Hi,

    I’ve read all the feedback you’ve posted so far and boy do you and your club deserve each and every one of those heartfelt tributes. For myself I’ve decided on a slightly different form of feedback. Don’t know if it will be of any use but for what it’s worth I’ve attached it above and below.

Will also send on a more standard tribute as it truly was a magnificent day.

My Moment  

I’ve done what for me are four big cycles. Each has had its moment. That one moment that stands apart from all others. For me, on the Burnin’Burren ‘10, this was to occur about thirty miles after the start. I was meandering along. I saw a white placard stuck into the ground. It read – Corkscrew, gradient 6%. 

My brother and the bicycle shop man had said – it’s doable, but this was my first 100 miler and let’s face it, I’d seen guys on the Tour de France dismount. It can be a sensible move. The stupid move would be to allow ego rob me of the finish line. Even so, if there was any climb I was going to attempt, it was this one.

David from Precision Timing had warned me - The two biggest mistakes I see riders making are going too fast when they’re feeling good, and not taking on enough fluids. Remembering his words I dismounted, took out my half chicken kiev sandwich, eat it quickly, drank my lucozade and with a quiet word to the Gods above, got back on my bike and started upwards. 

Having started 40 minutes before everyone else, I had it almost to myself. I had only once before been on the Corkscrew. That was in a car more than thirty years ago. I had no idea how long the climb was. I didn’t know how many turns there were. I couldn’t see the top. My approach was simple; I dropped to my lowest gear and just cycled.

If asked now what it had been like, I wouldn’t be able to say. I have no recollection of the climb. I don’t remember it as being easy or hard, short or long, gentle or steep, smooth or rough. Other than saying hello to a man who was adjusting his chain, I remember nothing about it.

That may seem strange but this was also my first ever category two climb. I’d done it on my own. I’d done it on my bike. I wasn’t dead. Now that was a nice surprise.

But getting to the top was not my moment. That happened a few minutes later. At that point a snail on the road was keeping me company. There was the distinct possibility that it would overtake me.

A man passed me. He too was alone. There were no cyclist’s in front of us and I could hear none coming up from behind. It was just him, me and the silent vastness of the Burren stretched out below us like a quilted medieval tapestry of greys, and greens and silvers.  

Having passed me, he turned. I looked at him. His face was unmistakable. I’d seen it a thousand times. Without thinking words of utter delight fell out of my mouth, ‘Oh my God. Sean Kelly.’

He smiled. He said nothing. He stretched out his hand. I looked at it. Not more than seconds had passed but already he seemed so far ahead. His sleekness only emphasised the reluctance in my legs. Dismally I looked at him, ‘Sorry Sean, I can’t get there.’ I consoled myself with the thought that someone had to keep my snail company.

He nodded his head in understanding, ‘Ok, I’ll come to you.’ He started to dismount. I mean, how gracious is that?

            ‘No, please don’t get off your bike,’ I pleaded. It was the most primeval, guttural response. I was horrified. This had nothing to do with humility; it was to do with the rightness of things. If I was going to shake hands with one of the greatest cyclists on earth it had to be across the handle bars of our bikes. 

He understood. He didn’t dismount. He’d slowed down already, he slowed down even further. I put in an extra effort. I left friend snail behind. I made it across. We shook hands. I think his gloves were white.

            ‘It’s a good day for it,’ he said looking upwards at a sky dressed in blue. The wind, like some zealous conductor, pushed about the petticoats of frilly white clouds.

            ‘True,’ I replied and then added, ‘Mind, it would be better without a northerly breeze.’

I suspected the wind was of little concern to him, but his gallant response indicated his understanding that for me, and perhaps for others out that day, the thought of that northern push home was like the dread of standing outside the headmistress’ office wondering – will she be in a good mood today, will I get away with it.  

            ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have a tail wind for the last 15 k.’

            ‘You reckon?’

            ‘Yeah,’ he answered encouragingly.

            I was too gobsmacked to remember much else of what was said. The whole encounter only lasted a few minutes and with another smile and the cheerful words, ‘I’ll see you back at the barbecue,’ he took off.

Like golden threads that encounter and the hello’s, you’re doing good, we’re on the home stretch now, of the hundreds of others who were still to pass me, pulled me along until at last the pier of Ballyvaughan and the yellow plastic canopy of the finish line gloriously announced that I’d completed my first 100 hundred miler.  

So that was my moment and to heck with what I said earlier about ego, ‘cus boy was I ever glad I was on my bike and not on foot when I met Sean Kelly at the top of the Corkscrew!

Derval