Rough Ride Read Online Free PDF Page B

Michael organised class trips to the Gaeltacht for a month in the summer. We stayed with a family, Mrs O'Donnel's in Carraroe, a small village twenty-six miles west of Galway. Speaking Irish for an hour a day at school was fine but having to do it non-stop for a month was terribly difficult. Most of us took our bikes and I loved taking off for an hour to discover the lovely Connemara roads. But riding on my own soon became boring. I wanted a challenge.
    Before I left for Connemara, my Da had just come back from the Tour of Britain (the Milk Race), where he had worked with the Irish team as a masseur. His stories about it fascinated me and I decided to organise a 'Carraroe Milk Race' among my classmates. Because it was a stage race, I decided I needed food. I knew from going through the pockets of my father's racing jerseys that he often took raisins with him, so I bought a packet of dried raisins at a small grocery shop across the road. I had a bit of a job persuading the others to race, but finally they agreed and I won the first stage easily. But it was too easy and I wasn't satisfied.
    For the second stage I decided not to speed off at the start, but to stay with them for the first mile and then fake a crash. I chose the spot for falling off, a patch of gravel on a corner, as I was planning the circuit. The race started and I skidded purposefully on the gravel in front of the others, making sure they saw me and then jumped back on the bike, caught them and beat them. Persuading them to ride a third stage was now a real problem. I offered them a big handicap before setting out in pursuit. But I was too generous. I soon realised I wasn't going to catch them. I couldn't face being beaten, so I took a short cut that reduced my deficit. I came out just behind the leader, Pat O'Grady, and I passed him for my third win. But he saw me cheating. There was a big argument, and the fourth stage and the race were cancelled.
    I was glad to go home at the end of the trip because I was homesick. A month later my father started working on an old racing frame of his. He bought some new parts for it and started putting it together. I hoped it might be for me, but didn't dare ask. My suspicions were confirmed when he presented me with it a week later. I couldn't believe it, a real racer with gears. He asked me if I wanted to ride in the under-age championships in Phoenix Park that Sunday. I did, so he took me on a training ride.
    We left the house and headed for Balgriffin. He instructed me on the rules of a game we were to play. The idea was for me to stay behind him and to count to twenty, then I was to pass him and he would count to twenty, and so on. The second part was that I had to ride as hard as I could while at the front – not that I needed any encouragement. At Balgriffin we turned right and straight down to the seafront, then left to Portmarnock and back in the Malahide road, about ten miles in all. The ride finished with a finishing sprint and my Da just pipped me for first to the road sign – although I knew he was faking. When we got back to the house I was shattered, absolutely wrecked. Da sat me down in a chair and asked me if I still wanted to race. After getting the bike, I didn't think 'no' was the right answer so I said that I did.
    'Well, that's fine but you must remember, Paul, that in cycling you will experience more heartbreak than happiness.'
    God, Da, how right you were.
    I don't remember much about my first race, which is unusual when you consider how vivid the memory of beating my classmates in Carraroe remains. Most of the lads were much older than me and I think I finished second to last.
    I started going out on regular Sunday runs that winter. A few clubs would meet outside the General Post Office and it wasn't unusual for a thirty-strong peloton to ride out of the city. Most of the lads were from a club on the south side, Orwell Wheelers, so I joined them. When I was riding home a week or two later I noticed