LIMAVADY is a hot bed for cricket and for cricketers.
The town XI is one of the best in the country and its young proponents of the willow bashing sport are excelling, particularly in the Limavady Grammar School in the Under 13 and Under 14 teams.
When a cricketer scores 100 it's called a century and he waves his bat triumphantly in the air. Of course cricket is not the only sport that features centuries. The Americans for years have been calling a really long trip on a bike a century ride -100 miles.
For some obscure reason last week I decided I was going to do 100 miles on my bike. I had a free day on the Saturday, I wasn't organising or commentating on any races. I had no trips planned, I was in the country, so it was all systems go. When I looked at my diary however, I saw I had two or three 60 + mile trips earlier in the season and on all of them I was muffled up with enough layers to take on the Antarctic. This trip however promised to be much different weather wise as the met office was confidently predicting 23 degrees centigrade plus. There was only one problem, there was to be a strong South/South East wind.
On the Friday night I thought I would prepare properly for the next day and lay my kit out, then I went to have a look at my steed in the garage to discover to my horror that I had a flat tyre! As I am one of the world's worst bike teckies, the prospect of having to change a puncture filled me with dread. I've had enough bad memories of punctures ever since getting five on my first ever Ironman race. I think biking is hard enough without having to stop, usually in the freezing cold and try and prise a tyre an unforgiving rim with the equivalent of a plastic spoon, with numb fingers and bad language.
I decided to time myself - and only thirteen sweaty, oily, minutes later I ended up with one brand new spanking tube on my back wheel. I felt inordinately proud of myself. I then realised I had no spares for the planned ride so I popped down to my good friend and neighbour William O'Kane who promptly gave me two. I asked William if he was free in the morning but he said he had planned a long run. I was sad in way but also relieved in another I wouldn't have to try and go at anyone else's pace, I could just plod along in my own wee world.
I thought of how many 100 mile bike rides I had ever done. There were my 9 Ironman finishes of course (112 miles) and then there were all the MaraCycle rides from Belfast to Dublin and back the next day. Several thousand cyclists would head South at break neck speed – well at least until Lisburn, then there was a lunch stop at Dundalk and always fabulous tea and sandwiches at Balbriggan. If the 'wind gods' were with you, you would be at the RDS in Dublin for about half two or three in the afternoon ready for a shower and then off to 'paint the town red'....
The next morning there were several thousand stupendous hangovers trying to work out what way you actually got on a bike and we were never sure what hurt most – our backsides or our heads. If you were unlucky with the weather you ended up doing 200 miles into a head wind usually in the rain. One year we had the wind with us both ways and you felt your middle name was Lance.

Wonderful feeling

There is a wonderful feeling of belonging when you are in a train of about 60 cyclists strung out two wide as you gobble the miles up greedily way above your normal average speed. The MaraCycle was moved from the Dublin to Belfast route when there were two participants killed by a lunatic driver, a spot I had passed just 30 minutes previously. When I thought about it I had never actually accomplished a solo 100 mile bike ride, still there is always a first? I dug up my IPod/Phone and it wasn't working for some reason on Saturday morning. It told me I could only make emergency calls on it. Mind you this is the day when I probably would need to make an emergency call saying "help – please come and collect what's left of me!"
When you plan a bike ride you work out which way the wind blows and head that way. So it was up the Ringsend Road into Garvagh then Kilrea then Portglenone then a 10 minute climb up towards Ahogill then I detoured to see what used to be my home for 18 formative years near Gracehill. It just looked the same and it sure brought a lump to my throat. Soon I was in Ballymena, then headed North for Cullybackey. I had planned a coffee stop there but wasn't sure if I could understand the natives so I ploughed onto Ballymoney where I now had the benefit of a tail wind and my average speed started to increase again.

