The wet sculptor
Trying to escape from water in Ireland is like trying to block sunlight in Provence. You can try all you like, but it’s not going to go away any time soon.
Growing up I learned quickly that when it’s not raining, that just means it’s going to rain.
As a cyclist in Ireland the role of water is legion, shaping landscapes, mindsets, chainring teeth, and of course as a main ingredient in ‘post-ride recovery drinks’.
Where I ride you can’t escape water, whether it’s in your face, in the numerous lakes and rivers, or shaping the valleys and hills that shape the contours, that shape the roads, that shape the legs, that shape the mind, that shape your view of the world around you.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love cycling in heat. Climbing Mt Ventoux in 41c was enjoyable - seriously good fun and the heat stress was quite bearable. If I could, I’d live in a Catalan village seared by the sun. But here’s the thing, I sleep with the bedroom window open and hear the weather before I see it, and the sound of rain makes me excited about riding a bike. I don’t wait for the rain to stop, I try to get out the door before it stops.
For me there is only one necessity and that’s warm hands and feet, the rest be damned. Or damped.
My training rides are almost all within the catchment area of the River Blackwater which rises in the hills of South Tyrone and makes it way to Lough Neagh, the largest lake in the UK – if you look at the map of Ireland it’s the eye of the dog. On its journey it passes through towns and villages where I can grab a coffee. It passes under bridges I sheltered under as a child, fishing in the summer rain, having cycled there with friends.
Take yesterdays ride. Meeting two club mates in Benburb village, high above the Blackwater gorge, we could hear the rapids below as we started riding west. To cut 110km short, we crossed the Blackwater three or four times, then took a left turn and traced the route of the Fury River from the hills above the Clogher Valley, crossed the border into the Republic of Ireland, crossed the aptly named Mountain Water river, back across some flat roads into the North, over the Blackwater again, and again. Over the Callan river which in the past had been littered with water-powered mills bringing an income to many and a fortune to few.
Past numerous lakes, pretty much all within the catchment area of the Blackwater, and back to the village of Moy where my club are based - and which sits on the banks of the river.
Whilst it didn’t rain (much) on the ride yesterday, we got home drenched by the landscapes the rain produces. The green vegetation, the rocky river gorge of the Fury, the Blackwater plains and floods, the valleys and hills that have to be crossed to move form valley to valley. I sat behind team mates with muscle shaped by rain as much as the landscapes we rode through. Minds washed by rivers we never swim in, just by riding alongside them - therapy by the gift of sound and vision.
A few riders I know start each message about a ride with a statement about the weather as if it matters and should dictate saddle time.
Is your ride affected by the rain in Ireland?
Yes, for sure, even when it isn’t raining.
