So anyway there we were.

So anyway there we were. A page of day to day observations on ordinary life.

21/07/2015

Greetings gentle readers. I am sorry, for it has indeed been a while.
Today, I feel it is appropriate to talk about what can be a fairly taboo subject in this country. Taboo, because very few, sadly, want to discuss it, yet, even more sadly, so many thousands, and their families, are so badly affected by it.
What am I on about?, you may ask. Simple. The horrible scourge of depression.
I am not sure of the statistics, or how many in ten have it, but it bothers me that so many can't or won't talk about if for whatever reason. I feel it is a massive failure in our race that we can't.
I have been living with depression for ten years or more. I'm unsure how others describe it for themselves, but I prefer to say I live with it. Others may describe how they have struggled with, or even battled it, and in fairness I have done both. I have good days, bad days and sadly, terrible days. I have had days where I was unable to get out of bed, almost, thankfully not for a very long time, and days where I have completely cut myself off from others, and spoken only to my dogs.

A few years back, after my so very many prescribed anti depressants and stress relievers ran out, my gp gave me the phone number of a counsellor. I rejected same and dived headlong into my new best friend in the world, booze. It was unfortunately not an uncommon sight to see me in the off licence almost every night of the week buying a of box of whatever was cheapest, Rolling Rock or Stella, and a bottle of my very very best friend, Mr. Daniel's finest sour mash, until finally, after many months, I realized I needed help from a professional, and made that call.
The first session was one of the toughest experiences of my life as some of it, just so much can come out in an hour, came pouring out. At one point, when I could no longer go on, as I was busy looking at the floor crying bitterly, my counsellor just spoke my name softly, and I remember vividly thinking to myself that if this guy tells me it's okay, I was out the door and into the nearest pub. Instead he said;
"Whenever you're ready, we'll continue. There is no rush."
I didn't speak a lot that evening, nor did I feel any better, but I was glad to have started to speak, and try to get it all off my chest what I was feeling and going through, and over the following months, the root causes, and eventually I started to feel better within myself. You see, the thing was, it was good to talk to anyone.
It is one of our greatest failings as a nation that we are so unable to talk about our problems, or find ourselves almost unable to listen when somebody tries to talk to us, often making us feel uncomfortable. I had tried, and the answer was usually the same. Either; "let's go for a pint so we can talk properly", or, "ah Jaysus come on. Have another one. You'll be grand/ it will all look different tomorrow.", and of course I would roll home, pretending I was in better form, when all I would be was drunk on top of depressed.
I continued to see my counsellor on a regular basis for many months, and when the need arises, still go today.
I, like so many more, may have at one time looked at depression and admitting to same as being a sign of weakness, even when I was battling with it. I have met so many people since that I believe struggle daily and refuse to admit to themselves let alone anyone else that they are struggling, and it saddens me. Nobody should battle alone against the most determined enemy you can ever encounter. Yourself. It is even more tragic that so very many more lose the battle every year, and sadly can (in my opinion) no longer see a future for themselves in this life, and bring about the end of their own lives. Believe me. I know. I came very close myself. It should always be remembered that you have no idea what personal and mental torture a su***de victim has gone through up to that point.
Always try and remember a few pointers that turned me away from that most awful drastic measure. There is only one you, and you can never ever be replaced. Those you leave behind will miss you in ways you will never even begin to comprehend. Before you ever use that age old phrase, time is a healer, try not to. It's bu****it. Time heals nothing, but being around for a long time is priceless beyond measure. Being there for somebody though is an amazing gift, and may pull them away from the abyss. Speak up. Don't be afraid to. Just make sure you talk to the right people. Friends are a truly valuable gift, but are often, through no fault of their own, not the right ones to talk to as if can be virtually impossible to remain unbiased.

I said earlier that I felt today was an appropriate time to talk about depression, and that is for one simple reason. Today should have been Robin Williams' 64th birthday. If one of the funniest men who ever lived found himself backed into that terrible corner, any one of us can be as well.

Hang in there.
You are loved, and have a lot of love to give.
Live! It's what life is all about.

Peace all. Never be afraid to express how you feel.
Much love.

Chris.

