The Abandoned Abandon
The plan was fairly modest: to cycle from Derry city to the village of Gortahork in Donegal. On paper the route is not an especially difficult one: less than 60 miles, with 3,000ft of climbing. So what has been holding me back from making the trip all this time, even as I would sigh wistfully at the thought of doing it "soon"?
The region itself is daunting. With mountain-framed swathes of bogland and nowhere to shelter for miles and miles, Western Donegal is a harsh, temperamental place, that makes rural County Derry feel tame and cuddly by comparison. I've cycled lots in the area since moving here and know it fairly well by now. But most of the rides I do are loops, or figure 8s, or various other shapes that keep me close enough to home at any given moment. If only psychologically, a 60 mile trip in a straight line would feel quite different.
Which brings me to another point - the main point, probably - that I am more than a little embarrassed to admit: It has been a while since I've cycled any notable distance on my own. I blame it on having friends and a husband who, increasingly, enjoy keeping me company on two wheels. Because, wonderful as that is, somewhere along the line my sense of independence has dulled. I now get "lonely," when I go out on the bike by myself - an emotion I never used to experience. More worryingly, I've noticed myself questioning my very ability to handle cycle rides on my own (but what if something happens?), putting them off until such a time that someone else could join me.
This weekend, though I'd decided this had to end. The forecast looked decent. The distance was manageable. I had a prototype roadbike on my hands that needed testing and a friend whom I wanted to see on her birthday. That morning I woke up to blue skies and balmy air, got dressed, and set off.
Alas I did not get far. Just outside Derry an outburst of rain, sudden and violent, sent me scrambling off the bike to hide under a bridge, to avoid getting drenched. But I remained optimistic. We've had a few days with short and heavy bursts of rain like this, and I've learned it is best to wait them out and keep dry - they pass quickly enough. So at first, I waited under the bridge sticking my head out now and again to check the sky. But the more I waited, the more it started to look as if the rain was't passing. It seemed to only be getting worse.
I checked my phone for the live weather report in hopes it would contradict what my eyes were seeing. But the former forecast of cloudy/ 12mph winds was now replaced with thunderstorms / 19mph winds. Feeling betrayed by the weather, I wanted to write a strongly worded letter. No, I wanted to shout at it, to shame it, to make it feel guilty. Demand that it keep its promises.
My phone was now buzzing with text messages.
thinking of you and a bit worried...
weather's turned crap!
weather's turned crap!
listen, conditions have changed:
strong winds, storms; I suggest abandon.
strong winds, storms; I suggest abandon.
Well, there was my mistake, I thought: telling people my plans! Did I secretly want to be dissuaded from doing this ride? Has it really come to that?
The temperature dropped and my teeth began to chatter - in rhythm, it seemed, with my waves of frustration.
Just then a crowd of club cyclists, dripping wet as if they'd emerged from a swimming pool, ducked under the bridge beside me. Once they had finished swearing and wringing out their jerseys, the mobile phones came out. Spouses were phoned for a rescue.
Somehow seeing them do this was the last straw, and I knew that I too would have to abandon my plans. I decided to make a run for the cafe across the road, have some breakfast, then brace myself for the soaking and make my way back.
The cafe - which I'd never been to before - was fancier inside than I had imagined, with leisurely sit-down service rather than ordering at the till. With nothing to do while waiting for my food I took advantage of the wifi and looked over the weather again on my phone, just to be sure. Derry: severe thunderstorms. Damn it.
But as I poked at my Eggs Benedict and black pudding, I suddenly had a thought which I immediately felt stupid for not having earlier.
What about my destination? And the points along the way? With renewed vigor I scrolled through the latest forecasts.
Gortahork: partly cloudy, chances of showers after 5pm
Dunlewy: cloudy, chances of showers after 5pm
Letterkenny: cloudy, chances of showers after 2 pm.
Newtown Cunningham: showers.
Right. So if I could tolerate cycling in pretty severe rain to start with, chances were it would taper off after mile 10 and end altogether after mile 20.
