The Quiet Man 300: a Successful Disaster

How do we determine whether a cycling event we undertook was successful? Is it by whether we finish in one piece and get the time we wanted, or is there more to it? This is a question I ask myself in the wake of last weekend. Because, while the Quiet Man 300K was the longest brevet I've completed successfully, it was also the most disastrous bike ride I've ever had the misfortune to embark on.

Please bear with me, because I am not sure how to approach describing what happened. But I better do it now, before too much time passes and I find a way to smooth out the contradictions into a neat narrative that never was. Such as it is, here goes.

I learned about the Quiet Man roughly a month ago - a 304km (189 mile) brevet in County Mayo, on Ireland's West Coast. After last summer, I honestly had no interest in doing any more brevets. And anyhow, I thought the distance too great to tackle so early in the year. Nonetheless, I was attracted by the Quiet Man's location and description. Without explicitly intending to, I found myself cycling as if I were training for it - or at least testing the water to see whether it was even feasible to do so in 4 weeks' time after a winter of very minimal roadcycling. I also mentioned the brevet to my friend Keith, who has raced bikes for 30 years but has not done audax events before. If I was going to try that kind of distance again, and in unfamiliar territory at that, I wanted to ride with a buddy. Keith was cautiously interested. He too would do some testing-the-water training and see how that went.

Amazingly, as the weeks passed things fell into place and the 300K began to seem attainable. I did not put any pressure on myself as far as training. I simply rode my bike along hilly backroads in the Roe Valley and the Sperrins, increasing distances when it felt right. When I completed a 120 mile ride in 11 hours and felt fine the next day, I knew that I could give the 300K a try. Keith had been training differently, doing shorter, but faster rides to get his form back after a winter off the bike. But he too felt ready. Just days before the brevet, we signed up, secured accommodations, and prepared to go. I planned to ride my Seven roadbike, supplemented with a handlebar bag, fenders and LED battery lights (more on the setup in a separate post). And I loaned Keith my Honey CX bike, which he found more comfortable than his Giant TCR.

The brevet's start in Westport, Mayo was a 4 ½ hour drive away, so we left our corner of Northern Ireland on Friday evening and stayed overnight. The drive down along the West Coast wound through scenic stretches of counties Donegal and Sligo, teasing us with hints of the views we'd see on the bikes the following day.

But when the following day arrived it became apparent that views might not be on the menu. We rolled up to the 6am start in low cloud and drizzle, which the forecast predicted would stay with us for a good part of the day. Another thing that became apparent at the start is that I had managed to become sick. The symptoms were stomach-flu-like, with cramps and nausea and overwhelming lethargy. But I looked at the couple dozen hardened men adjusting their bikes in the town square nonchalantly, and decided to attribute my symptoms to nerves and the early morning hour. "You'll ride it off," I told myself.

Alas, my symptoms were not due to nerves or the early start. I had caught a legitimate stomach bug that grew progressively worse throughout the brevet. You will forgive me if I do not go into details. But suffice to say, I was too miserable to be upset that the very views that lured me into doing this brevet now mocked me behind a veil of thick fog. Here an outline of a gaunt brown mountain could be discerned; there a sliver of a gray lake. Through heavy use of imagination and visual memory, I could reconstruct the invisible scenes that spread out before me. And, through gritted teeth, I entertained myself with this task for the first 50 miles in steady rain, as I guzzled water and tried not to vomit at a rate that exceeded its consumption.

At this stage of the ride, I met several nice gentlemen who tried to ride next to me and chat. I apologise to all of them if I seemed less than gregarious, and hopefully the above explains why! I should also mention that I finally met David Bayley (astride a JP Weigle bicycle), the brother of John Bayley and chairman of Audax Ireland. It is a small, small world.

Despite my comically bad form, it did not occur to me to abandon the brevet. And I think this was not so much from any kind of stoicism, as from fear that getting off the bike would actually make me feel worse. At least the pedaling motion was distracting me. At least holding onto the bike was holding me together. And besides, at this point things could not get any worse.

