Ireland’s west coast is among the most beautiful places to ride – when you can see it. Cyclist digs in for a fast, soggy sportive

Words Peter Stuart Photography Geoff WauGh

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the detailsRide the Emerald Isle

What Skoda Tour de ConamaraWhere Connemara, IrelandNext One Saturday 24th May 2014Distance Choice of an 80km route or 140km route with 579m ascent. Price €45 (€40 with Cycling Ireland racing licence)Sign-up details tourdeconamara.com

is a day for the washing, not the drying,’ says the

smiling receptionist as I leave the Station House

Hotel in Clifden to head to the start of today’s ride through Ireland’s

emerald realm of Connemara. She’s not wrong, it’s raining pitchforks.

Yesterday was my first experience of the country. We arrived to a cloudless sky

and I could hardly contain my awe at the beauty of the west of Ireland, and particularly the rugged scenery of the Connemara region. As we neared the coast, I was eagerly awaiting riding in the sunshine through an unspoilt natural landscape.

No such luck. I push my bike out into mist and rain, and curse the knowledge that only 50 miles away in Galway they are apparently enjoying one of the finest days of the year. But as I’m soon to discover, there’s more to Connemara’s charm than a spate of rain can undo.

Lure of the BadgerThe Tour de Conamara (Irish spelling) kicks off from a car park in central Clifden, on Ireland’s Atlantic coast, where 3,000 riders are huddling in the rain, with the crowd snaking back through the town’s roads. At the front of the group is the main attraction of the day – five-time Tour de France champion Bernard Hinault.

‘He’s come for the fishing,’ explains event organiser Mark O’Connell. ‘The last few years we’ve put him up in Zetland House, which is great for fishing, and he’s been quite content to spend all of his time here on the lakes.’ The Badger is evidently a piscivore.

I manage to squeeze my way through to him at the very front of the horde, desperate for a word with one of my heroes, but quickly I gather

Right: Bernard Hinault looks happy enough on the start line, but

he doesn’t put up with the conditions for long

‘It’s not long before the rain proves too much for Hinault, who switches onto the main road to head home’

that Hinault is as French as they come and he doesn’t speak a word of English. Regardless, the Irish riders throw compliments his way at full volume, which he meets with a slightly puzzled acquiescence. I manage a brief exchange of my own in some pidgin French, along the lines of il fait pleut and c’est tres mal.

Despite the furore, Hinault’s in very good spirits and as the starting whistle goes, everyone is jostling for a place on his wheel.

The huddle of riders quickly separates into club groups and packs of riders on matching steel vintage frames. It’s testament to the event being aimed more at ‘love of the ride’ types than pure speedsters. O’Connell explains, ‘We see this as a relaxed and friendly event, and that’s one of the reasons we don’t do official timing. For those that want to treat it as a race, there’s Strava segments set up throughout.’

As we roll away from the start I get talking to a group of riders struggling for some air time with Hinault. They are from Gas Pipes Touring Club – united through their shared love of steel Colnagos – and one member, Kev, tells me, ‘We come every year. The course is fast and f***ing beautiful. Shame about the weather.’ The Gas Pipes team is one of many to have signed up for tomorrow’s team time-trial, which covers 40km and is offered to all participants of the sportive.

The pack starts to string out, and I sprint ahead to stay warm. Heading south, we skirt along coastal roads and cross over Salt Lake. It’s not long before the rain proves too much for Hinault, who switches onto the main road to head back home.

With around 130km left and no sign of a let-up in the weather, I decide that it may be better to get things tied up quickly. I see a fellow English rider, Henry, who I spoke to last night, P

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The Venge Comp was launched as an entry-level solution to owning Cav’s bike. For this excursion we thought it a good opportunity to experiment with the spec, swapping out the wheels for an aero set more befitting the frame. The Venge proved to be blisteringly quick thanks to its aero profiling and stiff layup, but what it gives in speed it takes away in comfort. On the Irish roads I suffered the very first saddle sore of my cycling life, but that was a small price to pay for the speed and

handling precision offered by the Venge. It also garnered a lot of attention from fellow riders – even amongst the vintage beauties all around. The 105 groupset is solid but lacks the smoothness and precision of its pricier brethren, and it would be the next logical upgrade after the wheelset. For those looking for a long-term, upgrade-hungry partner with the ability to pitch itself against the very raciest of rival brands, the Venge Comp is an ideal choice.

the rider’s rideSpecialized Venge Comp, from £2,500, specialized.co.uk

shoot ahead alongside a black-clad Cervélo rider, so I sprint to catch the back of them, with a Parlee rider called Chris following on my wheel. And so the pain begins.

