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That Irish Bike Ride - Part One

Travel // Jim // 24th July 2009

Sunday

I haven’t had much sleep, no breakfast and I’m about as nervous as a man doing the scores at a blind darts competition. Then the pain in my chest starts, pretty much as soon as I get in the car – my arms haven’t gone numb and I can still breathe. Seems I have managed to pull a muscle somewhere between my shower and the back of Ray’s (CEO of mask-arade.com) car. “Right”, says Gary, clapping his hands together and exuding more enthusiasm than I will ever manage at five am, “lets get cracking”.

We are off to cycle from the very top of Ireland, Malin Head down to the furthest south westerly point, Mizen Head. A six-day challenge that seemed like such a good idea in the pub a few months back. Now it feels like a bad idea, a very bad idea indeed. In fact on the metric scale of bad ideas it is probably up there with doing a Sammy Davis Jr. tribute act at a Ku Klux Klan convention or masturbating with wire wool.

We’ve been training for about four months, three of which I spent on the wagon, an abstinence which appears to have improved my physical wellbeing and appearance by somewhere between fuck-all and absolutely fuck-all. In fact I somehow weigh more now than when we started – there has been a lot of talk by kindly people about muscle mass and the like but basically I am the same dodgy looking, portly man but with an even bigger arse and comedy thighs – essentially I have become a Weeble, albeit a Weeble that somehow still has the ability to fall over, especially when on a bike.

After blasting up the motorway, we are at a service station where it takes about an hour to get a coffee and they seem to be playing all Gary’s favourite songs – it’s a Queen/Pink Floyd/Erasure sonic assault, even the people who work there look confused, but I’m guessing that they look confused for the majority of the time. The fact that Ray is handing out flyers for his various business ventures may not be helping.

Somehow once we are back on the road it dawns on us that we are going to struggle to get to the ferry on time. Ray floors it through Wales to the extent that the bikes trail at a near perpendicular angle from the back of his motor. Despite such Mad Max manoeuvres we are indeed just late for the ferry. Despite the heart-string tugging entreaties of Mr Harvey “We really are doing a charity bike ride for terminally ill kids”, the hard faced woman behind the counter isn’t having any of it, especially when Ray tries to sell her fifteen heavily discounted bracelets. I pass over my switch card – the pain in my chest momentarily forgotten as I bite hard on my bottom lip, cursing the economic weakness of the pound.

There are some nice comfy seats on the boat, but we ain’t allowed anywhere them, we have to sit in the bit that looks like Macdonalds crossed with Primark. The prices aren’t particularly primark-esque however – the breakfast sitting in front of me that seems to consist of rubber and dessicated scabs was about fifteen euro (no I don’t know why it isn’t a plural) - which in English money at this point is about fifty quid.

We find some comedy-sized sweets that render Ray and Gary hobbit-sized in perspective and decide that this would probably be a good time to buy a map. Yes, that’s right, we haven’t brought a map with us. Ray rolls his eyes so hard it actually makes a noise.

Thereafter we study the map and have the first of many similar discussions that will take place over the next week:
Gary (pointing to some location near the equator): “I reckon we can get down to there on day one.”
Me (pointing to a location about five miles from where we are starting): “Err, I reckon that looks like a better bet.”
Gary: “But if we crack on I reckon we can do this in four days rather than six”
Me: “I don’t want to die doing this though”
Gary (pointing to somewhere in South America): “Noooo, it’ll be fine, look lets try to get to this point here”
Ray (Comedy Oirish Accent): “You’se two fecking eejits, so-ye-are.”

Gary is driving us up through the emerald Isle while Ray has a little rest and has us chuckling at his stream of consciousness, comedic commentary as we plough along. It is like James Joyce crossed with Mrs Doyle out of Father Ted.

So far I have observed two key points about Ireland, firstly it is raining in that manner which makes you want to rush to a pet shop and ask for two of everything. Secondly in defiance of the rules of geography, physics and general fair play, every direction appears to be uphill, even backwards.