02/05/2015

so, I'm reading Stephen King's The Stand again. that time of year I guess, I have read it at least once a year since I first read it almost twenty five years ago. if you haven't then you should, and do so before the remake comes out, supposedly starring Matthew McConaughey. anyhoo, not for the first time, I digress. if you are familiar with said masterpiece, then you might remember this exerpt. if not, a small bit of background, if I may.
the US government created the ultimate biological weapon that presents itself like an intense dose of the flu, known as project Blue. following a freak accident, Project Blue is released, dooming more than 99% of the population in under a month, by the disease that becomes known as the superflu, tubeneck, or Captain Trips, depending on where you live. the story follows the survivors as they find each other, and follow their hearts in what may become the last great battle of good v evil. one of the main characters is the hearing and speech impaired, or deaf and dumb if you prefer, Nick Andros, whose introduction is made via a savage beating on a road outside Shoyo Arkansas.
the piece I refer to goes as thus;
"no one showed up from the truck-stop down the road, and he looked at the telephone, more with disgust than with longing. he was quite fond of science fiction, picking up falling apart paperbacks from time to time on the dusty back shelves of antique barns for a nickel or a dime, and he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that it was going to be a great day for the deaf-mutes of the world when the telephone viewscreens the science fiction novels were always predicting finally came in to general use."
page 178.

this piece, just over half a paragraph, got me thinking, as so many small things can, how indeed has modern technology affetced the lives of people such as the fictional Nick Andros. when Mr. King first put pen to paper, or whatever way he did it originally, back in 1975, could he ever, even in his wildest of all imaginations, have foreseen a day when we would all carry phones in our pockets which can include facetime, so you can see the person you are talking to, or, viewscreens. much less, when we would spend so much time texting each other as opposed to actually talking to each other? has the advent of texting even started to do away with the skill of sign language in the modern era?
i often heard my dad tell, because of family circumstances, that he could sign long before he knew his abcs. i watched him many many times talking to my late aunt in sign, and with a workmate of his in the Golden Vale in Charleville, now defunct, sadly. indeed, my dad was the only person in a factory of many hundreds who for many a long year who could communicate with this man and let others know what he was saying, thinking or feeling. i always enjoyed watching their exchanges, and felt a huge upswelling of pride that my dad was so skilled, even if he never regarded it as such.
sign language I know has evolved through the years, and in most cases today is done one handed, but still, any two handed signers can be perfectly understood. unfortunately, the world has evolved too, and the way we ourselves communicate on a day to day basis differs very differently than back then. almost twenty five years ago when i first picked up that 1,325 page magnum opus. as I already said, mobile phones, text messaging, email, whattsap, viber, pm on facebook and chat rooms. personally, I hope sign language lasts forever.

as a footnote, I watched The Stand mini series with Gary Sinise, Rob Lowe and Molly Ringwald, to name but three, last weekend for the first time in about ten years or so. it was never really that good to begin with, and has aged very badly. very badly indeed!

peace out, and the usual amounts of love to you all, in the immortal words of the late great Gerry Ryan, "until we do do it again"

Chris.

06/04/2015

Earlier, while we were out, I was again mulling over ideas, when something most unusual happened, but more on that at a later date. Enjoying the beautiful sunshine and the amazing temperature, I stopped and gazed across the Shannon estuary into Co. Limerick, my mother's native county, and I began to think some more. Basically, how do you define that term, a mother?
To me, it can mean more than just it's definition. A mother is more than just a woman who gives birth, because so many have, and then looked at that child as an inconvenience, and have had little or nothing to do with the upbringing of said child. As a retired doorman, it never disgusted me more than when a woman would go on about how much she loved her kids, and how she would give up everything for them, except for the weekend on the tear, or the Monday to Friday on the tear, but they were her whole world. Men are no better in this respect, and obviously it is only a small few who behave as such, but.......
But not for the first time, I digress. A mother to me doesn't just give birth, she then gives up her whole life so her kids are raised properly. Even before we are born, our mothers begin caring for us, by taking care of themselves to ensure we have the best possible start to life. After birth begins the round the clock care and attention of night feeds, changes, baths, burps, clean clothes, in my day, clean nappies. When teething begins comes the nights spent walking the floors trying her best to soothe and calm us despite the need herself for sleep.
A mother is there for the first tooth, the first sit up, the first stand, those all important first steps, and the long awaited first words. Despite the fact those first words are usually Dada, she is filled with joy at the sound, but she is still a long way from being finished. She continues to cook for us, clean for us, make sure we have clean clothes and good food in our bellies, and those so without complaint. When we imagine we don't like certain foods, she has an alternative, and we are fed.
As soon as we find our feet as children, we are off out that door at speed and rarely with a look behind us, but when we went crashing and gashed our knees or elbows or suffered any minor scrape or scratches, it was always out mothers we turned to, making her also the first first responders we ever knew, without knowing us.
Years pass and school begins, and mothers are separated from their young for the first time, and tears flow, and I have witnessed some serious hysterics in or around September 1st. When school let's out the first one to hear about our day was our mothers. The first one to give solace after a tough day, the one we turned to for help with homework, the one who always tried to make sure the homework was all done so we had the best chance at life, the one who went to parent teacher meetings, the one to confront your 5th class teacher for being a horrible c**t, always your mother.
Eventually, time moves on, and school days end, and it comes time for us all to leave the nest and make our own way in life. Eventhough she is fully supportive of you, the worrying just enters into a whole new phase. When we ring home, the phone is almost always answered by your mother. We spend most of our telephone conversations with our mother as she tries to gauge by the sound of your voice how you really are, and then worries some more until she actually gets to see you in the flesh to make sure you really are alive. She will share your highs and lows at every turn. Your good news is her good news. Your bad news, more concern to her.