Ah, but they could, dear readers, they could. Around mile 60, I discovered that I'd gotten my period (womenfolk, can't take them anywhere!!). It was uncharacteristically off schedule, so I had nothing with me as far as sanitary supplies or tablets for the pain that shortly followed. And we were now in the middle of nowhere, with no shop or pharmacy for dozens of miles. Again, I will spare you the details of the physicality of this situation. But yes, I kept cycling. I admit I did experience a moment of wavering. But then I said to myself: "Girl, you live in Northern Ireland now. You're supposed to be hard as nails. Stuff some leaves in your shorts and get going."

Things got a bit better after that. Yes, I was bleeding like a stuck pig and sick with stomach flu in the middle of nowhere in County Mayo. But I'd come to terms with all that now. And the rain stopped, giving way to the sort of cold but dry-ish overcast day that fills me with energy and optimism.

And besides, I had Keith for company. With a wife and two teenage daughters at home, he was completely unfazed by my lady troubles. Thankfully, neither did he try to comfort me, feel sorry for me, or suggest at any point that I should quit. He just acted like everything was totally cool. Like hey, this stuff is par of the course and you never know what a bicycle ride will throw at you. We're doing grand! A few more miles and we have this thing cracked anyway.

By mile 120 we were two thirds of the way through and still feeling strong on the bikes. By this point we'd passed through the ominously named stretch of the route called the Windy Gap, which involved the longest climb of the brevet, followed by a horrendously steep hairpin descent. Surprisingly, this part of the ride turned out to be rather benign, and as we set off to finish the last 60 miles we could hardly believe the worst was behind us.

But of course, silly us - it wasn't. Shortly thereafter the headwinds began, growing more brutal by the minute and plaguing us nearly till the finish. On flats they were bad enough. But on the long uphill inclines, things grew so dire that I began to laugh at the effort it was taking me to push even 12mph. Keith kept telling me to clamp myself to his wheel and sit super close or else I'd blow up. I did my best, and we managed to pick up the pace, riding the next 30 miles silent with effort and suppressed frustration. We had been doing well for time so far, but the wind was sapping our strength.

Darkness fell slowly, starting at 9:30 and growing pitch black by 10pm. For this last stretch of the brevet we would be on fairly big roads with white dotted lines and reflective strips along the center and sides. This made riding in the dark a non-issue; I used only one of the 3 headlights I'd brought along and it was perfectly adequate.

Under the calm cover of night, we got into a good rhythm, as if having come to some sort of agreement with the wind: "We work hard, and you lay off a bit." But with 25 miles to go, I began to feel acutely sick again, and, for the first time during the ride, to get sore and tired on the bike. My worst moment was around mile 170, when I felt especially ill and the headwind picked up at the same time. Luckily, just then we passed an open pub, where we stopped to get water. I hung around a bit, and something about the atmosphere inside felt invigorating enough for me to suddenly feel okay again once I got back on the bike.

The final miles went by in a hypnotic daze. I was so uncomfortable and exhausted, that it hardly mattered anymore. Keith too admitted to being "a bit tired." What he was really feeling I will never know, as he is one of those people who keeps cool and doesn't complain no matter what. But in any case, there was no feeling of elation from either of us as we made the turn into Westport and rolled up to the town square. In fact there were no emotions at all. We got our cards stamped at the adjacent hotel and discussed, matter-of-factly, the logistics of changing into our street clothes and commencing the drive home.

We had set off at 6:00 in the morning and arrived at 12:45 at night, completing the brevet in 18 hours and 45 minutes (the time limit being 20 hours). In the course of this we stopped at 5 control checkpoints, had two sit down meals, and took countless short breaks for food and water purchases, toilet use, etc. We had no mechanical issues with our bikes. We did not at any point go off course or struggle with the route. My fitness level for this brevet was borderline, in that I was strong enough to complete it, but not strong enough to relax and feel confident that I would do so. My bicycle felt surprisingly comfortable through mile 189, and aside from a small bruise from the saddle I did not suffer any injuries or pains. On the other hand, I arrived home with a case of stomach flu so bad, it required an immediate course of medication and 2 days of bed rest, making me miss the Tour of Ulster I had so looked forward to. It was a miserable, disastrous weekend. It was the worst time I have ever had on a bike. And I still have almost no idea what County Mayo looks like.