We have completely abandoned the ‘relaxed’ aspect of the event and before we know it we’ve lost sight of anyone behind us, although the thickening fog is as much to blame as our speed. Chris quickly grows tired of the antisocial speeds and settles back to the pursuing group, leaving the three of us to push on. Given the unsustainable pace we’re maintaining, though, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing him again.

The first 20km skirts predominantly along the coast, and as patches of fog clear we’re briefly given a glimpse of some craggy rocks and quaint white farmhouses that separate us from the vast Atlantic Ocean on our right. A few rays of light pierce through the fog and bounce off the water, making for a view that compensates momentarily for my soggy state. But between holding desperately onto Henry’s wheel and navigating the inconsistent roads there isn’t much time to appreciate the scenery.

Irish roads have a reputation for being heavy and potholed. Route planner Padraic Quinn said to me that morning before we took to the road, ‘Be wary, because four hours of cycling here is worth five hours anywhere else.’ It’s not that the roads are badly maintained (if you discount a stretch in Ballyconneely where pointing to potholes becomes futile in what seems like a minefield) but they have a harsher surface to

Despite being further from the coast, there is still precious little shelter to be found on the plains of the more inland sections

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hovering around the 20kmh mark when we had been comfortably above 30 before. ‘It’s a hill that you can’t see,’ responds Cyril in a thick Irish accent. At this point, Henry, who has been leading the charge, starts to drop behind us. ‘I’ve popped,’ he confesses, and instructs us to shoot on ahead. So now we are two.

The invisible hills continue, and coupled with the heartbreaking transition from tailwind to headwind, I’m increasingly seeking shelter on Cyril’s back wheel.

I feel completely drained. My lack of food and chills from the tube change seem to be brewing the perfect storm of a bonk.

A long, fast descent leads inexorably to another shallow climb. I’m finding it increasing difficult to match Cyril’s speed, and it feels like I’m pumping on wooden quads. Salvation comes in the form of another puncture. I’ve never been so happy to hear the hiss of air from a tyre.

I pull over and shout to Cyril that I’ve flatted while motioning to him that he should continue without me. I try to look suitably frustrated at my dire luck, but it’s wasted. Cyril doesn’t even look round as he pounds on the pedals and disappears into the distance.

The slow way backDespite taking a full ten minutes to replace my inner, I am still completely alone on the road (I’d been rather hoping that the next pack would have caught up by now). I climb back on and ride directly into yet another gruelling low incline out of Leenaun and onto a road that skirts along an inlet of water. My early attempts at heroics have left me drained, so I plod along and make more effort to appreciate the scenery, which has revealed itself from the earlier mist. As I gaze at the ocean and the ragged backdrop of mountains, I content myself with the thought that if I had to ride anywhere in the rain, I’d rather it was in the wild beauty of Connemara than on a scary Alpine pass.

Just as I’m pontificating, the silence is interrupted by the noise of an engine as Geoff,

‘My lack of food and chills from the tube change have brewed the perfect storm of a bonk’

them. Aboard my ultra-stiff Specialized Venge I’m really starting to feel the resonance.

Another factor that saps energy is the winding nature of the Irish roads. They’re narrow and incredibly technical – reminiscent of a tight criterium race. The event claims to have only 579m of climbing, yet the constant rolling and twisting of the roads means I’m forever braking then sprinting back up to speed to keep pace with the others.

After 25km we pass through the village of Roundstone where supporters are already lining the road, peeking through hefty waterproofs and umbrellas, and we get a couple of encouraging cheers. It’s a first for me to be at the very front of an event, so I savour the meagre cheers and secretly pretend I’m leading out a Spring Classic.

A break in the fog allows us to appreciate the scenery as we begin to roll away from the coast and toward lumpy plains. Connemara is characterised by a mixture of wild colours, with yellow shrubs and barren red marshes creating sharp contrasts with the green of the fields and grey of the crags. Occasionally we spy one of the region’s famous Connemara ponies, a breed

that is said to have swam to shore from sunken Spanish Armada ships in the 16th century.