I was born in September 1972, the third of four. Around now, in 1981, there was a genuine concern that my ninth birthday would not be seen, but I made it, and she watched me continue to grow. In 1999, I delivered the news that began a new phase in her life, as she was about to become a grandmother. In 2005, I again turned her life upside down with the news that I may have had cancer, which thankfully proved false, but I will never know who it scared more. Not long after that, she had to endure and watch from the sidelines as my world collapsed in on itself, and I sought comfort in alcohol, and continued to watch as I clawed my way back. Something that no mother should watch.
My dad once said that when I was young, I used to keep them on their toes, because there was no telling what I would get up to. My temper worried them both, but I still haven't had to reveal the truth, the whole truth and nothing but so help me Dog. I always said that I am the man I am today because of time spent working with him in the truck on school holidays. This is only partly true though, because my mother moulded me, he just had to knock a tiny bit of shape into it to finish the job. The mould was started shortly after Christmas of 1971.

I have put my mother through a lot in my time, but am thankful every day of my life for her. I could not have made it this far without her. If you are indeed as fortunate as I am to have a loving mother still in your life, pick up the phone, or better still if you can, go and see her, and just tell her that you love her.

Happy birthday mam. Love you always.

Chris.

04/04/2015

just a little while ago, we were out having our walk, minding our business, as is our wont, in the beautiful late Spring weather. just think, four weeks from today is the first day of Summer!!!!
anyhoo, as we strolled around, I was mulling over some ideas that have been going around in my head for the last few days, but I was having trouble verbalising for your, hopefully, entertainment, and it got me thinking, as so very very many things do, and slowly an idea formed, and I began to wonder, what do people actually think of this page?
I know a few out there like it, and more than one family member may even be surprised, and slightly impressed, with what I write and how it's structured. but what about those of you who don't like what is written here. what is it about it that you don't like? why, if you dislike it, don't you say so? in fairness, I welcome criticism, as it can point out to the writer something they may have inadvertently missed out on. much like Paul Swive O'Donoghue's early, yet so very obvious observation, that paragraphs were needed. before that, I could type away for hours without even the thought for the need of same.
then I got to thinking some more about the whole creative process of getting the idea, from whatever source of inspiration, to formation, in whatever way works for different people, to the taking of notes, which I don't, to actually sitting down and typing, to the point where, for the so very many lucky ones, it gets printed and then published, in whatever form, be it poetry, prose, a column in a newspaper, or even the holy grail, a book, on a shelf, in a bookshop.. the mad/annoying thing about all of the above, is the probable fact. that none of same will ever happen to me, but hey, I have here. and that will do just nicely thank you very much, for now at least.
then i got to thinking some more, about the lucky few, the newspaper columnists, all over the world, who get paid to put into words their opinions on whatever aspects of life and how they see it. afterall, John Grogan wrote columns for The Miami Tribune, and The Philadelphia Inquirer about life with, and the highs and lows of living with the world's worst dog, and that worked out better than okay for him, as Marley & Me took the world by storm, and made us laugh so many times, and broke our hearts at the end, and made even more of us cry unashamedly during THAT scene with Owen Wilson in the movie adaptation. even the most successful writer in modern literature had humble and a difficult start, selling short stories to men's magazines to keep himself and his wife Tabitha afloat. today, Stephen King is probably the most read writer in the history of publishing, and more than a few of his novels appear in my top ten favourite books of all time.
i wonder how many times Mr. Grogan's editor came to him to tell him that that weeks column was not up to scratch, and to redo it. it is a well known fact that oh so many of King's manuscripts were returned unpublished and unwanted, and then came Carrie, followed closely by 'Salem's Lot and The Shining, and on and on. indeed, Under The Dome was sitting in a box for thirty years before being resurrected.