Fast-forward a couple of hours and we are up to the Northern-most peninsula, nearing our destination, the sun is shining and the scenery is spectacular. The first section of the ride tomorrow looks fantastic: A long coastal lane with the sun shimmering across the bay. Spirits (even mine) are raised, especially when we arrive at the homely Malin Head Hostel and find that there is a holistic aromatherapy room. That’ll come in handy later no doubt.

Head back to Malin itself and into the Malin hotel for food, which is absolutely marvellous, Guiness which is sublimely creamy and gawping at the very nice waitress with the highly confusing accent.

Head into the nearest pub to the hostel which has an array of comedy locals, who might be friendly or aggro, we really can’t tell. One of them says something about Coventry and is then sick on the floor. His mate immediately produces a mop and bucket, then starts to clean up. I get the impression that this is not the first time he has had to do this, in fact it seems like it may not be the first time this evening.

We wedge in next to the blazing fire, Gary is having have a chat with some English chaps, turns out they are here to cycle down to Mizen Head, what a coincidence so are we. These chaps do this sort of thing all the time, one of them has just done Lands End to John O’Groats armed with nothing but a compass and a tent. I ask him a question, “Are you doing the ride as well as well?”, he asks back
“I’m not. Ha Ha Ha. I’m just driving. Would you like to buy a watch?” chips in Ray.
“Err, yeah” I eventually respond
“Have you done much training?”, he enquires evaluating my less than athletic potential.
“Err, yeah” I continue, like some sort of teenager.
“Well, make sure you have plenty of stops”, he says looking like he wants to genuflect.

Back to the hostel and somehow I wrangle the double bed, while Gary and Ray have a who’s going on top? type discussion over the bunk beds.

Just as I am drifting off to sleep, a lorry crashes through the hostel wall and loudly revs its engine right next to my head. Oh no, my mistake its just the start of Ray’s snoring. Fortunately I’ve brought some of those expanding foam earplugs, I scrunch them up and slip them in my ears. The thunder-like, mucus-enhanced yell of doom slowly starts to subside, just as the last bit of noise slips in as the plugs seal me off from the waking world I am sure I can hear Gary saying “Oh Ray. You have got to be joking”. Sleep well.

QUICK NOTE: we decided to keep scores for the places we stayed, using exacting and precise methods to calculate the relative merits of each place for the following vital categories:

Our collected scores for staying in Malin:
Food: 8/10
Barmaids: 5/10
Guinness: 7.459494/10
Level Of Craic: 45/90
Accommodation: 6.5/10
Locale: 8/10

Monday

Turns Out the balmy sunshine of yesterday evening was a trick - a cruel, cruel trick. We take leave of the hostel into conditions best described simply as cold and damp, but not quite raining.

Following an accident prone few months, the chaps have insisted that I wear a cycle helmet for the duration of the jaunt, something I never usually bother with, so I have plenty of fun adjusting it so my comedy ears fit through the straps while the others get the bikes off the car and the realisation that we are actually going to start trying to cycle all the way down Ireland kicks in. I feel a bit sick.

Preliminary photos done and dusted we set off down the road. Despite the weather the first little stretch down to Malin is really quite pleasant, we take a couple of quick snaps by the bay, then plough on through Malin to the relative metropolis of Carndonagh, which has a nifty, yet potentially confusing library/gym. We see the chaps we met in the pub have already stopped for a bite to eat – we wave hello, they point and laugh.
We’ve planned to cross over the hills to the coastal road in order to stop off for a late breakfast in the quaintly named town of Muff. Well, we couldn’t resist it really.

Leaving Carndonagh we settle into a long steady climb, made all the more fun by the pissing rainstorm that has just kicked in joined helpfully by a marvellous headwind. This is he first real test of my newly purchased bright blue waterproof cycling jacket. My usual cycling gear of dodgy t-shirt/iffy hoody would be absolutely saturated by now. On the other hand I wouldn’t look like a grumpy smurf.

