As good as it gets

     Left Ballintoy at 8:40, seems to be about same time every morning. The first few miles got the body, particularly the legs, worked in for the days ride.  The first hour included some climbs which brought my average mph down to 8.1; that is until I reached a plateau and start my descent. The winds picked suddenly about a half mile into the coast.  Twenty-five mph crosswinds slammed into me, pushing me around like a piece of paper. It was not the first time I have experienced this dangerous condition.  Clamping  down on my breaks, the bike slowed to under fifteen mph, slow enough to control the bike. Downhill runs can exceed thirty mph but my comfort zone is under twenty-five.  In the Rockies last summer, I hit thirty-seven until I lost my nerve. The "yewt" I often rode with would ride the descents brakeless, exceeding forty-five. Not me, an accident at that speed could hurt, speed kills.  After my morning break with twenty-one miles behind me, I began one of the nicest rides I have experienced. Twenty-five glorious miles of totally flat terrain, winding along, following the coast line.  Light blue shimmering water on my left with mixture of stone and kelp shoreline to surf covered beachs with emerald green cliffs on my right. The wind was at my back the whole way. You had to be along for the ride to appreciate the splendor of it all.

      Forty-six miles brought me to Larne where I settled into a campsite.  Fixed a tear in my sleeping bag, adjusted my bar bag, cleaned up and hoofed into the city to find some dinner

and a draft.  Tomorrow, I ride into Belfast and beyond, could be tricky.  

Finally warm enough for riding shorts

      Left Derry over the Peace Bridge for pedestrians. Beautiful countryside and weather the whole way to Giants causeway.  The A2 and B17 had some tough climbs but always rewarded with long downhills. After a break on the outskirts of Coleraine (McDonnalds, no less), I headed for Bushmills (where the Irish whiskey has been made since 1605). Blew through Bushmills with my sites on Giants Causeway.  I arrived to tourist central.  A bank holiday added to the mix.  Parked the bike and walked through a tunnel incorporated into a modern granite structure. Down a narrow road for about one kilometer brought me to the geological site, very impressive including the surrounding cliffs and mountains.  Snapped the obligatory pictures with the help of passers by and headed back to my bike.  I could not help but observe how most of the tourists were sorry physical specimens of good health. Tour buses everywhere, herds of people  being hustled along.  It was though I were an alien viewing an encounter of the third kind.

      It was a wrap, fastened on the helmet and down the road I pedaled.  The seaside road I followed overlooks a beautiful shoreline of cliffs and beach bordered by lush green grazing land scattered with sheep. A fellow bicyclist caught up to me on his daily work out.  We had a great time talking away.  Peter Davidson and Richard Humphreville bonded as we rode along holding up traffic with each blind curve. He led me to a nice hostel, gave me

his address near Belfast and told me to stop by for

a night on my way through.  He has a

second house about twenty miles west of Ballintoy where I am staying for the

night.  This whole area is spectacular and I will be following this coastal road for quite a while. Tomorrow I head for Larne.

Up one mile, down one mile

   Started at 8:45 from the hostel by Mount Errigal without a cloud in the sky.  No clouds, no rain and no wind all day.

Using a bit of reverse psychology, a good day in Ireland is when it rains?  A mile into my ride, I stripped off a layer of riding gear and laid on the sunscreen. Not as strenuous as yesterday, today's climbs went up a mile followed by long downhill descents, again and again. Made it to Letterkenny in just under four hours, pathetically slow.  Summing it up, a roundabout at the top of one long climb was aptly named "Mountain top round-about". Pushed on to Derry where I packed it up for the day, forty-four miles.  There was no formal border crossing into Northern Ireland; my only clue was when the speed limit changed from Kilometers to mph. 

     At first, Derry did not impress me.  Rough looking blokes everwhere, even the two guys running the hostel. The location of the hostel is a half a block down from the Bastille looking police station, complete with high stone walls, razor wire and surveillance cameras everywhere.  The hostel door was bordered by stores with steel nighttime window grates.  All turned out well, the hostel is a nice place.

