Cycling Reports

Robinstown Grand Prix

 By Dave Walsh

Robinstown, Co. Meath, July 29th, 2001

Carpet Bombing

Twice my head hit the roof of my car, between the main road and the Co. Meath hamlet of Robinstown. And I wasn't even speeding, as I was on time for the race, exciting the UCI into issuing an urgent press release - 'Walsh achieves punctuality - Hein Verbruggen rests easy'.

No, the savagery of the parcours was such that my little Renault was bouncing around the road. On my arrival, I discovered that the course for the race ran from the pub (whatwasitcalled, the Klondyke?) back down that bumpy road, left onto the Navan-Trim road, left at the next crossroads, and back up a fast 1km long-drag (a typical Meath hill) to Robinstown. The main road was without blemish, but it looked like someone had been buzzing Robinstown in a purloined A-10 bomber. One huge hole, about 200m from the start, had white painted lines radiating out from it, reminding me of those white lines they draw around the remains of the deceased in murder cases. On the telly, like.

The race was to be a dizzying 12 laps of a five-and-a-bit mile course. The weather was dull and sticky, and the riders wandered around looking languid. At 1:30pm, a gang of vets and juniors were let off down the bumpy hill towards Trim, and a few minutes later, the Senior 1s and 2s were launched in pursuit. After the initial downhill, the road improved, but it was narrow and winding, making movement within the pack difficult, except in a lineout. We hit the main road, and the bunch strung out. On that stretch of road, on *every* lap, we didn't cruise below 53km/h, and one lap, we were spinning our top gears at 60km/h. Up a long curving drag, the road bottlenecked, and we were back in the flight-path of that A-10 pilot, the bunch echoing with the crackle of rims on bomb craters. There was one nasty sandpit on the left before the crossroads that someone wrote a wheel off on, at some stage. Then a slow left hander, and back up towards Robinstown.

It was one of those, as I said, typical Meath drags. The bunch hits it fast, and never really eases off. I sat tight till it steepened, somewhere back around 20th or so, then comfortably spun a gear up along the left hand side, and went wandering off the front with a few other riders. Into the village, and the bunch reeled us back as we negotiated the smooth bits between the holes. We slid back into the bunch at the bottom of the hill, and another rake of attacks went off. Sitting in the front of the group and feeling adventurous, I went ploughing off in pursuit, with someone from Naas sitting on my wheel. I latched onto the back of the seven or eight riders, who were already starting to suffer from a lack of solidarity. Another Ravens rider, Ciaran Farrell, arrived, and Lenny Carrigan was there too. The speed went up and the break split a bit, came back together. The guys on the front seemed unhappy about the workload not being shared, but the pace wasn't steady enough for the other riders to do anything other than chase wheels. I toddled up to the front and did a bit, before we hit the main road, then a few people went flaking off, and we split again.

I suddenly felt awful, I was going full bore, but going backwards. Too much too soon. Ciaran and Lenny went by me, and I eased for a bit, plummeting back towards the bunch, which reeled in the escapees, I think, by the time the hill came around again.

For the next few laps, I felt less than wonderful, and at times slid back so far that I couldn't see what was going on up front. I only knew we'd caught the vets and juniors when I say the white and red numbers appearing. Breaks were going up the road like it was going out of fashion, and every time we hit the main road, I was spinning my biggest gear with my chin on the handlebars. Eventually the winning break got away, don't ask me where or when, I was in my own little race, while Misters. Gleeson, Swinard, Whelan etc. were having theirs, a minute up the road.

Five or six laps in, on the road down from Robinstown, we entered a bit of road that had a light refreshing drizzle on it. The bunch seemed to slow here, to cool off. That lasted for a couple of laps, then the wind blew it across to the other side of the course, where we had it briefly on the hill. Perhaps the ICF could see their way to clear to providing a man with a garden hose for summer days without rain? Like a prime every lap, the riders would be sprinting to cool off...

Anyway - there I was, hanging on. There wasn't much chatter in the bunch, everybody was too busy racing. On the eighth lap, I ate Kiwi fruit, definitely more satisfying an energy bar. By the 10th lap, I wasn't feeling as leaden. By the time we hit the main road on the 11th lap, I was cocky enough to try jumping across to a newly formed break, and was crap enough to fail. I was on the outside coming to the left hander at the bottom of the hill, and some hoor tried to ride around me, I could hear his tyres on the gravel, he was almost in the ditch. Distracted, I was too enthusiastic coming out of the bend, began pedaling too quickly, and my left pedal scraped the ground, with me and the bike almost pivoting around the pedal. Mercifully, I didn't bring half the bunch down, and felt great going up the hill. Perhaps I could actually forget about surviving, and think about racing. Onto the last lap, and I started fighting my way up to the front. Mind you, another 50 riders were doing the same thing, so it was a thankless task. Coming down to the final bend, there was a yell and some acrobatics to my right, as one of the Stagg lads decided to end his race in a Co. Meath hedge. Around the bend, and banged shoulders with whoever had been on my inside. From here on, it was move up, move up, move up. People seemed to be running out of steam as we hit the steepest bit of the hill, and I had to do a couple of near-track-stands to get around some people that were blowing. Still, there seemed to be twenty or more people ahead of me. As we hit the flat bit coming into the village I tore past a load of people. I have no idea whether I forced my way through, or eased off and went around. I never remember the final kilometre terribly well.

Clearing the mêlée, I wandered in around 6th or 7th, I think, in the bunch, and got 5th B. Which, should, it seems have been 6th - Paul Read was several places ahead of me, but no one at the finish line saw him, and they didn't believe him either. For my placing, I won a green carpet... which I offered to Paul. He politely declined. Brian Taafe brought home the infinitely more tasteful piece of red carpet for sixth place.

All offers for a delightful green carpet to daev@irishcycling.com