would be knackered. What a wise girl I am. Here's the starting point of the route.

It was Steep with a capital S. After two kilometres I texted Micky that I couldn't do the route and wanted to give up. I was considering just doing some day cycles out from Meiringen instead. Micky sent me an encouraging text back, and I decided to change my tactics. I would pedal 100m, rest, then pedal another 100m.

In this way, I managed to make my way ever farther up the route. This was the first serious giant of the Alps that I saw.

Typical Swiss house I saw on the route. It's interesting to see the piles of firewood stacked against the walls outside.

I managed a giggle when I saw this sign, thinking, "Darn, and I lugged my bugle all this way specially to blow it right in this spot."
At this point, according to the height profile, I should have been another two kilometres from the high point. But as I sat here, I stared at that particular way the road winds, twisting back on itself, and it looked familiar. I whipped out my map, and true as bob, this was what the road looked like just before Grosse Scheidegg. I tried not to get happy, but I was right. The high point was just around the corner.

Looking out over this monster mountain, I sat at Hotel Grosse Scheidegg and had an ice cold juice. It had taken me seven hours to cover sixteen kilometres.

This is the Eiger, seen from Grosse Scheidegg.

It was downhill all the way from Grosse Scheidegg. I passed through Grindelwald in a flash, and went on to Wilderswil, just before Interlaken, where I camped for the night. Here's the view of the Jungfrau, I think, from the campsite. At night I could see the lights of the Jungfrau railway right on the saddle between those two mountains.
And there's my little green tent:
After a long search for a place to eat that wasn't a restaurant, but just a plain old spot where I could sit with my wrinkled clothes and my messed up hair, I had the best hamburger and chips I have ever tasted here at the snack shack:

Next day I left for Thun, taking an easier path, along the lake, instead of the more difficult route I had planned to do. At first it was a bit of an epic finding the starting point of cycle route 8/9, but with the help of a lovely lady called Cathy, I was on the right road at last and pedalled along the edge of the lake. The water was crystal clear and the route beautiful.

This is Spiez, the last town I went through before reaching Thun:

All in all a wonderful experience, though it was one of the worst I'd had in a way. The cycling difficultly was way too much for me. However, I did it. While travelling along the flat, calm route to Thun, I swore I would never do something like the previous day's nightmare again. Yet last night I already found myself thinking, "Now if I train more specifically for hill cycling, and if perhaps I attempt the route without fifteen kilograms luggage on the bike, I can try again and see if I can do it in less than seven hours..."

Stats:

Day 1, Sunday 10 August: Height gain of 1364m (4 475 feet) over a distance of 16km (10 miles), achieved in seven hours. Average speed (when I moved) 6km/h (3.75mph) After that another 32 km (20 miles) done in an hour and a half. Yes, the rest of the route was downhill all the way (thank God). Total distance on day 1 was 48km (30 miles) over a total of eight and a half hours.
Day 2, Monday 11 August: Flat route of 37km (23 miles), done in four hours.

Note, 28 November 2009: I see I didn't mention it at the time for whatever reason, but I felt as if I was developing a cold on the last day's trip. When I arrived at the hotel, I had to first pack my bicycle for the next morning's very early flight. It had started raining heavily by then, and I spent half an hour outside, soaked and chilled. Less than an hour later I knew I was very sick indeed. There were, fortunately, two single beds in my room, because I sweated so much I had to change from one to the other in the middle of the night. I was in pretty bad shape on the flight back. Back home, the doctor diagnosed my dry cough and illness as a combination of dehydration, overexertion and altitude sickness. Next time, I'll have to spend two days adjusting to the altitude before tackling Grosse Scheidegg.

Yes, I did say next time.

Except if I can go cycling in Norway instead. We'll see.

Idiots in Opels and Zen Moments.

2008-07-13T13:59:00.001-07:00

I have this theory about Opels from the early nineties: they bring out the arsehole in anyone who gets behind the wheel. This theory was borne out again yesterday when I cycled from Dundalk to Shercock.

My wrists and back were aching, and, being on a slight downhill, I went handsfree so as to be able to roll wrists and shoulders and ease the cramping muscles. I made extra sure to stay as close to the side of the road as I could.

Before I'd gone too far a car passed me and, when it was right next to me, blasted its hooter. It of course startled me, and I might easily have fallen off the bike. As it was, I didn't, but if the fate I wished on the arsehole behind the wheel were to befall him, you'll hear it in the news this week. Worldwide.

The car in question was a silver 1994 model Opel.

After stopping in Shercock for a brief rest, I set off on the Cavan road. My goal for the day was to cycle 100km, and I needed to go 12km beyond the village. About 4km on, I passed a house with two big dogs sitting in front of it. One of them was a German Shepherd.