I gave this some thought. I had nothing to prove, and certainly if I wanted to turn back I could. It was just me after all, not some organised event. On the other hand, if it was only rain - no lightning, hail, or locusts - where was the harm? It wasn't as if I'd never gotten soaked on a bike before. And so, energised by the food and two cups of coffee, I abandoned my decision to abandon.
From the moment I resolved to push on, I tried not to think about it too much. Here's the bike. There's the road. Point it west. Go!
It's true what they say: You get used to cycling in the rain. Even in severe rain. Even with no mudguards. Even without proper rain gear. Sure it feels strange at first, to have streams of water running down your face and to feel yourself drenched to the bone. But after a while it just becomes the new normal. I promise!
As my tyres hissed through running water and a massive headwind assailed me, I relaxed and told myself reassuringly: The stuff that is happening now? It is already happening! Conditions can't get any worse and I'm doing just fine. (This, of course, I knew perfectly well wasn't true: The weather, like life itself, could always get worse in new and inventive ways. But just then I chose to forget this fact for the sake of my sanity.)
To counteract the temperature drop I increased my pedaling cadence, and this worked surprisingly well to keep me reasonably comfortable in my soaked wool/lycra layers along the rolling terrain.
I climbed out of Derry via the backroads toward Newtown Cunningham, immediately crossing the North/South border (identifiable only by the road signs changing from miles to kilometers). I then descended to join the main road to Letterkenny - a dual carriageway with high speed traffic, which was the part of my route I had been most nervous about. However, in weather like this the main road proved rather fabulous: an uninterrupted super-wide shoulder meant that cars were now passing within several feet, rather than several inches of me. Somewhere on my right, I knew, was Lough Swilly - obscured now by all the waterfall action and cloud cover, yet somehow still sensed out there, beyond the flow of multi-lane traffic. The miles flew by as I pedaled alongside its imagined banks. And before I knew it I was nearly in Letterkenny.
Now, as anybody local will tell you, the industrial sprawl nightmare that is the town of Letterkenny - aside from being one of the least scenic places in Donegal - is a horror to navigate in any vehicle. Aclutter with misleadingly signposted roundabouts, logic-defying one way roads, and aggressive drivers grown deranged by circling the place endlessly due to both of the former, a cyclist would do best to avoid Letterkenny like the plague. Unfortunately this is quite difficult, as practically every route through Donegal wants to take you directly through it.
Nevertheless there does exist a "secret" backroad. It skirts Letterkenny coyly, approaching here, retreating there, without ever going directly through it; a tree-lined paradise with exactly zero roundabouts and hardly any car traffic. You do pay for this with a bit (okay, kind of a lot) of climbing. But the height gain also means that you get a surprisingly lovely view of the town from a vantage point that somehow actually manages to make it look nice.
Thus bypassing civilisation entirely, I continued along the back roads through Church Hill, to the Glenveagh National Park. Somewhere along the way the rain had stopped, and I hadn't even noticed. When I finally did notice, it was almost with regret. We had grown to be friends, the rain and I; it had kept me company. Was that a crazy thought? At mile 30 it was really far too early to be raving.
An aside on milage in Ireland: As I have mentioned a few times before, there is something about the roads' surface here that makes them noticeably more effortful to cycle on than, say, paved American roads. One experienced cyclist I know who rides in both New England and Ireland regularly, reckons you have to mentally add 50% to the Irish milage to calculate "equivalent American milage." So in other words, cycling 40 miles in Ireland feels like cycling 60 paved miles in the US. Cycling 60 miles in Ireland feels equivalent to 90 miles in the US. And so on. In my own experience, this is fairly accurate. So, if you are planning a cycle tour here and are trying to get a sense of what kind of distances you'll feel comfortable doing, just be aware of this.