when I created this page, I did so with the foolish notion of maybe doing a piece every day, or every other day, but it's just not that easy. i had intended a piece of childhood, and how we are now raising our children compared to how our mothers so brilliantly did it. I also was going to do a piece about the difference in living in the modern world for the deaf and how it must have been for my late aunt Anne, but I want my dad's permission for that one.

but as usual, I have strayed from my initial point. I love writing, and I love sharing my thoughts. I love drawing inspiration from the least thing, especially when it draws a memory from way deep down in the memory banks. if you enjoy my ramblings, always nice to hear. if you don't, say so, I am always open to suggestion.

be back on Monday. until then, stay well, stay safe, and have a great bank holiday weekend.

peace y'all!

Chris

25/03/2015

had a few ideas running around in my head for the last few days, but just could not find the appropriate words to put here. you might even say I struggled with my own vocabulary, until finally yesterday evening;

so anyway, there we were, just the boys and I, out for a stretch in the beautiful late March, mid Spring weather. sun going down, a good bit chillier than it had been all last week, but dry, and besides, walking, which so many more would give so much up to be able to do.
we normally take the same route, and yesterday was no different, as I tried to take everything around me in, including the slow progress of the leaves returning to the trees, all of which were giving me ideas, but not in my mind, good enough ideas. on the last stretch towards home, I came across a sight, that like so many more in the modern world saddens me. a familiar sight, but one that would have been inconceivable when I was a kid. such a simple thing, but one that evokes that old argument about how easy kids have it today, but took me down another route, that a few years back I called, Amnesia Avenue, as sometimes a trigger is needed to take you back all those years. that simple thing that we came across? a leather football.
as I said, that age old argument reared it's cranky old head, but was quickly suppressed. I thought back fondly instead to when we were kids, and when we would get a leather football. I'm not too sure how much they cost today, as thankfully, I have no sons, but I recall that back in the early 80's and in to the 90's, they were not cheap, at all, and more than a few came from petrol or milk tokens, all now sadly a thing of the past. but I digress.
what saddened me was the way said ball was discarded and most likely forgotten by who ever owned it. I don't care what age a man gets to, he will always kick a football and try to get some height into it, and let's face it, I am no different, but was not expecting to get much out of it, as in my mind, to be left where it was, it was surely deflated or punctured, but no. catching it sweetly with the big toe on my left foot, that ball sailed through the air, perfectly for someone to header sweetly, or volley sublimely, into the roof of a net, that was not there. nor was anyone else.
you see, the thing about it was, when we were young, and we got a ball like that, if we were going inside for just a minute, the ball was brought in with us. no ball was ever left outside, because if something happened to it, we would have a long wait before getting another one, either a birthday or Christmas. besides, the boy with the leather football under his arm, was a king in the eyes of others. but sadly, things change, and not always for the better either.
it would be easy for me to give out about the kid(s) who left what was to us, a priceless and treasured possession outside in an unguarded state, but that's just the way it is these days, as we, as parents, have gotten softer, and I have no doubt that if that ball disappeared overnight, it was either replaced today, or will be tomorrow.

as I thought back, I could not but help to reminisce on my youth, and so many leather footballs. so many matches going until well after the sun had set, and the last of the light had faded from the sky in the west. twenty a side in the hurling field. next goal wins meaning only that after that next goal was scored, that next goal REALLY wins, until that one too was scored. playing so long one memorably hot May day, FA Cup Final Day, when it was a big deal, that almost all of Joan Ronan's lawn was burned away barer than the base line at Wimbledon. and just running all day,only ever pausing to drink water straight from a tap, or a garden hose, or to argue the fact that over the post, stick, jumper, bag, cowpat, was in/out, with your brothers and mates, sometimes barely getting a touch, but at least you were in the game. and sometimes producing a moment of absolute magic, the kind of which would make Gareth Bale green with envy. but always, most importantly, no matter how tired, or how late, or for what reason you went in, that ball always came with you.
when we were boys, we knew we would play football like this forever, but again, sadly, time waits for no man, and age catches us all. besides, if we were to tackle now, like we did back then, we would probably seriously injure somebody. long gone are the days of the Quinns, Ronans, Condons, other Ronans, Powers, Creedons, Kennedys, Morrisseys, O'Connors, and so very many more gathering where it would be insane to put cattle, and the longest games in history would begin.

