For those of you who did not have the pleasure of a wonderful weekend in Killarney and the joy of cycling the Ring in perfect weather, check out this video of Eileen on Molls Gap. Denis features on the descent as the camera shutter speed was not sufficiently fast to capture him on the ascent, he was just a blur. We also have a Billy Parker Special Report!
The great cycling Gods and undoubtedly delightful cycling Goddesses, certainly owed me one. Big time. Tiempo grande. And not just me but also all my fellow Orwell travellers and in fairness all of those good non Orwell folk as well.
Having endured the deluge of the Mount Leinster challenge, braved the hurricane that was the Mick Byrne 160 and survived the apocalyptic Wicklow 200, I was beginning to wonder what part of the term “sportive” as used in relation to non racing cycling events comprised the actual “sport” element.
It had occurred to me during darker more solitary moments on the road that the “sport” in sportive did not apply to us at all but rather the said cycling Gods, to entertain and amuse themselves when they were clearly at a loose end or maybe at the end of their own training spin. Make the conditions as difficult as possible and observe how these mortals perform in their so called events of a sportive nature. Perhaps they wager on us as well. One fine day the soccer Gods will kick this little ball we call earth out of their playground and that will be the end of our all of our sportives and just about everything else as well.
But not before the Ring of Kerry. A 180k charity cycle starting in Killarney and following the Ring. And so it appeared on the roster, appeared on Denis’s list of forthcoming events on the Orwell web site diary and appeared in my diary for 2nd July, one week before the annual mud bath that is Oxegen. Was an ominous weather near miss about to take place. What were the chances of a fine day? Or even a day without rain, hail, wind or hyperthermia or even just without one of above. Slim to none was my prediction. And so despite all of the forecasts for that weekend being positive, such was it’s fickleness and such was our strained weather relationship that wet and low temperature cycling gear was stowed quietly away in the furthest corner of the boot – just in case.
There was a good gang from Orwell making the journey south and so I joined in.
Killarney is a fine town. It has benefited from the boom. The honky tonk rinky dink ambiance from 20 years ago when I last passed through had been well and truly submerged and it has re surfaced as a busy, lively, modern town with a wide range of bars, restaurants and shops. Nestled below the McGillykuddy Reeks (with the highest peaks in Ireland), overlooked by Carrauntoohil (the highest mountain in Ireland) at the entrance to the Iveragh Penninsula (the biggest peninsula in the South West) it boasts more hotel rooms than any town outside of Dublin. They were needed. That weekend alone had 5,000 plus for the cycle on Saturday, the Cork v Kerry Munster SFC final in Fitzgerald Stadium on Sunday, the All Ireland Irish dancing championships and the usual flood of tourists.
It was of course visited by Queen Victoria in 1861 and by none less than our very own Taoiseach Enda Kenny on Sat 2nd July 2011 as he substituted his dark navy spotless and well pressed Dail suit for a pair of shorts and a cycling top. Fair play to him. He might display similar flair and proceed to cycle or re cycle the country back to freedom and prosperity in contrast to those who have been running and re running it into the arms of the bailiff. Good luck and God’s speed to him. I hope he has Shimano Dura-Ace political gears as he will need them, along with a compact 34/50 for the steep financial climbs ahead. He displayed courage in tackling the RoK, he will need the same courage in tacking the IMF, ECB and EU.
The sun rose at 5.02 and the rain arrived 7.14. I stared at the boot of the car. Thankfully the rain stopped at 7.21 and never returned. And so outside the 4 Star Pizza at the top of the Muckross Road was the place to be at 7.30 that lovely morning to meet our Orwell Ring adventurers. There was Niall (a native Killarney man and one of the original participants 28 years ago on the first RoK) on an unfamiliar rented bike as his own was in the air on the way to the Etape; John Twomey also on a slightly less unfamiliar bike for similar reasons, Dave, Gareth, Matt, Eileen, Donnacha, Peter, Charlotte, Martin, our guest Geoff, our spiritual leader Denis and last but by no means or any means least, our John H. There were some other Orwell jerseys to be seen who made their own way around the Ring.
The route was anti clockwise around the peninsula, in the manner of the tourist buses. Killorglin, Caherciveen, Waterville, Caherdaniel, Sneem, Kenmare. Participants had been heading off since 6am. Thousands of them. There was a constant procession of bikes and we joined them at about 8am. The entire road was like a moving and weaving carousel and one needed to be possessed of great skill, judgment and timing to successfully and safely pass the fantastically infinite variety of carbon bikes, aluminium bikes, mountain bikes, iron bikes, garden gate bikes, homemade bikes, bums, bottles, gears, tops, tee shirts, tubes, tyres, quarter to three elbows and ten to two shoes. And then locate and reform the peloton. The distinctive, brightly coloured cycling shirt made life a bit easier in terms of finding the Orwell needle in the Kerry haystack, but only just.
Eileen and I decided that it was all a bit too concentrated and in need of too much concentration for what we both agreed would be a leisurely spin during which we would appreciate our surroundings, enjoy the camaraderie of strangers and hopefully finish with the ability to dismount the bike while remaining in an upright position. And so we eased back on the pace after Killorglin and watched the smooth rolling Orwellian train disappear gently into the distance merging with the patchwork quilt of coloured jerseys which now clothed the winding road ahead, knowing that we would meet again at the first stop along the line, Caherciveen.
It is a wonderful event made up of club cyclists, non club cyclists and non cyclists. You are just as likely to encounter a sleek Astana clad Bianci mounted Oakley eyed Ultegra geared club member as you are a traditional High Nellied, wide tyred, wicker basketed, 3 speed, bicycle clipped, mudguard laden, sixty eight year old lady steadily consuming the miles in an elegant yet determined manner. And all along the route, in every village and many cross roads you are cheered, encouraged and clapped by men women and children who truly appreciate your efforts and more importantly the money raised for local charities.