As we pass the 50km mark we reach the route’s first feed station – a town hall filled with a wide variety of fruit, food and energy drink. It also offers some well-needed indoor relief from the rain, but unfortunately my small breakaway of riders shows no desire to slow down, so I pass up the luxury of sustenance and we plough on. The sensation of pins and needles is starting to spread through my limbs.

Heading back toward Connemara’s more lake-bound territory I’m struck by lady misfortune, as I hear the air hissing violently out of my front tyre. Remarkably, the other two agree to stop and wait, and while I waste seven or eight minutes of our hard-earned lead, I learn that our black-clad companion is called Cyril. After fumbling with a valve extender and a spare inner tube, I manage to get back to action. Painfully aware that I’ve set everyone back by a significant chunk of time, I get to the front and put in a sizeable turn.

It’s not long before we’re into vast wild fields with not a sign of civilisation to be found. I comment that my speed reading seems to be

Above: The hostile weather merely enhances the drama of the rugged landscape. (Repeat this mantra for the next 100km)

Above right: After going all out at the start, Pete battles the bonk

Above centre: The lure of the food station is compelling

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our photographer for the day, rolls alongside on the back of a motorbike. ‘Gosh, you’re really steaming along aren’t you!’ he laughs, poking fun at my increasingly stagnant speed. ‘I’d watch out, there’s a grupetto on the way,’ he says as he speeds ahead to get some shots of the coastal road. True enough, the pack of riders we left behind some 100km ago has evidently judged its pace better, and are efficiently chaining back to me.

They roll up and quiz me on the location of any riders out front. Despite the non-competitive nature of the event, it’s clear that there are still many riders with an interest in crossing the line first. Chris, who we left behind at the 20km mark, meets me with a jovial expression, and gives me a push to get me back into the middle of the group.

We skirt along Kylemore Lough, one of the most picturesque points of the day. Across the water it’s clear enough to make out Kylemore Abbey, an 18th century monastery set into the mountains. With the tranquil setting thoroughly at odds with my shrieking muscular pain, I decide to let the group go. There are only about 20km left, but it might as well be 200.

how we got there Wind your own way to Connemara

TravelThe nearest airport to Connemara is Shannon, unless you have a private jet small enough to fly into Galway airport. Aer Lingus flies from London for around £100. From there the best way to travel to Clifden (start and end point of the Tour de Conamara) is car rental, as local buses and trains are available but scarce. Alternatively, take a ferry to Dublin and drive to Clifden.

accommodaTionThe ride begins from the Station House Hotel, which makes it a great place to stay. It’s the largest hotel in Clifden, and is as cycling-friendly as they come – taking no issue with in-bedroom bike storage. The rooms are spacious and the food is plentiful. The accompanying pub also makes for some excellent après-velo.

ThanksMany thanks to Mark O’Connell and Padraic Quinn, organisers of the event, for a stunning route and for taking every step to accommodate all competitors. Quinn also runs a clothing company, Velotec, which provides excellent branded kit for the event.

The course only features 579m of climbing, but with weary legs the final undulations are tough

‘With the tranquil setting totally at odds with my shrieking muscular pain, I let the group go’

The remainder of the course features a slightly downhill undulation for almost 15km followed by a nasty little ramp of about 30 metres. Hauling myself to the top, I see the 5km sign and begin to find some comfort as I make my way through the cruisers of the 80km route. We pass the marshy beaches of the westerly shore once again, and take in the beautiful vistas from the Sky Road.

As I pull into the finish at the Station House Hotel I’m in an animalistic hunt-and-gather state, but realise I don’t have the cash to buy myself some much-needed food. Chris sees my pain and hands me a fiver (I later make amends at the bar). I walk over to the burger stand, buy the biggest burger on offer and inhale it in a matter of seconds as the world comes flooding back to me.

Despite the rain and my fatigue, I know that Connemara will be a region that I look back on fondly. Its unique, spindly roads and untouched scenery have made for one of the most dramatic and distinct rides I’ve ever done. And, considering my wasted state, I couldn’t be happier that it’s lacking a mountain or two. Peter Stuart is staff writer for Cyclist and has only two speeds: full-gas and stop

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