I have said it so many times before, and will say it again now, we can stay young at heart forever, even when the body ages, but the saddest part of growing up, and leaving childhood behind, is the first victim of life. your innocence.

more soon.
peace y'all.
stay forever young.

Chris.

09/03/2015

the following first appeared on the Shannon ROcKs page on the 13th and 14th of September after the An Post Rebel Challenge which started and finished in beautiful Glengarrif, west Cork, on a sun kissed Autumn day. please forgive the grammatical errors which may appear from time to time, I will try to edit them out, but hey, I missed them once, I might just miss them again. so, if you are sitting comfortably, then let us begin!

One day in September.

And, here, we, go!
To begin with, it was a ride I should never have gone on, because, first of all, I had not shaken off my flu, and second, I had that bug on Friday, and spent the whole day puking so my stomach muscles were in tatters!
Undaunted, to beautiful West Cork we went, and lined up at The Eccles Hotel for our 10am start. I had an idea it would be tough early on, but by Jebus! After less than 2km we started up the climb to Caha Pass, a climb of about 10km or so. My muscles were nowhere near being warmed up, and breathing was very difficult due to my flu. Cliff did try to drag me up the thing, but after a lot of persuasion finally took off, as waiting for me was doing him no favours. Finally, slowly, very painfully, the top was reached, and the descent towards Kenmare began. As a poor descender I took my time, Cliff, after waiting for me, took off like a blue blur.
Joining up again, we were off, and hitting for The Healy Pass, in quite a sizeable, amiable bunch. Ignoring the first water stop, we soon began to climb again, and finally, I hit my stride, and took off, slowly but steadily, and I felt, quite strongly up the difficult and uncompromising hill, and after what seemed like an eternity, we were over. Elated, I whooped for joy, to hear somebody call out, " I hope you're still that hapoy at the top of The Healy Pass".......... We thought we had just gone over it! A lot fearfully, we took off down the hill, towards that awful road, a descent that almost ended very badly as I got a sharp bend very badly wrong, until eventually we were down, and ready to start up again. Taking time out to take in a gel and plenty of water, we took on the task. Cliff had his instructions, do not wait for me, I'll get there, if you have it, go. And so, we began.
I had read about it, and was concerned about it, but nothing prepared me for the hell that followed. This thing just would not lie down and give up, as it kicked up again, and again, and again. Just when you thought it couldn't get worse, it did! And then got harder. About two thirds distance, I realised I was alone, again, somehow leaving my travelling companion behind, with the worst part still to come, as the last 200 to 300 metres were cruel beyond compare, but slowly, surely, the top was fonally reached, and the stunning view of the road down presented itself, the second water stop was greeted thankfully, and the news that the food stop was at the bottom brought many smiles, and more than a few tired nods.
But, unfortunately, disaster was not very far away, and the game changer was about to present itself, as Cliff gained the summit a surprising distance behind, and he told me his thigh strain had come against him badly on the climb. A nice break, and a couple of pictures later, and we were off downhill again, with the knowledge we would, insanely, be coming back up that climb again later, at the forefront of our minds, we hit out for a sandwich and tea, Cliff off again like a born downhiller, me like an old woman clinging on for dear life, unaware that everything we had worked so hard for was soon to fall apart........but that, is another story.