But I do have a vague memory of the drive home with Keith, when, with curious detachment, we discussed the possibility of organising a brevet series out of the Roe Valley in Northern Ireland. And he such a quiet man. It must have been the stress talking.

Of Miles and Mountain Vistas: A Spring Initiation Ride

Having told myself I would not stop until at least ten miles in, it worried me that I was already tired so early into the ride. But when I rolled into the center of Burnfoot - with its view of the Pointy Mountain and its titillating village shop selling 60p sausage rolls - I saw it was mile 15 already. Somehow the time, or the distance, or both, flew faster than I realised. So far so good for the first big ride of the season. With my piping hot sausage roll and electrolyte-laced water, I sat by the stream and took in the landscape that spread out in front of me. It looked far. And it was where I was headed. 

I've tried not to whine about it too much. But, as far as road cycling goes, winter in Northern Ireland was disappointing. Because it rarely snows here, I hoped to ride year-round without breaking stride. But the powerful winds put a damper on that. From mid December through a good part of March, I was lucky to get out once-twice a week, and even then for 20 or so flat miles at a time. I had not done any significant hills or milage since before the winter holidays. When finally the weather turned enough for proper cycling to commence, the expression "Two steps forward, one step back" came to mind. I panted up climbs and panicked down descents that I had come to think of as easy by last summer's end. Good thing I did not start with the intermediate ones!

Last spring I worried about working up to longer rides and even put together a training schedule. This year I did nothing of the sort. The feeling of readiness happened organically. One day I just knew: Tomorrow. I sat down and planned the route, a meandering 60-odd miles along the shoulders of a couple of local mountains, through the villages of Drumsurn and Garvagh. The route would begin with some flat miles, followed by a warm-up climb, then two long climbs and descents, before turning flat again for the final stretch home. I designed it mostly along back roads and to maximise mountain views. The climbs were a side-effect of that, rather than the objective. Still, I saw this ride as a sort of jump-start to the season, as a shot of adrenaline, as something to shock my system and jog my body's memory, to establish a reacquaintance with the miles and the climbing. As part of this spring initiation rite, I accepted that, along with the beautiful views, some degree of pain and misery awaited me. 15 miles in and already tired, I braced myself for what was to come. "This will be difficult. But get it over with, and future rides will be more enjoyable."

But as flat roads gave way to rolling hills, which gave way to the first real climb, I began to feel better, not worse. Somewhere from deep within, an energy emerged, as if out of winter hibernation. The energy did not come in bursts, but seeped out in measured doses, at once calming me and waking me up. The eight mile climb along Legavallon Road wasn't difficult. It just Was. It didn't hurt or feel miserable. It was merely slower than a non-climb. And this slowness was a welcome one, affording plenty of opportunity to study the valley that spread out to my left more dramatically with each foot of elevation gain.

They call this part of the country the Legavallon Pot. Cycling up a mountain ridge in Drumsurn rewards with a dizzying view of a round gap, green with pastures and milky with low cloud, like an enormous bowl of matcha. Interestingly, the official observation point does not show off this feature of the landscape particularly well. But the stretch of the road that does is awkward to stop at. The best way to observe it is from the bike itself, rolling through the view.

In addition to the natural landscape, the country roads that criss-cross these hills are full of fascinating oddities. My favourites are the mysterious murals in the middle of nowhere. 

Here a boy dangles a giant spider over a group of other children and one green alien, who respond with an impressively realistic variety of emotions. Some look amused by his antics. Others are terrified. Others still appear aloof, or saddened by being on the sidelines of the game rather than at its center. I thought it a nuanced portrayal of child group dynamics. The tree house and mural were not near any sort of residence or child care center, as far as I could tell.

The village of Garvagh is an old one and deserves a post dedicated to it exclusively. While tiny, it boasts a surprising number of attractions - including a forest, a museum, its very own pyramid, and a history of vampirism. But on this occasion, I was more interested in its eating establishments. I stopped at a fish and chips shop and ate a late lunch as school children in their uniforms descended from buses, staring at my bike and attire with undisguised curiosity. Allowing for the school run traffic to die down, I set off for home. 

