Coping with Connemara

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The Hays Paris2Nice team started training in March. Three months later we felt sufficiently prepared to take

on the Tour de Connemara, one of a number of cycles we signed up to before taking on six days and 700km of French countryside. Mike, Arlene, Anne-Marie, Kelly and myself were heading west for what we knew was going to be between three and six hours in the saddle.

With two bikes attached to the back of the car, Anne-Marie and I bounced towards Clifden. As the road got worse, images flew through my head of our bikes smashing to pieces as bike rack and Ford Focus suffered an awkward break up. Thankfully, this didn’t come to pass and we arrived safely into Clifden, where the welcoming committee consisted of a few flickering street lights and a hostel owner who seemed more interested in the relationship between myself and my cycling partner than actually putting us up. The clock was ticking towards midnight.

This conversation was the only delay we suffered in the race to get the top bunk before midnight. The same could not be said for the rest of our cycling party. Arlene and Kelly arrived an hour or so later, oil trouble the reason for their tardiness. Mike arrived at his Galwegian aunt’s place rather deflated, a flat tyre the reason for his poor time keeping. So with six hours to our wake up call, myself, Arlene, Kelly and Anne-Marie chose our bunk beds and let sleep take hold. The harsh reality of a 7am alarm on a Saturday morning was tempered by the glorious aromas that filled the room as the girls readied themselves for the day ahead.

We headed off to register with hundreds of other cyclists. I began to wonder what we were getting ourselves into. Every other cyclist seemed to have the name of a cycling club emblazoned across their back, modesty was not high on the agenda as they strutted confidently through town and their calves… wow, bigger than my thighs in some cases. I had woken up in a room full of ladies, now I was ogling men in Lycra. Cycling was doing strange things to me.

There were two courses to choose from, 80km and 140km. I had decided to do the 140km while Mike, Arlene, Anne-Marie and Kelly signed up for the 80km. The 140km ride began half an hour before the 80km version so I set off knowing that it would be over six hours before I saw their friendly faces again.

During the opening section of the cycle I was unsure of cycling etiquette, I felt every inch the novice I was. I started pedalling but didn’t seem to be going anywhere as I was engulfed by groups of men with the bulging calves. I felt like Simba during the stampede in the gorge.

There was some beauty, the hum of hundreds of pairs of wheels powering away from the start line is magical. It is the soundtrack that plays out as the strongest surge to the front and the rest of us find our natural position somewhere in the group. It is not difficult to spot the strongest cyclists; they are the dots on the horizon that were beside you not long before.

As the crowd scene dissipated I became mesmerised by the spectacular scenery. Gold sandy beaches, pretty bridges made from rocks and a landscape to blow any tourist’s mind, Clifden was making some impression. I was cycling through a postcard.

I can’t count, so at 90km I initially thought I had 30km left. Then I thought about it and came to the conclusion that I had 40km left. I had probably knocked off another 10km before I realised I had closer to 50km left to cycle!

Each time a group of cyclists appeared on my shoulder I would drop into their formation and fly along with them, until my energy sapped and I would be spat out. Like a hamster who had taken one too many turns on his wheel. The twenty minutes that followed was torture as I tried to regain some pace.

Having dragged myself uphill for what felt like an age I finally came to the last descent into Clifden. Drifting down the slope and turning the corner into the Station House Hotel was a brilliant feeling. I was tired, wet and sore. When my feet hit terra firma I instantly felt my leg muscles scream. This scream was drowned out by another seconds later.

“PHILIP!!!” I looked up and I was greeted by Anne-Marie, Arlene and Kelly* with a massive hug. Everything was right with the world again.

Next up I’ll let you know what 200km across Wicklow feels like. We are putting ourselves through these physical challenges to prepare for the charity cycle from Paris to Nice in aid of Barretstown, the seriously fun camp for children recovering from childhood illnesses. Meet the team here and don’t hesitate to make a donation and give us a much needed lift.

*Poor Mike had to go and sort out the car’s flat tyre.

Philip Bourke

Marketing Executive
Ireland

HAYS Recruiting experts worldwide
16 Upper Fitzwilliam St
Dublin 2

T: +353 1 619 0580

F: +353 1 670 4738　
E: philip.bourke@hays.com
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