Crossing the Alps on a mountain bike wouldn't be everyone's idea of a holiday, but Paul Cullenand a pal rose to the challenge and completed a gruelling 450km trip from Bavaria to Italy
I know Hannibal did it on an elephant and smugglers have been sneaking across these passes for centuries, but what on earth am I doing here crossing the Alps on two wheels with my entire luggage in a rucksack on my back?
There's plenty of time to ponder the question as I toil each day at the pedals, battling gravity to gain height. Or when, defeated by the incline, I dismount and continue the journey by foot, my stride growing ever shorter as the slope gets steeper. Between mops of my brow, I can even try to find an answer in those sections where the terrain is so rocky that the only option is to throw the bike up on my back.
But the laws of physics say that what goes up must come down, I know that. Relief is only as far away as the brow of this hill, or the next. All the same, it does seem a trifle odd to struggle up a 1,000-metre vertical climb - the height of Carrauntoohil - and then, after the quickest of peeks at the surrounding scenery, career down the other side.
Paddy Kavanagh thought Monaghan was stony but he'd obviously never seen the Alps at close quarters. We're talking rivers of gravel here, a pavement of scree moving under my wheels at every pull of the brake. Faster, faster, says my bike - slower, slower, says my head, as I try to hold my wheels back from their race to the bottom.
Sometimes, the gravel runs out and is replaced by rocky stretches that threaten to puncture or buckle my wheels, or grassy paths with cunningly hidden tree roots which can send you sliding sideways into a ditch. My thigh muscles ache from the strain of standing out of the saddle in the crudest form of self-suspension. There are streams to ford, herds of Alpine cattle to pass through and the occasional motorway on stilts that we pass under.
There is method in my madness, mind you. When my friend Paul first suggested, way back last January, that I might like to join him in an off-road biking trip travelling southwards from his home in Munich, he had one big selling point. Sun. Lots of it, guaranteed, he promised, at least once we get to Italy.
So here I am, somewhere on the Austrian-Italian border in early September, and I can't see my hand in front of me. We're about 2,000 metres up, and barely able to discern the track. A light snow is falling and my hands are ready to drop off with incipient frostbite.
There's an old barracks where misfortunate soldiers were sent to guard the border during the first World War, but today the only sign of life is an angry farmer aggrieved at the presence of mountain-bikers on his land.
We drop down into the valley on the Italian side and the weather gets even worse. The next day, we awake to 20cm of snow and there is no question of ascending again to 2,600 metres as we had planned. A detour on the roads is called for, along slushy highways filled with families returning from their Mediterranean holidays, but still the sun refuses to shine.
Something else in these parts is untypical of Italy. German language and culture still holds sway here in Sud Tirol (Alto Adige in Italian) even if the cuisine is, inevitably, more mixed. Cafes play endless loops of Tyrolean folk music that sets your teeth on edge and even the cows wear patterned leather belts around their necks.
In Ireland mountain-biking is a booming sport, but few Irish, let alone Brits, venture over here to attempt a Transalp. Everyone we meet is German-speaking, not surprisingly given that the only guidebooks available are in German. These lycra-clad warriors ride the swishest of bikes, full suspension models kitted out with high-tech components and onboard computers, and they carry the bare minimum of supplies - seven kilos is regarded as quite enough to carry on your back for the trip.
That means you bring the clothes you wear on the bike, and a spare set, and not much else. Just like Sean Kelly in his Tour de France days, I spend my evenings washing out a pair of cycling shorts and hoping they will be dry by morning - there the comparison ends.
Not that we roughed it by any means. One of the joys of Alpine travel is the plentiful supply of decent, comfortable and affordable accommodation, whether in family-run pensions or opulent but out-of-season ski hotels. For prices, think of an Irish tariff, then halve it. Food is equally cheap - €5 for a delicious spag bol - meals always taste nicer when you've cycled 100 kilometres to avail of them - or €2.50 for a hearty apple strudel.
By the end of our week, we've cycled maybe 450 kilometres and climbed more than 10,000 vertical metres - that's higher than Everest. We've knocked off eight passes over 2,000 metres and suffered two punctures - you try changing a tyre in a snow storm.
Our journey has taken us past classic Sound of Music landscapes filled with lush fields and grazing animals, past countless chalets with nary a flowerbox out of place and up through the arid wastelands of the upper Alps. Staying well away from cars and what I call SCC (so-called civilisation) we discover the true heart of the Alps, one made up of small communities facing an uncertain rural future with undimmed pride. There isn't a scrap of litter to be seen in Germany and Austria, and hardly any in Italy.
And yes the sun does come out in the end - as we ascend to the rock pinnacles of the Dolomites in the Puster valley before freewheeling out of the mountains and taking the train from the town of Bressanone back to where we started.
We travelled from Lenggries in Bavaria to the Drei Zinnen in northern Italy, but there are countless different routes through the Alps that can be followed. As mentioned, most of the available information on transalpine trips by bike is published in German; however, some English-language guidance is available at www.transalp.info/english