Some bloke in a van has just missed me by about a millimetre while going past at about a hundred miles an hour, but at least he was so close that I didn’t get splashed, well the outside of my shorts didn’t get splashed.

It is bucketing down as we pause in a lay-bye for a quick mini mars bar, Ray appears in the car looking dry and smug. He’s just been walking round on the coast picking up semi-precious stones – yes, really. He pins a mask-arade flyer to a nearby tree and speeds off eagerly in the direction of Muff. Despite the weather that joke isn’t getting old just yet.

Excitingly the long old windy climb gives way to a thrilling bit of downhill action to the thrillingly named Quigley’s Point, then it’s onto the coastal road less thrillingly named R238.

We are too cold and wet to bother with the antics we had planned for photos by the “Welcome To Muff”, heading straight into a café for a late breakfast. Having eaten a bacon roll and admired the interesting decorative choices of the proprietor we ask the gentleman in question the best way to head to Letterkenny which after exhaustive navigational discussion we have decided should be our next waypoint.

The elderly café owner talks in a rambling manner for about three minutes on the subject of “a big road” and somewhere nearby called Bridge End. We get the impression he has probably never left Muff in his life, so to speak.
Ray asks if there is anywhere near where he would be able to purchase a mobile phone charger – our man has a think and replies “Northern Ireland”. Right.

Half an hour later and we are enjoying better weather and the marvellous view of the hilly terrain that we covered this morning. We are also well on the way to being lost. The wind is picking up to gale levels as we scoot into a petrol station to get some directions. A drunken man on a mountain bike is caught in a gust so severe that he is blown off his bike although judging by the state of him it was, quite literally, an accident waiting to happen.

We scoot along the busy, but rapid N13 looking for a turning that a nice lady in the petrol station told us about, look its even got a little picture of a bike on the sign, it has to be the right way. Hooray – this is all going rather well isn’t it?

Forty minutes later and we’ve been going up a very steep gravely road for forty minutes, I am struggling and may well be sick sometime soon, hang on - here are some blokes in a range rover looking dodgy and reading porn mags. Surely they’ll tell us which way to go, without taking the piss and trying to send us in the wrong direction. Then again…

A load more uphill grunting from me and we reach a point where we realise that there isn’t any more uphill to go. All the other hills seem to be below us now , even the radio masts are lower than us. The view is tremendous, although it would be easier to enjoy it if we had a single fucking clue where we were. A deeply confused motorist gives us what he thinks might be directions to the main road before we set off on an extended odyssey of brake testing descents and nasty climbing until we finally arrive at some tarmac with lines painted on it.

The lady in this petrol station can’t believe we want to try and get to Stranorlar from wherever it is we are at the moment. When we say where we started from she looks like she might faint – which is how I feel too. The chap running the forecourt gives us some rapid yet seemingly trustworthy directions that are going to send us all over the bleedin’ place to get back on the right road but have a homely ring of incredibly sweary authenticity to them.
For the next couple of hours we grind through a load of interesting sounding towns and villages trying to head in the general direction of Convoy and Raphoe.

This strong wind really isn’t helping at all though, it saps all the energy and momentum out of my legs and denies us the chance to have a free wheeling rest on any slightly downhill sections. Given this unhappy state of affairs I start to moan quite a lot, Gary puts up with this patiently for a while before finally snapping “I don’t mind you moaning Jim,” he starts calmly, “but I HAD NOTICED THE FUCKING WIND AS WELL ACTUALLY.” I feel thoroughly chastised and decide to moan about something else.

A pattern that seems to be emerging as we make our merry way through county Donegal is that it is fairly barren but with the occasional profusion of bloody massive houses in the middle of nowhere. For some reason, the logic of which deserts me immediately we decide that these must be the out of town residences of Irish crime bosses and stockbrokers.