The second big climb was on the return leg and steeper than the one before …which, when I noticed this fact, made me think of Pamela Blalock and her signature rides. She is known for, shall we say, throwing in some wake-me-up hills at the end of a long ride. And while at first I dreaded this, eventually I not only got used to it but began to look forward to it, feeling disappointed if a ride did not feature a good so-called Pamela Climb at the end. 

With a mental salute to my friend, I cycled up the mountainside appreciatively. My legs, however, were now growing heavy and I could sense the wilting point on the horizon. It also grew unseasonably warm, and soon I was sweating under my jacket. But seven miles later the descent came, and with it the cooling rush of breeze against my face and chest. The mountain views ahead grew dense and layered, like overlapping bits of construction paper in subtle shades of slate blue and lilac. Of course during the beautiful parts I was going too fast to want to stop for pictures. But seeing this landscape I made a mental note to return here via a more direct route soon, specifically to photograph it.

The descent went on and on. And to think that I had almost forgotten over the winter that dream-like sensation of falling. Now it came back to me in full emotional force. Miles and miles of plunging down a mountainside. On descents like this, the bike becomes something other than a bike. A flying carpet?

A day and a short recovery ride later, I still feel buoyed by the sensation of that last descent, by the rush of following the curves of the road while staring ahead at those layered hazy mountain ridges. That sort of descent really does feel like a dream. Or like a long swoon. The 60 miles and the climbing and the feel of being out of shape are not what I remember after this ride. Perhaps that is why I want to keep going further. 

Spring O'Clock

Did you know that Daylight Saving Time begins on different dates in different parts of the world? In the US, the clocks went forward an hour on the 9th of March this year. In Ireland and the UK this happened on the 30th of March. With the timing of my recent visit back to Boston, I got to experience both. 

It felt odd to have the clocks go forward twice. But it also seemed fitting. So reluctant and fitful was Spring's progress that it begged for a second chance, a restart. And a restart it got. You know how some years, after a watery March bleakness there is suddenly this one day when you go outside and are shell shocked by the explosion of green? 

The day the clocks went forward, this happened. And I found myself on the bike, tripping out of my mind at the sight of this colour burst and its accompanying scents. 

Starting off with one of my usual winter flat routes, I found it hardly recognisable. Where flooded brown fields used to be I now flew past carpets of buttercups and swathes of whin hedgerows, past clusters of fledgling fruit tree blossoms and pastures of freshly cut grass dotted with daisies. At first my eyes, unused to such splendor, kept averting defensively, reluctant to accept such a feast after a months-long famine. "Don't take it in all at once after a winter of colour-starvation. You'll make yourself sick!" 

But I don't care, I want to eat it all up. I let my eyes open wide, and I stare, I take it all in - already knowing that these images will flash and replay in my mind as I try to get to sleep later that night, after a day shortened by the time change.

A gentle 15mph crosswind pushes at my shoulder playfully, as if to show how friendly and benign it is. As if to say, "Remember all those times this winter I tried to knock you off the bike with 40mph gusts? That's all in the past now. I am a changed wind, honest!"

Do I believe him and head for the hills for the first time since December? I go for it. The backroads that twist their way up and down the Roe Valley look rejuvenated since the last time I'd seen them, like a friend after returning from holiday - fresh-faced and healthy, glowing in their breezy jewel-tone resort attire. 

Amidst the greenery and the sunshine and the road's seductive undulations I get lost in the moment, and that moment turns into hours. 

Finally turning up the farm lane toward home with the waning still-warm sun at my back, I inhale the dizzying scent of cut grass one more time. And then I wave an eager good-bye to that grim, wind-battered, teary-eyed ordeal known as Winter Cycling. It took two clock changes. But spring has gotten a reboot, and so have I. 

An Unwanted Companion

Go. Go I said! Can't you tell I don't like dogs? I'm sure you can tell, you're supposed to have a sense for these things. Now can you please stop jumping all over me? And licking my hands? And looking at me like that? No really, come on now. You're in my shot. I am trying to take some photos here!

