EMMA SOMERSis in week three of her triathlon training programme. As National Bike Week gets underway, she explores the city on two wheels in the early morning, and considers investing in some "go-faster" neoprene
A LAMINATED, handlebar-mounted, colour-coded flipchart of swear words. This is an idea I planned to patent around the time I first started cycling in Dublin. It was before the Port Tunnel took the trucks off the road, when a part-time job in a bookies in East Wall meant a treacherous commute from the city centre most evenings. Thankfully, the tension on the quays has abated somewhat since then, but most cyclists in Dublin will tell you they still feel the hate from passing drivers burn through their Sam Browns at rush hour.
And that’s not to mention the potholes, the pedestrians and the higgledy-piggledy “cycle lanes”. And the other bloody cyclists. When it comes to commuting in the capital, everyone is agreed: four wheels good, two wheels bad.
Unless, that is, it’s 7am on a sunny Sunday morning. It’s a hideous hour to contemplate doing anything productive, which is why it’s such a treat to hop on the bike and see where the wind takes you (although beware: it will be in your face most of the way home). There’s nothing to do except take over the streets and take in the view.
The coast is too tempting to resist, and when you’ve nowhere to be, what harm is a stunning sea view to keep you company? Fairview without the usual chaos is a ghostly prelude to the cycle track along the water through Clontarf, Dollymount, Raheny and out to the strand to feel the cold sand between your toes and greet the odd dog walker. To the south, Ringsend and Irishtown are just as peaceful before the mass-goers have even wet the tea. All is quiet enough on the coast road out to Blackrock for a cheeky cycle along the track at Sandymount, passing a walk of shame here and a group of teenage goths there, out with a few beers to greet the morning sun, the irony apparently lost on them.
The highs and lows of Howth Head are the next challenge before the triathlon proper, but it’s a relief to find a 20km cycle comes easily, albeit at a gentle pace. More haste, less speed and all that.
And getting home by nine bells with the day’s training done before the house has stirred, there’s nothing for it but a slap-up breakfast, a read of the paper and back to bed for a well-earned snooze.
Dublin, you ride.
WHAT DOES IT COST?
This triathlon lark can become an expensive business, if you let it. Having nearly had a coronary at the price of some of the tri-suits for sale in Dublin – neoprene is more valuable than gold, it seems – a read of the small print brought the palpitations under control. The slicker the suit, the faster you cut through the water. After that, it’s all about the transitions: sea to saddle, peddle to pavement.
Given the closest I’ll ever get to Usain Bolt or Michael Phelps is mild amusement at the former’s intelligible Tweets and mild nausea reading about the latter’s training diet, none of this is likely to make much difference to my amateur form on the day.
Time is money in this sport, so I’ll return to the wisdom of Anto Howard in his book Slow Dublin and savour Old Man rather than race against him. That said, the neoprene will have to make an appearance lest I plan on squelching over the finishing line. Surf shops around the city have wetsuits for hire from about €30, and there are tri-suits available to buy from about €70. Let the chaffing begin.
READERS RECOMMEND: ONE TO TRY
Gordan Woulfe recommends running in Three Rock forest park at the back of Lamb’s Cross in Ticknock: “Within minutes of starting you are viewing the Dublin mountains,” he writes, “and it seems like you’re miles from anywhere. If you are lucky you might see a deer on the path in front of you.”
If you have any suggestions to make about Emma Somers’s training programme, send them to: esomers@irishtimes.com. See also Twitter.com/auldtriathlete
