The Cyclist Rest

Here is a local tidbit to brighten your Monday! Every time I post a picture of this pub on social media, it is greeted with such enthusiasm and so many questions, that after passing it again yesterday I vowed to finally write about it here.

The Cyclist Rest is a pub in the village of Fahan, Donegal. Now, some people have tried to find its address and then emailed me when this proved impossible, so allow me to explain: In much of rural Donegal there are no street addresses as such. No postal codes, no house numbers, often the roads don't even have names. So, say you wanted to mail something to the pub? Its official postal address would be simply 'The Cyclist Rest, Fahan, Co. Donegal, Ireland.' And if you wanted to find it physically, you'd need descriptive directions. Luckily, in this case it is pretty easy: From the start of the Inishowen Peninsula at Bridge End, head along the main road toward Buncrana (R238). After about 5 miles, coastal scenery will open up on your left. The pub will be across the road on the right.

Old and New

Visiting the Gap of Mamore a couple of days ago, we intended to photograph the formidable pass in a way we had not had a chance to when transversing it on bicycles earlier this year. But before we reached the mountain road, we made a detour for a tiny hamlet by the beach at Tullagh Bay, having noticed something there that piqued our curiosity.

Won't Be Long Now

I am noticing that every year there is more and more attention paid to the Winter Solstice. On the radio this morning they where playing solstice-themed songs. I hadn’t even known they existed. They were also discussing Solstice parties. Some parents called in, to say their kids are being taught about Solstice in kindergarten and primary school, complete will little celebrations. Overall it seems that quite a few people are celebrating Solstice now, either in addition and in leu of religious festivities.  I've received a few cards and emails this year that actually wish me a Happy Solstice, unironically. And I'll be going to a party tonight.

Winter Solstice is an easy occasion to mark. It is obvious and observable, and the buildup to it is trackable. But the notion of celebrating it per se, used to confuse me. The shortest day. The deepest recess of winter. Is that not rather glum? Then it hit me, that what's being celebrated is the turning point. The shortest day is also the end of shortening days. Days will only get longer from here on.

It's Aliiiiive! The Re-Birth of Ulster Cyclo-Cross

When I tell this story now, I suspect that no one will believe it - not even the parties involved. But the honest-to-goodness truth is, when I brought over a cyclo-cross bike from Boston less than three years ago, the local cyclists scrutinised it like an object from outer space.

"What is cyclo-cross?" some would ask. I would explain, and this would be followed by “Never heard of it!” or “Sort of like mountain biking then, but in a field? Weird."

The Lough, Lapped!

In the interest of honesty, I should say this up front: I would not have considered riding Lap the Lough had I not been invited to cover it. There are several reasons for this. First, it's a sportive. And in my seven years of cycling, I have avoided sportives as some might avoid poison ivy, or jellyfish, or malaria. I am a cautious, risk-avoidant cyclist. And sportives (aka charity rides, gran fondos, or whatever you want to call them), reek of danger: a heady cocktail of riders with mixed handling skills trying to go fast in very large groups, without necessarily knowing how to ride in groups. In addition to this, I am generally not a fan of crowds. Crowds make me panic. And crowds on bikes just seem like a special kind of nightmare that I want no part of. A club ride, a niche dirt road event, or a local brevet, are just about the height of what I can cope with. A "famous," mainstream sportive in which 2,500 cyclists are expected to take part? Oh goodness me.

The other thing about Lap the Lough is, well, the lough! Or rather, its absence. I had visited Lough Neagh once before. The countryside is pleasant enough, even though by Irish standards it is, frankly, somewhat lacking in drama. But the most curious part, is that the lough itself is mostly invisible from the road. So, while it's true that Lough Neagh is the largest lake in all of UK and Ireland, the satisfaction of lapping it requires some capacity for abstract thought, since the actual body of water would remain hidden from view.

Of Mind and Gap

As a teenager, I once saw a black and white photograph of a magnificent landscape in a friend’s father’s study. I didn’t know quite what I was looking at. But, transfixed by the silvery squiggles strewn over the jagged mountain, I knew that it was stunning.