Right, here is what we're going to do. Come over here, and you can stand next to me  - if you're quiet and don't jump on me, okay? Good. All right. Shoot, wait, what's this you're doing now? Oh no, come on! 

Look, I'm flattered you trust me enough to show me your tummy. Really, it's a nice tummy. A fine tummy. Here, okay, I'll scratch it a little. Happy now? Okay, one more time. And then we part ways, yes? 

Listen, it's nothing against you. I am just not a dog person. You're a nice dog, but go back to your farm now, okay? Look, I'm getting on my bike now. I'm going to pedal away. Take care!

For goodness sake, how can you run alongside me so quickly? I must have been nearing 20mph down that hill. Don't follow me, I'm cycling home. Now you go home too, you hear me?  

Look, I am not racing you, okay? If anything I am trying to go slow in case you run out in front of my wheel. Do you have enough sense not to do that? I don't know you, so I've no idea you see - I have to be careful not to hit you. So don't look so smug as you stand there panting and waiting for me! And why do you keep waiting for me anyway when I've told you a hundred times to go home? Just how far are you planning to follow me?

Okay, seriously. We are nearing the main road and this has gone far enough. We are stopping and I am taking you home. You don't have a collar, so I can't even grab you, darn it. Do you want to go in the basket? No? Okay then, I am going to cycle back where I found you and return you to your owners. Are you ready to run along? Gosh, but you sure can go fast. And to give credit where it's due, I guess you do have enough sense not to run out in front of my wheel. Should I trust you and pick up some speed? Okay, race you to that bend. Go-go-go! Go-go-go-go-go!!! Okay well maybe this is kind of fun. You are one fast dog, let me tell you. I'm panting more than you are! Here comes the bend. Go-go-go! Go-go-go-go! And ...it's a tie! Although wait, did you let me win?! 

So... Here we are. I guess this is good-bye now? God, I hope your owners didn't think I stole you. You really shouldn't follow random people like that you know. I mean, I could have been a dog-thief or worse. What's that? Oh, you knew that I wasn't? Well aren't you clever. And what else did you know? Oh really, that I'd like you once I got to know you and would play with you if you insisted long enough? Smarty pants. But okay, look... I do like you. And I had a good time. And you did look kind of cute running beside me, with the wind in your ears. So I'll see you around, okay? And yes, I will be on my bike again. Maybe I'll even win next time. 

Last Ride Out of Castlerock

Moves can take place in stages, and as I moved from the village of Castlerock to the village of Bellarena some miles to the west down the coastal road, there was a period defined by a constant stream of going back and forth - of moving things into the new house bit by bit while working to make it livable. Sometime in the midst of this, I made the mental switch and began to think of the new place as home. It happened not the first time I spent the night there, but on the day I brought over my roadbike - by means of riding it from the old house to the new.

Setting off from the small seaside cottage where I had stayed - with its beige pebbled walls, its slate shingle roof and its cramped front yard - I felt a keen awareness that this would be my last ride out of this place. This stunningly beautiful, windswept place I could not wait to leave behind. Clipping in, I took one last look at it all as I pushed off into the wind that never seemed to subside.

The tiny house was an old one - built as a residence and not as a holiday cottage, unlike most of the others nearby. And unlike the others, it was built at a slight angle to the road, with complete disregard for the sea that spread out across it. Of all the windows, only a single one in the livingroom faced the water. And mystifyingly, the layout of the room was such as to discourage its occupants from facing that window - the fireplace on the wall opposite serving as the focal point. Stranger still, even should they turn around to look through the sea-facing window, their view would be mostly obscured by the fence enclosing the yard out front.

On countless occasions I've wondered why the house was built this way - almost willfully snubbing the dramatic seascape that ought to be a home-owner's dream. Could it be for the same reason the scenery made me uneasy? Could it be for the same reason the relation I'd been house-sitting for had picked up and left abruptly after less than a year there? Some believe that places can have a "bad vibe," and that is an apt description for what I've felt here. I felt it not from the house, but from the area. The house's layout almost seems like evidence that the architect had felt it too, and tried to protect the inhabitants from it. 