Around this point I began to grow a little tired on the stretch of backroads to the Glenveagh National park - a continuous climb through (the name should have tipped me off) Church Hill. It was then I realised that I hadn't actually paused to rest the entire ride. So finally I stopped and took a little break on the side of the road and sent some texts to let people know I was doing fine. After that I was good as new. The only real discomfort I was having, was that my shorts, having gotten thoroughly wet in the rain, were chafing a bit. But otherwise I was grand. It was all coming back to me now - what it was like, to do this - to go off on my own into uncharted territory, with no one's company for reassurance. It was "me," this kind of trip. More so than the social ride, the club ride, the organised brevet, even the lovely couple rides I had grown so fondly attached to. It was this lone, explorative type of ride that drew me into cycling in the first place.
As you travel west through Donegal, the Glenveagh National Park is where it really begins. It being: the bogs, the mountains, the vastness, the isolation. The general heathery peaty mossyness with zero buildings or even people as far as the eye can see in any direction. The miles upon miles where there is nothing to indicate to the eye that you are actually moving. Once they appear in sight, the two iconic mountains become quite important here - the pointy, quartz-tipped Errigal and the lumpy, flat-top Muckish. They act as orienting markers, and the eye hangs on to them for comfort, for anchoring.
My mind wiped clean by this landscape, I felt in a strange sense renewed as I prepared to climb the Muckish Gap - a stunning, winding backroad along the edge of this steep-sided mountain. This road would take me finally to the coast, to Falcarragh and Gortahork, via what is known as the Bridge of Tears - a place where, in centuries past, emigrants out of Ireland would pause to say their final good-byes to family, before persisting in their long and tedious trek to the nearest seaport. Whenever I pass this bridge, in the reverse direction, and usually on a bicycle, I am always conscious of being the opposite: an immigrant, coming in rather than wanting out.
And just why do I like it here anyway? I don't know, except that I do. I like even the harshness of it. Even the wind and the rain. Even (especially) the bog.
I found it interesting to learn that in Irish the word "bog" means soft. It's a nice word that gives the boggy landscape a positive connotation. Relaxing and gentle, not menacing. Pliable, not tyrannical. Inviting, not dirty.
In the final stretch, I mulled this over, thinking how happy I felt to not have abandoned my plans to do this ride on my own after all. Can every harshness be reframed as a softness, I wondered? Every pain as just a different type of sensation? Maybe not. But sometimes it is worth it, to try.
I have been convinced, partly from this blog, about the value of a rain cape and mudguards, so I was a little confused by this until you explained you were riding without them for some reason. I guess because you had to test the bike. This ride would have been a completely different experience if you'd been properly equipped.ReplyDelete
Though I did have a rain jacket (see response to fixie pixie below), overall I *was* badly equipped. There was nothing stopping me from putting clippy mudguards on the test bike, for instance, but I just didn't - as a result of believing the forecast and being fooled by the very warm temps of the morning. This was also the reason I did not wear overshoes or take warm clothing. It was just a mistake in planning on my part, precisely because it's been so long since I've gone out on my own, I think.Delete
All that said. I've been in situations where even on a fully fendered bike and wearing proper rain clothes, I've gotten soaked. Even the best rain gear can fail and start letting moisture through. Even the best fenders don't prevent 100% of up-splash. And having long hair works against me as well.
Once you're properly wet you might as well stay wet*, you cant get wetter! It's the 'getting wet' bit that's so thoroughly unpleasant.ReplyDelete
It's happened so many times over the years now that I know if I can just keep going, and stay warm it will be OK, and once the rain stops you'll dry out, but I've still had to face that internal battle enough times, especially when the rain hits 50 miles from home and I've forgotten my jacket...
