Adventure. A completely overused word that means everything from; late night ice cream trips to summiting the world’s tallest mountains. This was, however, in the true essence of the word, an adventure. An ultra-distance cycle from 7am on Monday to 8.40am on Tuesday with 2 hours of sleep on the streets of a rural coastal town. My father and I covered over 420km in under 17 hours along The Wild Atlantic Way.
This plan had been discussed throughout the preceding summer months. In essence, my father, an avid cyclist, wanted a summer challenge. He has completed many AUDAX cycles in the past (a type of long-distance road cycling event in which participants must navigate a route within a specified period of time). He has ticked through the 200km, 300km and 400km single-day events in the past. The latter of which took in excess of 18 hours in one push. I, on the other hand, was yet to better a cycle that I did the previous summer across the country, which was 260km.
In the weeks leading up to our designated day, my father presented me with his route card. There had to be a “why” to this ride. We weren’t satisfied to just “go for a long cycle.” It was clear that he had spent a lot of time planning this, measuring distances, calculating times and putting thought to the “why”. It was decided that we would structure the cycle around the “Signature Points” on the Wild Atlantic Way in Galway and Mayo.
To Derrygimlagh
The first few hours of the cycle went well, we were moving well, keeping a high but controlled average speed. We were on very familiar roads to both of us as we pedalled south, along the shores of a mirror-calm Lough Nafohey, down to Maam Cross. We surpassed the 100 kilometres with relative ease before the 4-hour mark (up on schedule). Arriving at Derrygimlag,h we took a few minutes to read the historical significance of this site.
In June 1919, the first trans-Atlantic flight took place. Two British aviators, John Alcock and Arthur Brown, left Newfoundland aboard their modified army bomber plane and flew across the mighty ocean in just over 16 hours. They touched down at 8.40 am, not far from their intended landing spot, which was incredibly impressive given that their navigational tools had iced up in a snowstorm that they had to endure during the night.
Derrygimlagh – Killary Fjord
Taking inspiration from this adventure, we pressed on towards Cliften, our first major town. Upon our arrival we cycled right through as neither of us felt in need of supplies at this “early” stage.
We turned off the main road shortly after Cliften and spent a glorious few hours on the beautiful, quiet coastal roads north of Letterfrack. As we approached the mirror-calm Lough Fee, we could see the mighty Mweelrea (the tallest mountain in the province) just getting out of her bed of cloud which had kept her hidden all morning. The weather was forecast as being warm, clear and still, perfect conditions for a long bike ride, however, it had been misty and cool from the beginning. Our “back-up” insulation was still keeping us warm and our “pocket food” kept us fed as we descended into Leenaun at the end of the stunning Killary Fjord. Unclipping from our pedals for only the second time in almost 5 hours, we now had a look at the food options in Leenaun. Although tempting, the café had a queue and we were in no mood to be waiting around so a banana in the corner shop did the job. “Coffee at the Silver Bullet” we agreed.
Killary Fjord – Keem Bay
A few short pedal strokes later, we were approaching the Silver Bullet at Doo Lough. A much deserved Panini and Flat White was ordered and promptly consumed. 5 hours 22 minutes and 145 kilometres in, a good cycle in its own right.
There is something odd that happens in the mind when you set out on a long cycle. If, of a Saturday morning, I set out with the intention of cycling 160 kilometre,s it would feel long. Admittedly, 6 hours of cycling is long. However, if, on the same Saturday morning, I decided to do 260 kilometres, I would perhaps acknowledge the 160 kilometres milestone with a glance at my Garmin or maybe a brief coffee stop before continuing to pedal. The intention one brings to a “workout” completely dictates your mental state throughout. If I decide at the outset that I am going to complete the 260-kilometre cycle, the 160-kilometre mark is nothing but that, a mark on the journey to 260.
Intention is essential.
Departing the beloved Bullet, we continued north on continually more unfamiliar roads for me. It was starting to feel real! We tipped along nicely through Louisburgh. The roads got busier as the sun came out to play. By the time we were passing the Murrisk Croagh Patrick car park, we were in shorts and jersey, grateful for the suncream we had optimistically applied at 6 am that morning. Westport in my mind, was going to be similar to Clifden; we would cycle in and out of it and tick it off the list. However, the experience of my father shone through as we entered a bustling Westport. “I was thinking we should go to the salad bar in the Supervalu and stock up”. I did not feel hungry at this point, but given that we had done close to 200 kilometres and I hadn’t eaten much more than a panini it seemed sensible to listen to him. We took a load off, sitting on an electricity box on a busy corner, bikes propped up on a bike stand and ate a container filled with couscous, potato salad, chickpeas and leaves. I needed it more than I was aware.
From Westport to Newport and then along to Mulranny was on wide, fast, noisy N roads. We tried to do a few sections on the greenway, but the constant stopping, avoiding children on bikes who resembled newly born gazelles and an inconsistent surface made it a no-brainer to cycle on the better of two evils, the 100km/h road. It wasn’t pretty and certainly wasn’t conversational but it was fast. We spun into Mulranny a short 60 minutes later, having covered over 30 kilometres and having ticked past yet another “mark”. 200 kilometres in the books. After a short sugar break, we continued over the Achill sound, through the magnificent island of Achill, before hitting the final climb before the Keem Bay reveal. This climb was long, steep and challenging but when the view and conditions are taken into account, it was top class. Sweat dripped off my nose and caused my arms and legs to have a light shine as we crested the climb in the evening sun.