The German Shepherd's aggressiveness was apparent from a distance. He got up and came for me. I played an interesting game of pedalling with my eyes glued to the snarling dog, kicking out against his muzzle every time he attacked. It took a good 100m before he gave up.

I seethed right up to the spot where I turned around, exactly 50km from home. I swore to myself I'd never cycle in the South again (I usually cross the border to Northern Ireland when I go cycling). The county seemed filled with a selection of idiotic inbreds in Opels who haven't enough brain cells to figure out their huge, agressive, slavering dogs should not be allowed to run around unrestrained.

Then all of a sudden I had this zen moment, which is remarkable, as I'm not even really sure what zen is. The stress melted away. I had a strange conviction the dog would not be there any more when I passed by again. My better self reminded me that stupidity is universal. It was just my bad luck to run into it twice in one day.

And lo and behold, the dog was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps its owners had heard and seen the commotion and locked the animal up. Drivers were, for the rest of the day, courteous and considerate.

I managed my 100km. The price is that my tendon injury has flared up again and I'm back on anti-inflammatories. Still, it was a good day. I'll try to forget the idiot in the Opel. Maybe I'd inadvertently swerved into the road when I sat upright, and the angry driver didn't realise startling me like that could send me under his wheels. I'll remember the dog is just a dog, and that perhaps he had got out accidentally. The owners had, after all, rectified the situation by the time I passed there again.

I'll remember the snack stop I made shortly after turning around. I'll remember turning a single corner into a leafy little track and disappearing from the world, from whizzing cars, from modern life and its hectic pace. I took my shoes off, waded into a muddy stream and sat down on a half-submerged gate. A ripe nectarine filled my senses with sweetness while I listened to the quiet burble of water gurgling over stones. Mud squelched between my toes when I made my way back to the bike. I wiped them with a tissue before putting my shoes back on, then pushed my bike through a tunnel of green back up to civilisation.

Mucking about

2008-06-29T06:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I left home on the bike, equipped for a day out, with no specific destination in mind. I felt like exploring down a little side road I always pass on my way to Newry when I go shopping.
This was my first serious trip after a layoff with a tendon injury. In this two-week period, I was also struck down by the worst cold I'd had in a very long time. My body, therefore, was not the eager, willing participant on the trip that it usually is.

Legs groaned in protest before we'd even left the boundaries of Dundalk. The whole biological machine complained ceaselessly from the word go. Every kilometre gained was a result of sheer obstinate insistence.

I ended up cycling along a very narrow, obscure little path to Jonesborough, from there to Forkhill and on to Crossmaglen. After two cups of tea, a good rest and the application of some Deep Heat spray, I set off back home. It would have been roughly 18km directly back to Dundalk, but I chose to retrace my route and cycled about 43km back instead.

When I finally made it home I was shattered. Yet the question that had plagued my mind along the trip was put to bed. It was the familiar old ground-out rhetoric: why am I doing this to myself? The answer came not in words. Not in pictures. It came in the slow-trickling satisfaction permeating my soul.
Total distance: 86.57km
Average: 17.9km/h
Max: 51.9km/h
Odometer: 1744.7km

Llandudno trip.

2008-06-08T23:43:00.000-07:00

Went on a trip to Llandudno over the weekend of end May/beginning June 2008. I took the ferry across from Dublin to Holyhead.Arrived in Holyhead at 11am.
Cycled along the A5 to avoid the A55, and though the cycling was strenuous for someone of my fitness levels, it was very nice.
The young fellow in the photo below was cycling along on an old mountainbike. I overtook him at a stage and happily cycled on, forgetting about him. Until about ten minutes later, he comes haring past me when I slowed to take this photo. From there on, he kept peering over his shoulder and then pedalling furiously when he saw me. This went on forever, and eventually I stopped for lunch earlier than I would have otherwise so he could for heaven's sake just get ahead.
Hill from hell. I know, I know, three quarters of you cycling maniacs would think nothing of it. I'm old, fat and unfit, okay?
I'd been told that there was definitely a cycling route alongside the A55 motorway, both by finding (eventually) some references to it on the internet, and also by a local I asked. I therefore looked out for cycling route signs, and eventually found markers for route 5. It was an absolute nightmare to try and stick to wherever bicycles are supposed to go along here. At one point the route started up the mountain in the direction of Snowdonia, with me not having a clue if I'm on the right route or going to end up miles from where I was supposed to be.
I felt really down, until I saw this view and just somehow knew everything was going to be fine. From there on this section is among some of the most beautiful I have ever cycled along.
This path ended in a small road parallel to the highway again, but no signs as to where cyclists should go. At last I just cycled on to the end of the smaller road, even though I was told it's a dead end by someone I asked. Turned out it wasn't a dead end for cyclists. However, I soon was in a situation where I hadn't the faintest clue where to go, and crossing this footbridge seemed the only option.
After that things were better. Much better.