“The Stelvio Pass,” said my friend’s father. And I nodded, the exotic image forever fixed in my mind's eye.

The Unintended Road

It was the kind of road that I had seen test tempers and strain friendships. And as we pedaled - upward, endlessly upward, past outstandingly bland scenery - I would sneak sheepish glances at my companion’s face to check for signs of seething. Miraculously, there was none. Only a stunned, almost amused exertion.

“Horrible wee road, this!”

My computer's gradient reading appeared to be stuck at 16%.

Donard Cycles: a Cottage Industry

What comes to mind when you think of carbon fibre bicycle frame production? This is not a test. Just think about it for a moment and form a mental image.

Me, I picture something clinical, sterile. Lots of computer modeling. A team of engineers. Sophisticated machinery. Automated processes. A facilities that is more lab than workshop.

What I don’t picture is - oh, I don’t know - a stone cottage in the middle of the Irish countryside? In which an unassuming, youthful-looking man toils alone, in a low-ceilinged attic workshop, sculpting strips of something black and tough and a little gooey into the shape of a bicycle. Yet that is what I get when I visit Owen Byrne at Donard Cycles.  Even having known, roughly, what to expect from our email and phone conversations, I am still taken aback.

The Incomplete and Inconcise English-English Dictionary of Bicycle Terms

Some like to tease about my inconsistent use of UK/US spelling and terminology, especially when it comes to cycling jargon. In my defense, I have a reasonable explanation. When I first learned English as a child, it was British English - which I then spent my teenage years in the US school system trying to unlearn in a hopeless struggle to speak Americun damn it!

Following that I went to England for university, and afterward worked in both the US and continental Europe through my early thirties - at which point, just to make matters more confusing still, I moved to Ireland. So... My use of UK vs US spelling, terms, and phraseology mostly depends on when a particular word or turn of phrase was introduced into my life, or where I've had more experience using it. When it comes to cycling jargon, I learned most of that in Boston - which accounts for inconsistencies such as "I did not realise my tire was flat," "What colour are your fenders?", et cetera. So please don't be too hard on me if my hybrid English drives you up the wall. For, in my opinion, this flaw of mine is much less interesting than the fact there are essentially two separate sets of velo-vocabulaires in the English language.

Quality Myles! The Slí na gCopaleen Mini-Tour Ride Report

It was to be my first time leading an organised bicycle ride. And the evening before it, I became plagued with doubts about the route. I mean, six miles - really? What was I thinking! Even with all the talking I'd be doing as part of the guided "literary tour" (the ride was part of the Flann O'Brien, aka Myles na Gopaleen, festival in Donegal mentioned here earlier) it would be over in minutes surely. People would be disappointed, angered; they would pelt me with rotten vegetables.

My Gear, My One and Only

It used to be that when I climbed my thoughts were occupied with making it to the top, with worry over stalling out and toppling over, with whether I would outbrave the burn in my legs. Now when I climb, when I am on my own, I mostly daydream.

The 'Death Farm': Some Thoughts on Obstacle Blindness

The country roads in County Derry are notoriously bendy. But one bend near the town of Limavady has an especially bad reputation. Although neither as sharp nor as awkwardly cambered as some of the others, it is said to have claimed the most lives. And so continuing on the theme of the senses from the previous post, let me tell you about the Death Farm.

Sound Decisions

That morning we woke to a most unnatural circumstance. So strange and utterly different it was to the state of affairs we had known previously, that at first our senses could not work out what exactly was happening. As we walked through the house, every room was filled with the same eerie sensation. And when we stepped outdoors it persisted.

In a World of Our Own Making

{drawing by pixelgraphix}

Having spent the past two years in "recovery ride" mode, at the start of 2016 I finally feel... well, more or less recovered! Creatively I am on surer footing and have a better sense of direction. It has also, I think, only now truly sunk in that my move to Ireland is permanent and real, rather than some bizarre dream I am about to wake up from. As a result I've been less tentative in making connections, less reluctant to plan. And in the coming months I look forward to several new projects that I'm either starting myself, or am taking part in.