Caherciveen appeared surprisingly quickly. We alighted in search of food, drink and Orwell logos. We found all three, in abundance. After a long but steadily moving cue we emerged with sandwiches, drinks and a well timed generous piece of grassy ground on which to rest and consume. We did both. No drama amongst the group save for a puncture suffered by John T (unfortunately not his last) and some hilarity at my engagement with mother nature.
Leaving Caherciveen behind us continued westwards towards Waterville and the furthest point of the peninsula. Myself and Eileen left ahead of the bunch but inevitably the Orwell peloton engulfed us and after a few quick exchanges sped past bristling and crackling with energy and enthusiasm. The road was slightly less populated now with bicycles and we maintained our easy steady pace enjoying the landscape, the colours, the shadows formed by the slow moving clouds and especially the wonderfully non existent gradient.
Alas the gradient changed, as it inevitably does. But not in an alarming way. After Waterville there is a long gradual climb up Coolmatloukane. I was told by my father not to confuse ability with ambition. Especially in a bunker. As cyclists we are all guilty of this confusion at times however on this occasion I exercised great restraint and maintained, with Eileen, a controlled pace all the way to the summit and Ladies View with the result that I arrived brimming with freshness and wonder at the fantastic view out to sea and of Skellig Michael or Great Skellig the 7th monastic sites.
This view was matched only by the sight, to my right, of a large group of Orwell jerseys surrounding none other than, not the leader of our country, but rather the leader of charm and beauty, the Rose of Tralee. The lads had spotted her at the summit and without pause or hesitation arranged a group photograph. The processing of same is awaited with great interest.
A wonderful descent followed and it was downhill or flat all the way to Sneem. The sun by now was burning brightly in the clear sky and the wild Atlantic sea to our right was shimmering in the afternoon haze. Sun glasses and sun cream, rare but welcome companions today. There was no official stop at Sneem but it would have been bordering on negligence to pass through the village without alighting. The grassy square was covered in basking spread-eagled cyclists, seals on wheels, who had dismounted not because they had to but because they wanted to enjoy this moment of relaxation, sunshine and goodwill. There as also a puncture to be fixed as John T’s winter bike complained yet again.
We knew that Kenmare was next, a short enough distance away followed by Molls Gap. Again the road to Kenmare was gentle and forgiving and we met Lynda along the way casually cycling with some friends. Kenmare presented two options. The Centra at the cross roads or a longer cycle into town for the official food stop. Myself and Eileen choose the former and the group headed for the latter.
I am very partial to a Magnum, especially the almond flavoured ones. That was my treat at Centra, a mighty fine shop I have to admit. Having ensured that I had not missed a morsel of my delight and Eileen having enjoyed her Iceberger, we decided to head to Molls Gap rather than wait for the group. They would catch up with us anyway. The climb begins almost immediately outside of Kenmare and you know you are well into it when the hedges and trees begin to thin out. It is a long climb but again, as with Coolmatloukane, it is not severe and if a steady pace is maintained it is a very manageable and enjoyable part of the journey.
Eileen was in great climbing form and devoured the incline with ease, passing climbers along the way and a few who thought it best dismount and turn the cycle into an enjoyable walk. A very sensible move when the day is long, the road is long and you are long, in the tooth. I took out the camera and got some photographs and video clips, perfect light as the sun was immediately over my right shoulder and the scenery all to my left. We overheard an American cyclist chatting merrily and enthusiastically to a local who was explaining that he couldn’t talk and cycle up a hill at the same time. The American helpfully enquired if the local would like him to slow down a bit, no replied the local, who by now was almost breathless, just stop feckin’ talking to me!
Mid way up the climb it is hard to figure out where the road goes however if you follow it, and we did, it leads you towards a large rocky outcrop and from about 1k away you realise that this is the Gap that is Molls. The road has been hewn through the old sandstone rock creating a narrow doorway that lures you in. Because of the angle of the road and the high steep rocks on either side, you cannot see what lies within the Gap until you cycle past the entrance and freewheel down the gradual gentle slope to an open area marking the summit.
It was like a finishing stage of the Tour de France. We were met by the sound of Eye of the Tiger blaring from the huge speakers of a local DJ set up beside the strategically located Avoca run restaurant and shop. Hundreds of cyclists roamed about enjoying the fact that they had successfully climbed to this point, it being more or less downhill for the last 30k to century settlement, one of Europe’s best known but least accessible Killarney, enjoying the spectacular views of McGillycuddy Reeks, the Gap of Dunloe and Carrauntoohil peeking out and just generally wallowing in the wonderful day that was in it.
Moll Kissan would have been ecstatic. She ran the shibin where the Avoca shop now stands and she supplied food and drink to the construction workers who were building the roadway from Kenmare to Killarney in the 1820’s. In gratitude for her presence there, they named it in her honour. To honour our arrival, we took an Orwell team photo, listened attentively to Matt pointing out the geographical highlights on the horizon, ate and drank as needed and then happily and contentedly began the most pleasant descent and final incident free leg into Killarney and a warm welcome from the crowds at the finish line. Following a few beers to unwind, some further merriment ensued that evening but that is another story.
All in all a fantastic event and a just and well deserved reward for the rain and windswept events undertaken by the brave Orwell warriors over the previous few months. The sport in sportive has been restored, the cycling Gods smiled warmly, the soccer Gods took the day off, the leader of the country took a rest from leading and a definite recurring date of the first Saturday in July has been entered in the cycling diary.
