SPORTS SCIENCE MEETS GUINNESS

Easter weekend training epic in Ireland 

400 miles in four days.

This story puts a quite different and altogether more laid back approach to the 21^st Century  art of “The aggregation of marginal gains”,  as perfected by the Sky Pro cycling team.  For the boys in black that means, among other things, a strictly controlled nutritional diet and taking their own mattresses with them into hotels on stage races.

On the 1969 training weekend in Ireland recalled here, our “marginal gains” were achieved/hampered by getting no sleep on the overnight ferry before the 100-mile ride on the first day; followed by three more days of 100 mile each followed each night, after dinner, by sinking a few jars in a jolly local hostelry.

And after the return overnight ferry crossing four days later, dropping the bike at home at 6am, grabbing a bite, and going straight into the office.

In this way, I went from third to second cat. Say  no more.

I was a two-pints a night man, one night a week, max.  Usually on a Sunday evening down the folk or jazz club, relaxing after that day’s racing. 

Don’t know where the six-to-eight pints brigade put it.

Mind you, I did try to find out – once. 

Five pints of Newcastle Brown in a pub in Hannover Street Liverpool.

That was a watershed moment.

Terrible repercussions.

Knew there would be trouble from the moment of leaving the bar, when getting through three sets of doors to the street proved confusing. There’d had been only one door when we came in.

The blast of fresh air followed by the fuggy crowded bus did the rest.  What a disgrace.

Throwing up into a hanky on the back seat. The aghs and groans of other passengers turning away.

My pal Dave forced into making a public apology on my behalf.

Then on the club run the following morning, taking the 8.30 ferry from the Pier Head landing stage to Birkenhead Woodside, Davis regaled the other club members about my shame.

The hammers of Hell were knocking six bells out of my temples.

Two aspirins taken in the boat’s cafeteria did their work.  And more!

Can’t be sure, but I wonder to this day if it was these little helpers kicked which in with a vengeance 14 miles later on the Ewloe,  the 1.5mile climb from Queensferry into North Wales? That’s when I attacked and split the club run,  left everyone standing.

It didn’t last. The aspirins (it said on the pack ) were good for about 500 metres. (Only joking,  but someone has since told me they were the favourite choice among sprinters!). Anyway, my marginal gains gave out and I blew before the summit. Everyone came past. 

Five Pints man struggled on to the cafe two miles further on feeling like death.

So, back to our “tour” of Ireland.

All hail the Irish beer,   the Draught Phoenix and the Guinness.

Who were we? We were members of the Merseyside Wheelers.

The six: Willi, Eddie,  Tony – who earned the moniker T-Bone during this holiday -  Dave “Dickhead” who was given his moniker by Eddie for continually winding him up;  Steve Six-guns and  yours truly, who back then went by the name of Fringe, on account of his Beatles haircut.

Thursday overnight ferry from Liverpool to Dublin.

Cabins?

Come on!

We lay in loungers all night long. It was a long night, too, because whenever someone dared to nod off, he would be gently shaken awake by a club mate with the words, “Wake up, wake up. You can’t sleep like that”.

No one was to have the slightest advantage come the rolling start out of Dublin at the crack of dawn.

Breakfast in a dockside café.

Then on the road, south, direction Waterford.

At the first town boundary sign, the first sprint.

Willi won. He was, after all, only three years away from winning an Olympic bronze medal

at the 1972 Munich Olympic Games team pursuit.

We  couldn’t hold a candle to Willi.

Except by the last day when he was more tired than the rest. It was a rare moment to be taken full advantage of, by sticking half-wheels on him and watching him wince on the ride back into Dublin for the overnight boat.

But that first day was far too competitive.

Another sprint. Another victory for Willi, surging ahead with a monopoly of the marginal gains.

It was time to rethink our strategy, to get some marginal gains of our own. It couldn’t go on like this – not all weekend.

So when Willi took off for the third sprint a few miles out from the next town, the five counter-attacked as before.  He saw this, redoubled his efforts and was away.

At which point the five shipped oars, eased off, but remained in the drops.  Every time he looked back he would his five club mates lined out, bent double, heads to one side, apparently striving to catch up. And Willi would push on.

Except the “chasers” were doing 15mph!

But Willi couldn’t gauge that, as he pulled further away. 

Soon he was out of sight and the five would sit up and resume chatting.

Around about 11am a silence descended on the countryside. It was the Holy Hour, this bunch of heathens later learned. This was Good Friday, after all.  Not a soul was to be seen. Old roadsters were left abandoned in ditches.  Doors of houses, shops, were half open. Cars parked any old way.

It was as if the population had made a run for it, or been abducted.  The Merseysiders rode peacefully on through the calm until midday when people started to remerge, give their cheery greetings as only the Irish can, as the bike riders passed by.

And there, up ahead, was  Willi.  T-Bone spotted him first, pootling along waiting for his mates to catch up and probably wondering what kept them. 

Ahead lay a large town, which meant “sprint”.

Eddie said, right, let’s catch him unawares. The word went down the line …silent running.  Conversation ceased. Up went the gears.

Then Willi sat up, stretched and looked back.  Spotting the line-out in full flight bearing down, we heard as his gears being crashed into top. Naturally, he was first across the bridge into town.

But that was the end of the sprinting masterclass. 

After some 50 miles, lunch stop in a busy town. Can’t recall which. But Waterford would be the overnight stop.

Fella on the crowded pavement walking with his family, keeping pace as the group eased through at 3mph in congested traffic:

Hullo, there, he called out cheerily, as if he was expecting us.

Hi.

Nice bikes.

Thanks.

And where you all from?

Liverpool.

Liverpool? And where you going?

Waterford.

Waterford? You’ll be needing somewhere to eat.

Yes.

Keep on straight, turn left at the lights – café on your right. They’ll fill yer up.

Thanks.

Good luck to yers.

All that without stopping.

Next day, another lunch time encounter.

Pub lunch stop.

Six locals in the bar fell silent as six bike riders clicked, clicked, in.

Six pints of Phoenix.

A voice breaks the ice.

And which part of Liverpool are yer all from?

Easter Sunday evening, our last night out, in a pub in Thurles.

Ah.Youse’ll be the bike riders who have ridden into town?

The very same.

Let these boys through, they’ve a mighty thirst on.

What are you having?”

This is a nice pub.

It is, too. One of 78 on the square.