One of these is the Slí na gCopaleen festival, which I feel exceptionally lucky to be helping to organise. Translatable roughly as "na gCopaleen's way," the festival's name is a reference to one of the pseudonyms of the Irish writer Brian O'Nolan, aka Flann O'Brien - author of that bicycling metaphysics bible, The Third Policeman. It was just over two years ago now that I read this book (see: Is This About a Bicycle?) and fell in love. I fell in love not only with the author's writing, but also with his unique ability to shape language to accommodate his ideas, rather than allowing for the more usual, reverse, relationship between the two. Well, I won't get too deep and analytical in this wee bicycling blog, but anyway: There is a Flann O'Brian festival in Donegal coming up, and it will be lovely, and free to attend, and will feature dinner talks and live music and a themed bicycle ride, and if you would like to join us check the website for info and updates.

Wet Lands

By way of a New Year's greeting, I received a text from a friend containing the following joke:

US tourist to Irish child: Does it ever stop raining here?
Child replies: I don't know, I am only 8.

The Country Mile - and Other Trends in Direction-Giving

Some friends were talking about their recent tour around the countryside in a region they had never been to before. The trip being rather spontaneous, they had not made concrete plans for what parts of the route to cover from one day to another, and did not have a detailed map of the area. Fortunately the weather was good and the route fairly straightforward. Moreover, the locals were very helpful. "Every so often we would meet people along the way and ask - How far to Such and Such Place? They'd tell us how to get to the next destination. It was brilliant!"

I listened to this with a mixture of awe and envy. Because, funny enough, that is not quite what happens when I venture off into unknown territory and rely on others for directions. To be sure, people are always very helpful and happy to give information. But whether that information is accurate is another matter!

The Pyramid of Garvagh

One of my favourite destinations for day rides is the village of Garvagh. Located just over the hill to the south, it makes for a convenient midway point of a metric century ride with some breathtaking views. The first half of the trip involves some sustained climbing, but the lovely descent with panoramic layered mountain vistas more than makes up for it. The village of Garvagh itself is tiny, but interesting. It began as a large private plantation in the 1600's, settled by the Canning family. Gradually it developed a market-town center - essentially one street, which today is lined with shops and cafes housed in attractive old stone buildings. There is also a museum and a handsome clock tower. The original plantation manor has been knocked down to make way for a school some decades ago, and most of the land has been parceled out and developed. A portion, however, has been preserved as public parkland.

There Goes the Neighbourhood

It was a rare sunny day in the city of Derry and I was sitting on a bench eating lunch with a friend, when beside us a party of four began to lock up their bicycles to a nearby pole. There was a woman in her 30s, two girls aged around 10 and 6, and another woman, perhaps in her late 60s, who looked to be the younger lady's mother. The children had arrived on some brightly coloured kiddie mountain bikes. The adults rolled in on loop frame city bikes with panniers and baskets. After wrangling a cable lock around all four machines, the mother started to extract things from her bags while the grandmother herded the boisterous girls toward a bench on the far side of the square. Just like us, they were about to have lunch under the leafy shade of chestnut trees, beside medieval city walls, overlooking the river. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them with the same relaxed curiosity as I would any other mildly interesting, but not especially remarkable, street scene.

A Murderous Climb

With its slog of a 6-mile climb through exposed boggy scrubland, the Windy Hill Road is everything that it promises. It is windy. And it is hilly. And so one would think the name by which it's officially known would be sufficiently evocative. The locals, however, take the evocative factor up a notch and call it the Murder Hole Road.

A View Well Earned

I do not subscribe to the notion of "earning" things on the bike. You know - like the idea that you earn a descent by climbing, or you earn a cafe stop by doing a strenuous club ride. Sure it can be rewarding to experience sensual luxuries after bouts of effortful pedaling. But framing things in this way implies there are aspects of cycling that are a chore, only to be done for a reward. I prefer to think of every part of the pedaling experience as rewarding in its own right. There is beauty and pleasure to be gleaned from climbing, even without a breathtaking view at the top. There is satisfaction in pushing against a headwind even without the anticipation of a good hot meal after. That is just my way of thinking. And it has kept me in love with cycling through thick and thin.