      After settling in, I had my evening pint, a little to eat and headed for the city center.  Checked out the town square complete with an old city seige wall which held the city from falling to the British during a one year seige in the mid 19th century.  Derry has undergone substance revitalization, including beautiful a pedestrian bridge serpentining across the Foyle River. It connects the city with the British fort on the other side. Made for a good walk, giving me an idea of what the city is about.  A bit rough around the edges but you can see a big effort is being made to attract tourism.

    Tomorrows I had northeast to the coast where I will be looking for a camping site.  I may even brave riding shorts.

  

Good day after a tough start

      Who made these monster hills anyways. Thirteen and a half miles of endless climbs and descents, seven mph at best.  My legs felt like cement and I had to walk up a few of the beasts.  B56 was mana from on high.  With Glencolmcille fading away, so was its gravitational pull which stunted my progress.  Thought Ardara up to Dungloe.  Found an upscale supermarket where I loaded up on basics.  Found a nook on the backside of the building where I had lunch while fighting off the no-see-ems.  The town was a decent size but the tourist office was closed and there were no hostel or campsites.  With thirty four miles clocked, I headed north in the rain in search of a hostel. Anagram had a hostel but not when I arrived.  On my Two semi elderly woman gave me directions to a hostel further north but their thick accents made the understanding part very difficult. Adding to the confusion, each one had conflicting directions.  After thanking them but not sure of my directions, I rode a few miles; there they would be checking on my progress.  This leap frogging continued for at least seven or eight miles.  Very amusing and rather a nice way of treating a tired foreign traveler. Each time they would bid me goodbye, carefully pass me, waving and rooting.  They were mothering me along, the two of them in their little red car.  What else do you do on a Saturday afternoon while hanging out with you old chum in nowheresville. Taking their direction on good faith, I miraculously found the hostel. Very nice place with an in-your-face view from my bedroom window of Errigal mountain.  Check it out, it is part of Glenveagh National park.  My room mate is a Brit, journalist and an avid cyclist. Lamenting to Tom about my struggle through the hills and overall daily progress,

he said it was the same for him. Ireland is not an easy ride; he has been doing it for years. Nice to know it is not me having issues but just part of riding this country.  

     Tomorrow I will try to ride into Noryhern Ireland through Derry, north east to the Magilligan Strand where there is a nice camping site. Long ride but I will persevere.

A day off

      It must be the weather. Rain, wind, cold, uncertainty about being in a strange land but I find my body not coping with the long distances as well. Because of the cool weather I am reluctant to stop just anywhere; chilling down in the middle of nowhere can be dangerous.  My forearms have been feeling the exertion more than my legs. All winter I worked out with my legs, not using the arm levers, instead read the news on my iPhone. Back to the arm weights.

      A bit worn down, in a nice village with a superb hostel convinced me I should shut down for a day.  I slept in, had a leisurely breakfast, hiked over to a lonely hilltop church and caught a ride over to Sleive League (where the cliffs are).  Two hours spent hiking up to the main viewing area was the hill climbing I did yesterday. Cliff, the hostel owner, who drove me there told me that hitching a ride back was easy.  Three rides as I walked along the open sheep covered hills brought me back to my hostel in less than an a view hours. The return trip included a lunch stop in Carrick. Sat down next to a woman on a sidewalk bench who seemed to be plugged into the pulse of the town.  A few teeth missing but everyone said hi to her.  Funny person: the sun came out briefly and she said to a passing student, that he should take picture of the sky so he could show his grandchildren in years to come what it once looked like here.  Add a thick Irish accent and perhaps you can visualize the quip.

       Met an older German couple and Irish fellow both cycling the country. Perhaps tomorrow on my way to Gungloe, I will ride one of them. It is refreshing to know I am not the only cyclist on the road braving the elements. The owner of the local pub (where I inbibed a few pints of Guiness) gave directions me out of town so I can avoid climbing the huge hill I flew down to the village on yesterday.  A forty-two mile ride awaits tomorrow including some challenging climbs

. The scenery will continue to be a show stopper. Onward.

