I was in Belfast over the weekend for a massive sportive called the Giro d’Italia. It’s a multi-stage event, and the course is very scenic but unfortunately it’s quite tricky to secure an entry place.
I brought my bike and kit just in case there was registration on the day, but when I found the signing on desk (it was easy to spot, being on a stage) security wouldn’t let me through. I stayed to watch a few of the riders anyway, and they seemed pretty handy with average speeds over 50kph. That would probably secure at least a silver time in most sportives.
Belfast was buzzing for the Giro, with pink bunting, dogs in pink jackets, pink-sprayed bikes outside shops and a cheering, pink flag-waving public lining the finishing straight for the team time trial outside City Hall. Yes it did rain a bit, but the sun shone too – typical Irish weather – and it was the same on Sunday when I rode out a few miles from my parents’ house to catch the peloton on stage three as it passed through south Armagh. After fending off a few would-be groupies (elderly farmers) en route – my fault for wearing a Team Sky jersey – I took up position at the edge of the road by a pub and waited. A smattering of locals lined the road, Guinness in hand, while a live band played and kids capered on a bouncy castle shaped like a sinking Titanic. Then some action: the caravan rolled by, a fleet of pink-painted taxi cabs with horns blaring.
Another hour passed; a donkey in the adjacent field came over to say hello. Somehow he had escaped being painted pink. Finally a helicopter thudded into view in the sky to the north, and thundered slowly closer. A posse of motorcycle outriders whizzed past – cue cheering from the roadside – closely followed by five riders: the break! They sped by in a line, gazes fixed straight ahead. A couple of minutes pause, then hot on their heels came the peloton; wave after wave, a blur of colour and toned muscle just inches from where I stood. They were just finishing their lunch and most of them freewheeled by, mouths full, shedding banana peel and fluttering wrappers in their wake.
It was all over in a flash, and a minute later the long tail of team cars and a final sprinkling of motorcycle outriders had vanished down the road to Dublin, leaving the road silent once again. Very impressive. I got back on my bike as the rain started and set off for home. I really must try to get an entry for next year.
Isle of Wight Randonnee
Meanwhile, back in real life, it was the May Bank Holiday recently and that means the Isle of Wight Randonnee. I rode this for the first time last year, and as promised turned up again for more of that olde tyme island action.
It was just as good as I remembered. Part of the course had been rerouted following an accident last year, while this year’s route bypassed Cowes due to oddly timed maintenance of the floating bridge there. All of which palaver meant a substantial section of the course was new to me, and it turned out to be a highlight – narrow winding roads, reminiscent of Flanders minus the cobbles, boasting steep climbs and that strangely moreish ‘farmyard smell’ that had my nostrils flaring in delight as I crested each hillock.
The weather stayed dry with a light sea breeze, and I got around in about five hours with only one accidental detour of a few miles. But I forgot to bring cash: a poor tactic on Wight, because the little village halls and schools that open to sell home-made cake and sandwiches en route only deal in hard currency. Luckily I’d brought a chocolate brownie from the mainland. This staved off the worst of the bonk, but with 70 miles on the clock I was definitely flagging towards the end at Wootton. After a little lie down on the grass I found a pub garden in Fishbourne, where a pint of iced coke helped revive me enough to roll aboard the boat home.
I can’t recommend the Randonnee enough, it’s truly a fun day out for all the family. Just remember to stick to the roads, as velociraptors have been spotted on the south side of the island.
Speaking of monsters, my next sportive looks like it will see me crossing water again as I return to Northern Ireland for Curadmir. Three consecutive 100-mile days along the rugged Ulster coastline, well I can’t envisage any problems with that… See you there?
