Post by peterbryson on Aug 18, 2006 11:29:04 GMT 1
In the early 1980’s Bono the lead singer of the rock band U2 introduced a song by saying the immortal words, “there’s been a lot of talk about this next one, maybe, maybe too much talk.” Not long after American rappers Public Enemy released the anthem, “Don’t Believe the Hype.”
So what have these interesting, yet random facts got to do with the Mourne Sportive? Bono, a fellow cyclist, was right, there was much talk ahead of this, the first year of the Sportive, and Public Enemy, normally a safe bet in all circumstances, missed the mark, the hype was justified. The Mourne Sportive is hard. 117 miles and 10,042 feet of climbing, you know… hard.
So on Sunday 13 August, 51 brave souls including Big Davy, Stephen W, Marcus, Peter B, John the Welshman, Gary, Noel, Nigel, Richard, the Hair bears, Ronnie, Maeve and Ann (whose story deserves it’s own report) gathered in the car park at Dromara Football club. The weather was dry and overcast, warming as the day went on, with the wind from the North West.
The nerves were showing at the start with a bunch of about 40 riders heading off whilst Bob was still doing his speech, it seemed people just wanted to get on with it. The bunch headed out on the 125 route and as usual the Cornmill, started to break up this little party, a process continued as we progressed through Spa, Hamilton’s Folly, Drumkeragh, Dree and Windy Gap, as small groups settled into their own pace. At some stage along this early morning phase I remember a blur of Dromara colours as the Bears, Richard and Ronnie fizzed past the main group leaving in their wake the faint essence of hair spray and fake tan.
At the first tea stop in Leitrim Trevor’s ever smiling face welcomed riders with sandwiches, smoothies, hot and cold drinks. The mood was good, maybe we shouldn’t have believed the hype? But ahead, beyond Kinahalla, was the unknown, the place called, the loop, the extension, the Bermuda Triangle, the place were the pain begins, were roads turn to tracks, were gradients suddenly turn to cliffs and at it’s centre, the heart of darkness called the Yellow Road.
Steven W, was our ‘patron’ on the way to the unknown, setting the pace, discussing fuelling and hydration, swearing at the wind, swearing at dogs, just swearing for the sake of it, at times he reminded me of the ‘badger’ himself and we were happy to take his lead, the legs were beginning to realise that this was not the 125. Thanks to Bob for some excellent emergency response after one of the group ripped a tyre.
At the next tea stop a smiling numpty administered the fuel as a bunch collapsed at the top of the Yellow Road, the post mortem was already starting, some were questioning Bob’s sanity as the course designer, others were questioning their own sanity. Dessie from Ards CC had lapsed into a meditative state, preferring to look at the inside of his own eye lids rather than the views over Hilltown and beyond…but we all pushed on, over the top and down a fast decent into Rostrevor, hitting over 50 with Carlingford Lough and the Mountain spreading out ahead of us.
What goes down must go, you guessed it, up, climbing the valley alongside the Yellow water took us toward Spelga, by this stage a long drag was a welcome change to short sharp leg drainers, the Badger led the way up to the dam and onto Meelmore, more excellent food and we began to risk thinking about the end. Reports of savage insect attacks and cramps kept the banter going as we digested another 1000 calories. We left Meelmore in a large group which settled into a mix of Dromara and Banbridge members ( and Mayo Pat) as we wound our way back through Letrim and Seconnell. The pace upped as we got to the’last hill sign’ three miles from Dromara and we swept into the football club nine hours later and whole lot wiser.
Mourne Sportive, done.
So what have these interesting, yet random facts got to do with the Mourne Sportive? Bono, a fellow cyclist, was right, there was much talk ahead of this, the first year of the Sportive, and Public Enemy, normally a safe bet in all circumstances, missed the mark, the hype was justified. The Mourne Sportive is hard. 117 miles and 10,042 feet of climbing, you know… hard.
So on Sunday 13 August, 51 brave souls including Big Davy, Stephen W, Marcus, Peter B, John the Welshman, Gary, Noel, Nigel, Richard, the Hair bears, Ronnie, Maeve and Ann (whose story deserves it’s own report) gathered in the car park at Dromara Football club. The weather was dry and overcast, warming as the day went on, with the wind from the North West.
The nerves were showing at the start with a bunch of about 40 riders heading off whilst Bob was still doing his speech, it seemed people just wanted to get on with it. The bunch headed out on the 125 route and as usual the Cornmill, started to break up this little party, a process continued as we progressed through Spa, Hamilton’s Folly, Drumkeragh, Dree and Windy Gap, as small groups settled into their own pace. At some stage along this early morning phase I remember a blur of Dromara colours as the Bears, Richard and Ronnie fizzed past the main group leaving in their wake the faint essence of hair spray and fake tan.
At the first tea stop in Leitrim Trevor’s ever smiling face welcomed riders with sandwiches, smoothies, hot and cold drinks. The mood was good, maybe we shouldn’t have believed the hype? But ahead, beyond Kinahalla, was the unknown, the place called, the loop, the extension, the Bermuda Triangle, the place were the pain begins, were roads turn to tracks, were gradients suddenly turn to cliffs and at it’s centre, the heart of darkness called the Yellow Road.
Steven W, was our ‘patron’ on the way to the unknown, setting the pace, discussing fuelling and hydration, swearing at the wind, swearing at dogs, just swearing for the sake of it, at times he reminded me of the ‘badger’ himself and we were happy to take his lead, the legs were beginning to realise that this was not the 125. Thanks to Bob for some excellent emergency response after one of the group ripped a tyre.
At the next tea stop a smiling numpty administered the fuel as a bunch collapsed at the top of the Yellow Road, the post mortem was already starting, some were questioning Bob’s sanity as the course designer, others were questioning their own sanity. Dessie from Ards CC had lapsed into a meditative state, preferring to look at the inside of his own eye lids rather than the views over Hilltown and beyond…but we all pushed on, over the top and down a fast decent into Rostrevor, hitting over 50 with Carlingford Lough and the Mountain spreading out ahead of us.
What goes down must go, you guessed it, up, climbing the valley alongside the Yellow water took us toward Spelga, by this stage a long drag was a welcome change to short sharp leg drainers, the Badger led the way up to the dam and onto Meelmore, more excellent food and we began to risk thinking about the end. Reports of savage insect attacks and cramps kept the banter going as we digested another 1000 calories. We left Meelmore in a large group which settled into a mix of Dromara and Banbridge members ( and Mayo Pat) as we wound our way back through Letrim and Seconnell. The pace upped as we got to the’last hill sign’ three miles from Dromara and we swept into the football club nine hours later and whole lot wiser.
Mourne Sportive, done.