For some, to say that you live in Castlerock has a certain caché to it. It is a "posh" place - the village center dense with old Georgian houses, the train station almost toy-like with its wrought iron latticework. The local coffee shop - its atmosphere chic and worldly - is said to be among the best in Northern Ireland. The butcher shop next door delights passers-by with its old fashioned window display. There is one pharmacy. There is one small grocery store. There are two pubs - one with a weekend disco. There is a fish and chip shop with a mural of a grinning fish serving customers. There is a pedestrian culture, with tweed-clad residents strolling up and down the hilly lanes as ocean waves crash picturesquely in background. Crowds of young surfers flock to the beach in vans covered with sponsor logos. 

In comparison Bellarena is perceived as isolated and rural-rough, my delight over moving there often met with some bewilderment. But there are those who understand - those who shake their heads and even let out a slight shudder at the name Castlerock. "I could not live there either," they say simply, and we leave it at that.

To describe the daunting feeling of cycling "out of" Castlerock toward the main crossroads is to concede there is a strong psychological side to going out on the bike. There is a heavy, dead sensation to that barren 1 mile stretch that separates the village from the main coastal road and the network of mountain roads beyond it. This sensation can only partly be explained by the fact that this stretch is entirely uphill and nearly always supplemented with headwinds. But this alone cannot fully explain the overwhelming tediousness of it, the emotionally draining effect this mild ascent has on me by the time I reach the crossroads. As I stall my bike waiting to turn right onto Seacoast Road, Castlerock feels like a led blanket I am desperately trying to claw my way out from underneath of. The knowledge that this awaited me at the start of every ride, dampened my enthusiasm for roadcycling more than I would have thought possible. 

Some time after I moved to Castlerock, a policewoman friend told me the story of the murder at the 12 Apostles - a row of refurbished stone cottages scenically situated at the edge of the woods. Some years ago, a man who lived there and his mistress - each married and with many children apiece - made a pact to kill their spouses. They went through with the plan and got away with it, until, two decades after the fact, the man walked into the local police station and confessed to it all, unable to live with the guilt. This was all over the local papers at the time, the Castlerock population shaken. To think, that for all those years the pair was living here, harboring their secret. As I make my way past the cottages, I cannot help but remember this. 

The village of Bellarena is not really a village as such, but more like a scattered rural settlement on the Magilligan Peninsula - on the other side of Binevenagh Mountain from Castlerock. The best way to get there is via the Seacoast Road that runs along the mountain side. The first part of this route is ludicrously scenic - a seemingly endless sweeping descent with postcard views of the sea framed by tall cliffs and the famous silhouette of Mussenden Temple. No matter how many times I cycle along this stretch of road, I have never been able to warm to this descent and this view. It feels unreal, in the cold detached sense of the word. It feels as if it's designed for paintings and postcards rather than real-life enjoyment. The view cannot be connected with, it can only be observed from a distance - as if it's meant to feel unattainable. 

As I plummet past the picture-perfect sight, I feel a rush of relief at the next, comparatively monotonous stretch of the road. I cycling along the steepest part of Binevenagh Mountain now - a vast cliff streaked with occasional slender waterfalls. To my left, this horizontal wall of rock creates perpetual shade, while on my right the sea is becoming obscured by fields and clumps of woods. I should feel claustrophobic here, but instead I feel pleasantly sheltered. And I feel as if I've crossed some invisible border that separates the stark, gloomy aura of Castlerock from the cozy, bright one of Bellarena, which I continue to cycle toward.

As the road curves along the Magilligan Peninsula, the mountain on my left grows less steep and more colourful with the remnants of Autumn foliage and heathery clumps. On my right, miles and miles of farmland spread toward the sea - which is about to narrow dramatically and become the Lough Foyle as I pass the peninsula's tip. I can see this happening in the distance, along with the hills of Donegal looming beyond. This last stretch is completely flat now, and I pedal at the highest cadence I can manage along the main road, vigilant so as not to miss the hidden narrow lane that will take me across fields toward the house where I'll now live. This was my last ride out of Castlerock and I breath a sigh of relief - overcome by a sense of escape. Escape from the stunning, cold, haunted beauty of a place that is not for me.