As we freewheeled, the beauty of Keem Bay presented itself. A truly awesome view. We didn’t spend much time there as there were clouds of midges. A brief paddle and splash before climbing back up the other side back towards our “bed” in Mulranny.
Keem – Downpatrick Head
We arrived at the Costcutters in Mulranny at 8.45pm, 15 minutes before it was going to close for the night. After a short scan of the town, dad found a restaurant-takeaway that was serving hot food. Score! After a hazy visit to the Costcutters we left with an armful of a variety of things, Peanut M&Ms, HobbNobbs, Crisps, a VitHit and some pastries. These would tide us over until our takeaways arrived and would get us round the dark kilometers that were looming the next morning. After what seemed like a very long 30 minutes, sitting on various benches trying to decide which area had the fewest midges as it got dark, our food arrived. Basic but blissful. Halfway through my veggie burger I turned to my Dad and said “I’m sure this isn’t good but right now it is the best burger I’ve ever had!” As we made our way through our dinner we began scanning the surroundings for a place to sleep for a few hours. After not much deliberation we agreed on two benches, beside the petrol station, on the main street.
It was now nearing 10.30pm. We had cycled 295 kilometers that day, we had 130 kilometers to do the next day, before 8.30am. Alarms were set for 1.45am.
Before we knew it we were “awake”. Quite a restless few hours but we both managed to get a bit of sleep. It seemed almost funny that we were getting up just as the town had silenced. A few distant (and not so distant) parties, gatherings and cars kept sleep at bay for much of the “night”.
Horizontal to pedaling. Punctuated only by the consumption of the pastries we had bought a few hours prior. With that, lights on, all the layers on, we left our “bench-beds” behind us and began pedalling into the night. We immediately felt the cold air bite through our layers. An unfamiliar feeling after months of warm weather riding. There was no “waking-up” period. We were awake! We moved north towards the Ballycroy National Park. As we rolled along towards Bangor over “rollers” in the road and through patches of dense mist there was a clear discrepancy in the temperature of the night air. We would spin up a short climb and heat up, only to descend into a small area of woodland shrouded in a cold mist that would bite at our fingertips. A snack stop as we turned left in Bangor was much needed. 3.48am, 324 kilometers in the legs, “sure, what else would you be doing?” The kilometers that followed were slower, colder and quieter than the hundreds that preceded them. As we crested a hill we were presented with a long straight road ahead of us. Our bike lights lit up the cat-eyes on the road and made it look as though we were coming into land on an airport runway. The constellations above us and the cat-eyes around us blended into one in my mind as we whistled through the still night.
Daybreak over Dún Briste. Following many silent hours of pedalling in the dark, the day began to show signs of life. As we completed the climb up to the Ceide Fields it was clear the sun was just about to peak over the Atlantic Ocean. Sure enough, by the time we had sent the “we are on schedule” message to my Mother (who was meeting us at the end), the top of the sun appeared. People would travel far and wide to take photographs of much worse views, and we had this one to ourselves. We observed it as it rose over the famous sea-stack Dún Briste, filling the sky with golden light and filling us with energy for the final push into Ballina. We had to make one more detour, though! A short out and back to Downpatrick Head. The left turn at the town of Ballycastle led us down a quiet country road. We spun through a sea of golden mist, and streams of new sun rays lit up the landscape around us in the most spectacular way. I will contest that this was the most incredible sunrise I have witnessed.
Arriving at Downpatrick Head, we knew the routine by now. Bikes propped against the Wild Atlantic Way sign, a photo of the bikes, a photo of us, a few calories, job done. We spun off, we made it about 300m before I dropped my banana skin on the road. I stopped, looked around, and as Dad was picking it up I noticed a school of dolphins playing in the surf. We stopped and gave them about 5 minutes of our attention. I never recalled seeing dolphins prior to this, there had to be at least ten or fifteen of them. One thing I noticed as I observed them was that they were never by themselves. They covered a large area but seemed to have organized themselves into four or five small groups. As the morning air began once again to take full advantage of our stationary state and cooled us down we managed to peel ourselves from the coastline and pedal back up the hill to Ballycastle.
Ballycastle – Ballina
The last stretch. With the promise of coffee and breakfast awaiting us in Ballina, we ticked over 400 kilometres for the trip. With what felt like a tailwind of motivation, we motored along the final stretch of National Road into the north Mayo town. The countryside slowly transitioned into suburbs and suburbs into town streets. Passing the town sign, I felt an odd collection of emotions. Deflation, excitement, love. All in one. We located the car park that marked our collection point and the end of our cycle. A hug and a chat later, we were joined by my mother, who had driven out to collect us and bring us back to the normality of our cottage in the south of the county. Not before a visit to the top-rated café in the town, though!
Intention > Optimisation
Going into this trip, I was conscious that it had the potential to be quite meaningful for the relationship between my dad and me. On a kayak paddle on Lough Mask the day prior to the trip I was thinking of all the ways I could “optimise” the experience. I could leave my phone at home, I could write out a series of deep questions that I would no doubt get the opportunity to ask as we pedalled, I could…That’s when it hit me. Is it not better to simply acknowledge that this trip is meaningful and be fully present for it? Instead of having my desire to “optimise it” be a distraction to the experience.
To be present is to be happy.