We’ve made it to Raphoe when Gary suddenly pulls up, jumps off his bike and looks for all the world as if he is going to keel over. “I don’t feel very well,” he states in a bleedingly obvious manner. Could this be the dreaded “Bonking” that we have heard so much about? Time for some sugary snacks and a quick chat with a friendly chap in a bike shop to work out where we should be going.

I decide to buy some tyre levers as I forgot to bring any. Back on the road five minutes later the god of sensible bicycle maintenance rewards me for this bit of foresight by making my chain fall off when changing gear. I yelp at Gary for assistance and then after coasting to a stop completely forget that my feet are clipped to the pedals and have a slow motion accident into a grass verge.

Eventually we end up meeting Ray somewhere on the road between Convoy and Stranorlar – that’s enough for today. We decide to head for Ballybofey as from Ray’s advance recon of the area it seems like the best bet.

Straight into Bonners Corner Bar for a much needed pint of Guinness from a strangely English barman. Suppose we better find somewhere to stay. Gary heads off and negotiates us a room in the plush sounding Villa Rose Hotel at what seems a very reasonable rate indeed. The reasonableness of the rate is explained when we get to the room and there are only two beds. There follows a quick round of negotiations where the main point seems to be that no-one wants to share a bed with Ray and his potentially lethal snoring. Looks like Gary and I will be sharing – oh god I hope that graffiti about him in the toilets at work is only a joke. For some reason I swear I can hear banjo music.

Showered and hungry we head out into the Ballybofey evening and into a pub across the road. There is an amazingly tidy barmaid in this abandoned drinking hole. After some introductory banter she fixes me with a bit of a look and says “You’re going to just be awkward aren’t you?” Gary and Ray are most amused. Then for some reason she is singing a song to us “Where you in B*Witched?” I ask, strangely she doesn’t find it all that funny. As we leave, I am clearly told that I ruined everyone’s chances with that inadvisable comment. “Hmmm yes Ray, because up ‘til then she was all over you wasn’t she?”

Dive in to a place that the slightly annoyed ingénue recommended called Heeney’s to look for some food, we are directed to the back end of the bar where two dirty kids are methodically vandalising a fag machine, it’s a really sweet scene. Have a quick flick through the menu which is either one of the funniest things I have ever read, or one of the most profoundly disturbing. “It’s fifteen quid for a fucking omelette in here” Gasps Ray, as pale as an albino Polar Bear. We leg it before the miserable looking proprietor comes back to take our order.

Now we’ve ended up in possibly strangest Chinese restaurant ever conceived. The décor in the China Tower is somewhere between a lap-dancing bar and a gay bond villains hideout – assuming that the bond villain had too much money and was colour blind. I tell the waitress about the lap-dancing aspect - Gary and Ray wince, but it turns out she has a sense of humour and is also intrigued by the idea of earning more money.

The portions of food are absolutely fucking enormous, I’m not entirely sure what mine is but it has more onions in it than a convention of comedic French impersonators. I ask for chopsticks and cause enormous confusion, I finally get some when we leave.

In the rain we slope in to a pub with a nice fire and a nice landlady who puts the football on for us, we have a couple of drinks as the game segues into ridiculously one sided documentary about Roy Keane, at one point it is virtually suggested that Haaland was actually trying to injure Roy’s studs with his shin.

All thoughts of an extended night out are put paid to by a feeling of immense fatigue. So back to the Villa Rose then where I position myself as far away from Gary as I can without falling on the floor. Ray has actually started snoring in the middle of a sentence. I reach for the earplugs and try to get to sleep, although for some reason I’m sure can hear banjo music once again. Why would I want to squeal like a pig Gary? I don’t understand. Oh my god the rumours were true after all. AAaaarrggghhhh.

Our collected scores for staying in Ballybofey:
Food: 3.5/10
Barmaids: 7.5/10
Guinness: 3.3 (recurring)/10
Level Of Craic: 1.6 (recurring)/90
Accommodation: 1.7/10
Locale: 5/10