* as long as you can stay warm
Inspiring perseverance, my dear. Thank you!ReplyDelete
I don't mind wind so much or rain or cold, but combine two or more of the three and then I liable to be VERY unhappy! - MasReplyDelete
It's hot in the southeastern U.S. So even when you're "properly equipped" your own sweat will soak you underneath your rain gear. I stopped wearing rain gear altogether. It made no difference.ReplyDelete
That is the reason the rain cape was invented. Try it. You get ventilation from below.Delete
I cannot count how many times I have thought "Eh. I shouldn't go. The weather." And then I do go, and I never regret it.ReplyDelete
My cousins live in Port Salon, County Donegal, and the cycling around there is great, especially heading north alongside Lough Swilly. You can loop through Kerrykeel and Ramelton. Of course it rains . . . but you live there . . . so you know that. Alas, I'm sequestered in The Bay Area, California, where the cycling weather is nearly always perfect.ReplyDelete
Ooh that is just nearby, though I have not done that particular route yet. Have you been to Downings and Lough Salt?Delete
Sorry to hear about your boring SF weather!
Here in the southern hemisphere, it is with some trepidation that I consider the daily commute as this unseasonably warm autumn is rapidly fading towards a cold and wet winter. The one thing I can count on is that the weather where I live, south of the Dividing range, will invariably be different to where I work on the north side of the range. Optimistically, I am always hopeful that the weather improves as I travel.ReplyDelete
Your descriptive piece touches wonderfully on the way cycling can raise the spirit from the slough of despond, literal or figurative. Velocio meets Virginia Woolf, if you know what I mean. And, as my friend Frugal Frogget says, 'Skin is waterproof, just keep warm.' Regards, The FossilReplyDelete
Have you learned nothing in your time in Ireland? Never go anywhere without a rain jacket and extra clothing! Especially if you are riding a naked bicycle. You single-handely caused this storm simply by defying it. Good to see the prototype got properly baptized ;-)ReplyDelete
I actually *was* wearing a rain jacket. A lightweight water resistant windbreaker that keeps me dry in ordinary rain for several hours. Alas, this was a class of rain that made mincemeat out of this garment!Delete
So what bike are you riding?Delete
It's a prototype Seven collaboration with me-designed geometry. More about it soon. Sadly, I have already wrecked the decals before getting good photos of it!Delete
One of the things I like about this blog is how you come across as a "normal" person who is a bit anxious about new challenges and worries about the weather and all that stuff like the rest of us, then you go commit some mid-level Bad-Assery and come out of it with an "Eh, it wasn't so bad" sort of comment. I like anyone who makes being even a mid-level Badass "normal". Go Girl.ReplyDelete
I come across as a normal person... What blog have you been reading? : )Delete
Thing is, almost nothing is really "that bad." It's just a matter of whether you're in the mood of tackling that particular badness. But also I generally do well in crappy conditions, so it's a bit unfair. Strengths and weaknesses. Now ask me to do a tight u-turn at the top of a hill, and watch me cry.
"If only psychologically, a 60 mile trip in a straight line would feel quite different."ReplyDelete
Not only psychologically. At 60 miles point to point you are more likely to experience weather changes, variations in terrain. All around it is more challenging. Well done!
I am glad you rediscovered the joy of solo cycling - it's not for everyone but for some of us it is the way we like to ride - there is an increased level of freedom and also spontaneity in riding alone. I think you did quite well on this particular ride, pouring rain is, I think, quite daunting and I admire you for not 'abandoning' your plans; I also understand why you love the area where you live, cycling through landscapes such as the one you have photographed here, how could you not?ReplyDelete
"The weather, like life itself, could always get worse in new and inventive ways."ReplyDelete
Jayzus! These little morbid tidbits always catch me off guard about this blog...especially as I am prone to them myself.
Be safe out there,
Back on May 1st my son, a friend and his son and I rode the NYC 5 Boro bike tour. It's a 40 mile ride which we've done a few time together in the past, but this year was the first time in the rain. We were somewhat prepared with light weight rain coats. I was the only one with fenders on my bike. Some how the boys were in a good spirits and seamed to enjoy it. It was one of those light rains, which became a little harder, then goes away without you noticing it. When you do, it starts again a short time later all over again. The only time we were cold was after the ride and waiting to take turns to change in the van. Now the boys have no excuse for not riding.ReplyDelete
Brought some great memories of the area. I'm staying in Downings again this August and hope to do much riding in the area. Muckish is stunning and draws me back to the region again and again.ReplyDelete