This was taken in Llandudno, looking at the route I'd cycled along to get there.Return journey was even more of a nightmare. All went well and I reached the end of the path I'd mentioned above. Had a profound thought here and had to write it down.
At some point I saw sign boards saying, very clearly, "Cycle route 8: Holyhead". This had to be the elusive cycling route I had been told of. Not keen to repeat some of the nightmarish bits I had to go through on the way there, I thought I'd rather follow the proper route. All went well for a while. The route wound its way through back roads and was very well signposted. Up to a point, where at a crossroads all signboards ceased to exist. By this time the route had wound so thoroughly through the countryside that I had no idea where I was or which way was up. I went straight on, and cycled through a stunningly beautiful section.
That's the last photo I took, because after this things went seriously pear-shaped. I reached a tiny village where I asked for, and received, directions. I had somehow ended up way south of where I was supposed to be. I had to reach Holyhead in time to board the ferry I was booked on, so the rest of the day was a mad dash to get there on time. I did; in fact, I had an hour and twenty minutes to spare when I got there, but I had pushed myself to a state of utter exhaustion in the process. I found the insecurity of not knowing wtf I was, not having any idea how far I still had to go so that I could pace myself, all that led to a mental drain that made a distance I can usually cycle with little difficulty into a complete nightmare. It's a shame, as the countryside thereabouts is stunningly beautiful in places. Not as nice as Northern Ireland, but then, I'm biased! I love the Mournes and the Cooleys!

I'm an inexperienced cyclist, so yes, I'm sure a lot of you are shaking your heads here, but next time I go somewhere I'm not familiar with and am far from support, I will do my utmost to lay my hands on a detailed map of the area, and rather rely on my own map reading than signposts to find my way.

Silly me! But a lesson worth learning.

Stats:

Friday:
Total distance: 90km
Travelling time total: 7h00
Total cycling time: 5h30
Average speed: 16km/h

Sunday:
Total distance: 103km
Travelling time total: 7h30
Total cycling time: 5h37
Average speed: 18km/h

Dundalk/O'Meath/Carlingford trip

2008-06-08T13:53:00.000-07:00

I went on a lovely cycling trip today. It was meant to just be a short, leisurely outing, but it turned into something much, much more. To start with, I headed North, in the direction of the Cooley mountains.
I turned toward O'Meath just after the Carrickdale Hotel, on a path that takes me past Flagstaff Viewpoint.

Up near Flagstaff, I sat on a stone wall, enjoyed the amazing view and a snack.

From there I headed for O'Meath, where I had another rest - scandalous, it was hardly around the corner from the previous rest stop.

I went through Carlingford from there. Didn't feel like taking the big, busy main road from there to Dundalk, so I went along another road which I thought wound its way along the flanks of the mountains to eventually pass Ravensdale Forest Park. Um, I was wrong. I soon realised I was on the wrong road, but with beautiful scenery all around, I didn't much care.

To my great amusement, I ended up above O'Meath again. Higher up this time, with different views from earlier.

I went back the way I'd come, past Flagstaff Viewpoint, up an utterly brutal hill. At the Carrickdale Hotel, I had a cup of tea. A moment of sentimentality: this is the exact spot where I'd parked my old bike so many times when I cycled along here.

In those days, the Carrickdale used to be my ultimate goal. I'd never have made it the current distances on the ole thing, but it served me the best it could.
Distance: 74.44km
Average: 18.5km/h
Max: 43km/h
Odometer reading: 1 511.2km

Trip to Armagh.

2008-06-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

This was originally posted to my LiveJournal blog on 10 May 2008. Ronan is my bicycle.

Yesterday morning 9am, after roughly four hours' work in front of the computer, I looked out the window to see... a gorgeous, enticing, alluring, seductive day. No, not blazing sunshine and bright blue skies. Soft grey clouds, misty rain.

Perfect for cycling.

I exploded into a flurry of activity, preparing my wee family for a day without me. Then it was me, Ronan and the road.

I headed for Armagh, cycling through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. At 48km, the journey there was at the upper limit of my abilities. To be honest, I wanted to see if I could do +/- 100km in one day on a route that was not as flat and easy as the one I did when I hit three digits the first time (on the Newry Canal Towpath). This route was anything but easy, though not as hard as day 2 of my three-day trip.

Coming out of Armagh, as often happens due to my brilliant navigational skills, I went the wrong way. I realised a few kilometres on that I was heading for Monaghan. An interesting weaving through farmland and windy little roads followed. I did at last find my way to Keady, and from there to Newtownhamilton.