Right!
Part 2.
After the near break neck descent from The Healy Pass, it was break time at the first food stop. A very well organised affair with plenty of everything, especially piping hot tea. After a 30 to 35 minute break, in glorious sunshine, we got ready for the off again, after some running repairs and a comical chamois cream application moment. With 64km gone, we were less than 5km away from the game changer. Rolling out together, we passed the junction that split the 85 and 160 km riders, and let me tell you, the 85 was very tempting. Two abreast, we hit off for Castletownbeare, where a cut off was in place, and on our first minor climb, disaster first struck. With traffic coming from behind I took up the lead, and then got the call, Cliff's thigh was not co operating, pulling against him on a very minor slope. Pace was adjusted, and I took up the lead to draught him around the rest of the way if needs be, but that was nowhere near the answer, and 15km later, everything changed. After a lovely descent down into the picturesque fishing port, we had to stop. 80km gone, there was not going to be another 80, for either of us, especially after Cliff's first crash of the day did not help matters. We tried everything to get his leg working, but nothing worked, even drawing some very odd looks from the locals. We faced facts, 160 had suddenly, frustratingly, become undo able. After consultation with the roadside marshalls, and a lot of persuasion from himself, we split up. Cliff going back the way we came, and I, because of the recommended time restrictions in the information pack, took the road that shaved off 30km.
Now, this was daunting, because the mental safety blanket of your fellow rider and travelling companion has been snatched away, but I had a job to do, and Healy Pass to challenge again, so I took off up the hill and made the best of a very bad situation, and very quickly came to the second food stop, stopping just long enough to grab a fist full of fruit pastilles, refill my water bottles, ring the boss, and got going again, so as to expedite my return to Glengarriff.
Strangely, one of the hardest parts of the ride was over the next 15 to 20km. In glorious sunshine, in beautiful surroundings, the wind tore at us. Conversation on the road was minimal as the wind sapped energy from almost everyone. Just before Lauragh, on a very unusual, but very welcome piece of even ground, Cliff and I made contact via the phone. He was done, and was waiting in a far off lay by, where the endgame would be sorted out. So, gel pack and water time, some sweets, deep breath, passed the sign for Lauragh, and once more, the bottom of the 11km climb presented itself again.
Now, as everyone knows, I am neither a small or fit man, but am very proud of the effort I put in on this total bitch of a hill the second time around. The rate of attrition was sky high, as I passed many riders on the lower slopes walking up beside their bikes, and in situations like this, the true good in humanity can present itself. More than a few shouted encouragement after me as I hobbled along. At one stage, just standing out of the saddle, not turning the pedals, one guy begged me not to quit, "you can do it! Just keep turning them! You're more than half way there. Show them all how it's done boy!" I was nowhere near quitting, but encouragement is always well received. On and on that mountain rolled, seemingly longer this time, and then, there they were, the last two bends, but the hardest 300m or so of it, and frustratingly, this time, I was found wanting, as just after the last bend, on the final kick up on the mountain, 100metres from the top, my legs failed, and I could not turn the pedals anymore, so I had to dismount, with the shouts of encouragement of, come on! You're almost there!, from other riders and the marshalls at the top, ringing in my ears. I am not too proud to admit it, but I put my head on my saddle and wept bitter tears of frustration, then walked to the top, to very generous applause and some pats on the back from people I had never met before, who I had a common bond with, we had all suffered that awful mountain twice, with various degrees of success and failure, and as one girl pointed out to me, I made it further up than most.
103km gone, for me, 133 for the rest, the finish line was agonisingly close. So, water bottles replenished, and with a baby brother to aid, I took off down the other side again, much more gingerly this time.
I am very pleased to report, that by the time I got to the agreed upon lay by, Cliff was gone. After a good long rest, he had decided that there was only one way to finish the day, and that did not include roadside rescue, so on he ploughed. Now, with about 18km to go, we hit a 15km, non stop, uphill, merciless drag, that was really taking no prisoners. What reserves of energy The Healy Pass could not sap, this road dragged away, and riders began to seriously struggle and pace dropped away. I still had some in the tank and ploughed on, ignoring heavy legs, stupid hills and headwinds, and then, far in the distance, I thought I made out a familiar shape, walking by the side of the road, and soon came a very cruel moment. Drawing level, gears dropped to the last, I stayed in the pedals, refusing to stop, until contrary to protests, both of us were back on the bikes and heading for home. Three difficult, but thankfully brief hills followed, then gloriously, about 5km, of almost non stop descending dropped us down into Glengarriff, and warm applause and more than a few cheers, and finally, painfully, we were done.
Despite his difficulties, Cliff completed 122km, at least 50 of those in severe discomfort. I crossed the line with 130km on the legs. My furthest, and most difficult ride to date, and going again next year.
We, not for the first time, dragged each other around those roads, and did it all in just over six, gruelling, hours.
A hard, hard days ride, that, yet again, ROK veterans have assured me, was way tougher than anything on, what for me, with July way off in the distance, those hallowed roads. I can cautiously say, I am ready for it!
A hard hard day in the saddle, made so much easier by the always entertaining company of my beloved baby brother, Cliff Quinn.

I was immensely proud of this ride at the time, and still am today. hope you enjoyed reading it, as I didn't enjoy riding it in places.

Chris

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