From Donegal west to the Atlantic

       Eighteen miles out of Donegal I finally exited N56 to the less travelled 263.  Less traffic but the climbs became more frequent and intense.  Grinding up a long hill, sweating profusely followed by a long downhill run, chilling down to a hypothermic level.   I drove through several towns including Killybegs, a large fishing port, without a break fearing that if I cooled off I would have hard time warming up again. Thirty-four miles along landed me in Glencolmcille (Gleann Cholm Cille in Gaelic). How it sounds does not remotely sound like it is spelled. The hostel there is a dream, my own room with a bath for twenty Euro.  After the usual clean up and nap, I had a Smithwicks at the local pub.  Talked with a few locals who insisted I share their take out.  The town is idyllically located between the cliffs but not remotely touristy, my type of place.  

       What goes down must go up, so tomorrow is a rest day to prepare for the climb to extract myself from this valley. Tomorrow, the sites,  will see the highest cliffs in Europe and the local sites in town.

National secondary roads are not for amateurs

      The orange flag jutting out horizontally from my bike is a life saver.  The vast majority of drivers give me plenty of berth; the flag keeps the inconsiderate ones from getting too close.  Starting off on N56 had little on the way of shoulders so it took steel nerves to fight for space in the lane.  The shoulders eventually widened but the noise was constant; my ear buds from my Bluetooth headset helped out.  Shortly after leaving Sligo, I arrived at the church where William Butler Yeats is buried.  An majestic church out in the countryl, not Catholic as I thought but Presbyterian I believe.  His father was the minister.  Anyways, it was a nice visit even though over run by tour buses.

    Along the way a cyclist out for a spin caught up with me and hung with me for several miles. Retired cop, nice guy and the first cyclist to join me.  The terrain was easy enough but I was pretty wasted by the time I reached Donegal.  Once again a nice town with lots of history but fallen victim to the tourist industry. Earlier today the town was shut down to traffic while Prince Charles paid a visit.  Poor guy, he would probably do anything to sneak away and be a regular guy.  Security 24/7 must be a total drag.  His uncle, Lord Mountbatten was blown up just a short ways away.  Perhaps, Charles was paying his respects. 

      After visiting the local tourist information center and getting the lay of the land, I checked into a nice hostel one kilometer out of town.  I cleaned up, napped and walked into town for the evening.  After casing the place, snapping  a few shots of the castle and monument to the four masters, I had dinner at a nice hotel dead center of town. The bartender gave me a lesson in Irish Whiskeys, the high end stuff is a precious commodity. 

        Tomorrow I head west for the Atlantic to Malin More where there are more gorgeous cliffs.  For about eighteen miles I will suffer N56 before transitioning to a rural road. Maybe I will find a hostel but camping by the sea is a

decent option. 

Who said Ireland was an easy ride?

   Ballina to Sligo the scenic way, well my idea of scenic is small hills, mostly downhill. Today, I felt like I was climbing the Rockies as I climbed over a mountain pass.  The mind set is everything, if you are geared for the mountains ahead of time, you don't mind so much.  But today, I had to do a rapid mindset reboot to deal with the climbs. People drive cars, they are clueless about what a bicyclist must endure.  Motorcycle dudes think they are tough, Not!  Bicyclists are the tough ones, we climb mountains and still can laugh about it.

      All things considered, the ride was pleasant, especially on the really back back roads which are narrow, winding and totally void of cars. You can ride in the middle of the road taking in the beauty of the country side, looking at the old stone house, talking to the sheep, horses and cows and sing out loud the tunes on my headset. Ireland is so green and a great percentage of it is void of trees. The whole scene is so idyllic.  One backroad to another wove me into Sligo. A nice city that wasn't too touristy or cute.  I landed a nice hostel, cleaned up, caught some zzzz's and walked two hundred meters down the road to a restaurant/ pub where I had another delicious dinner. 

    In a room with four beds, a young French guy, Bastien, 27, is the only person sharing the room. He cruised in on his motorcycle totally tricked out in his riding gear, very European. So happens he is an IT guy. Now he is trying to get my GoPro working.  Electronics is way over rated and even I have a pocket on one of my bags to carry all the cords, battery, headset, etc..  Madness!

      Tomorrow, I follow the coast, pass Yeats' burial plot on my way to Donegal.

Slow but steady progress, one crank at a time, smelling the roses as I go.