Total distance for yesterday: 115.83km (That's 72 miles)

Total cycling time taken (that's only when the bike was in motion, the timer stops when the bike does): 5:51.

But now, for the most awesome bit of info from my trusty little gadget.

Odometer reading: 1020.3 km.

I rock. Or rather, I cycle. Lots.

Newry Canal Towpath

2008-06-06T13:50:00.000-07:00

Newry Canal Towpath

Originally posted on our family blog 27 March 2008. On 18 May, I returned to the towpath to do the complete journey from Dundalk to Portadown and back, a distance of 111km. The photo is not my own, I forgot the camera that day.

I went on a cycling trip today, going from Dundalk to Newry, and from there along the the Newry Canal Towpath towards Portadown. I didn't go all the way to Portadown, though, as a new goal snuck into my head as I was cycling... doing a hundred kilometres on the bicycle in one day. So I did. I am over the moon, and eternally grateful to Micky for letting me go for so long.

The stats at the end of the day:

Distance: 100.56km
Cycling time: 6.05.31 (Total time of journey about 8 1/2 hours)
Average speed: 16.4km/h
Max: 35.8km/h
Odometer reading: 502.7km

Four-day cycling trip through Northern Ireland.

2008-06-06T13:40:00.000-07:00

Cycling Trip

This entry was originally posted in our family blog on 19 March 2008

Two weeks ago, Micky bought me a decent bicycle after I'd been getting along with a very old, rusty, heavy mountain bike for some time now. As I've become quite an avid cyclist, it seemed worthwhile to invest in a decent machine and some of the associated paraphernalia. So here's my new bike:

Seeing as I now had the lovely machine, I decided to do something I've been keen to do for a long time now: go on a multi-day trip. After much consideration, this is the route I chose:

On Saturday, 15 March 2008, I took a train to Belfast. From there I set out along the A8 towards Larne.

I listened to my favourite music all day long every day, my mind otherwise occupied with deep philosophical musings on the nature of happiness and the relationship between happiness and risk. This photo was taken along the A8. I took it because it's unlikely that any of the hundreds of people speeding past it in their cars ever see it.

After Larne, I cycled along the coast road, which was very beautiful.
I finally reached Glenarm, and around the corner from it was Carnlough, where I stayed the night. I took a wrong turn and paid dearly for it by adding about ten kilometres to the journey. At the end of Saturday, I had covered 81.96km at an average speed of 14.4km/h over 5h39min. My maximum speed that day had been 46.6km/h. That's cycling time only, my very snazzy little speedometer only counts the time while the bike is moving, so my total travelling time was much longer than that.
This is the sight from the guesthouse window in Carnlough:
This photo, taken on Sunday, day two, might look insignificant, but it marks the bottom of the hill from hell. I was heading for Ballycastle from Cushendall, and it was pretty much all uphill - and I mean not interspersed with the odd downhill. Really, it was all up.

I was just seriously starting to wonder why in hell I feel it neccessary to do this to myself, when I saw this:I know you can drive there in a car to see it, but from experience I know that a view earned the hard way is just somehow more beautiful.

Just before Ballycastle I stopped for lunch:
I went inside, of course, where I had the most delicious Scampi and Chips I have ever tasted.

From there it was on to Bushmills (yes, the home of the famous whiskey). At the guesthouse where I stayed that night, there was a very sweet little cat:At the end of Sunday, I had covered 71.64km, at an average speed of 15.5km/h, over 4h35min. My max had been 39.4km/h.

The next day, Monday, was lovely, sunny and warm. I stripped off my track suit bottoms and treated the world to this ghastly sight:

Coming into Garvagh, I managed to get a thorn in the front tyre, and had to change the tube. Thanks to the brilliant foresight of Allan at Tommy the Bike's, it was no problem.
I managed to take another wrong turn, this time diverting my course onto a little piece of road that had been sliced from Hades and implanted onto the Northern Irish landscape. It had the most horrendous hills and dales imaginable. Having this way added twenty kilometres to my trip, I ended the day having covered 83.8km, at an average of 16.5km/h, over a time of 5ho3min. Max was 48.9km/h.

I took a photo of my dinner that night at the guesthouse near Magherafelt, to show more or less what I ate at night. I find that when I'm cycling, my appetite is often virtually non-existent.

This is the last photo I took on the trip, early morning over Lough Neagh. It was stunningly beautiful. I made my way to Portadown, covering 54.17km, at an average speed of 15.2km/h over 3h32min. My maximum speed was 47.5 km/h.
I took a train back to Dundalk from Portadown. All in all a very, very wonderful trip.