Sprint Triathlon

I tore through Dunloy on the course that we used to use for the Sprint Triathlon in Ballymoney and I thought I was on home turf.
I decided my coffee break would be at the Joey Dunlop Leisure Centre where the staff are so friendly. When I dismounted I took my helmet off and it was if there was a river running off my head, boy it was hot! A quick cappuccino and two scones were exceedingly welcome. The computer told me 51 miles done – half way there already!
The wind was still behind me towards Coleraine on the back road through Macfin and Mountsandle before I had to get back onto the main road and head over the by-pass to Bushmills. Ireland's most famous Whisky town was completely covered with tourists, not surprisingly, due to the weather and a driver nearly cleaned me as she came out of a parking bay. A quick evasive manoeuvre on my part left me still me in one piece.
I made it to the Giant's Causeway then turned and realised that the wind direction seemed to have shifted – or maybe I was just tired! 71 miles done, 29 to go. The wee miniature train at Portballintrae looked really appealing, much more so than some of the dress sense I had seen in the last 70 miles.
What is it about the Northern Ireland male trying to dress for Summer that grates so much? The women make an effort and Bruce Springsteen's song "Girls in their Summer clothes" could have been written with our Northern Ireland ladies in mind, but as for the guys.... Our effort at dressing for Summer still seems to consist of an acrylic track suit in gharish colours fetchingly topped off with a loud baseball cap and let us not forget the ubiquitous piece of chewing gum. Paula Reed, where are you when we need you! Fashionistas of the World Unite!
Soon I was trundling past the majestic ruins of the Dunluce Castle and feeling just about as old as them. Then I saw about 40 surfers at the White Rocks beach near Portrush on a hot, hot day in the cool, cool water. As the sweat dripped off my helmet it looked very tempting. I was then into Portrush, up the hill, past the house of Ireland's greatest Triathlete and Duathlete, (Anne Paul in case you have to ask) into Portstewart where the Prom just looked chaotic. It's a great feeling to be able to overtake cars and indeed motor bikes in the middle of the Promenade, but believe it or not there is nasty climb out of Portstewart or at least it's nasty when you have got 80 miles in under trained legs.
When I came over the new Bridge when I came into Coleraine I started to get the knock with hunger and thirst and I realised I hadn't eaten enough or drunk enough. I resolved to climb up to Wilson's garage (proud sponsors of our British Home Nations Champions many years previously – I only stop and spend my money with places which are in some way connected to the Triangle Club!) but would I make it? I was so hungry I started to hallucinate – I had visions I was an athlete – how foolish was that! I staggered into Wilsons where a large cold lucozade and a chicken sandwich were wolfed down. I then sprawled on top of an air conditioning unit at the back of the garage. I was killing two birds with one stone, not only was I getting in much needed carbs and fluid but I was also detangling my back which had been bunched over handle bars over the last 5 ½ hours. As there were no chiropractors on call at Wilsons, I thought that lying down sprackled in the sun was the next best thing, but I knew this was a false dawn and that I wasn't home yet, so I steeled my resolve, polished off the last of the sandwich and set off once more.
When the teeth have to be gritted, you need a mixture of the impetuousness of youth and the impatience of middle age (who am I kidding? If I am middle aged I would need to live to I'm 102!) I headed South towards Ringsend into the teeth of the wind before veering off East up the Quarry Road.

Rural Idyll

I have never liked this road at the best of times, it promises to give us 400 lorries a day shortly as Limavady Borough Council and Coleraine Borough Council want to dump the waste of several Counties in the middle of a beautiful rural idyll. They don't give a cookie about the wishes of the local inhabitants, but today all I was concerned about was getting to the top of this blasted four mile long hill.
I told myself when I left that I would average 16 miles an hour and when I glanced at my speedo I saw that it had slumped to 15.8 MPH so I gave it Dixie on the last major effort for the 2.8 miles of downhill left to me. Soon I was hitting 35 miles an hour and the numbers went up to 15.9. Only half a mile to go before I had to break and turn sharp left for the sanctity and safety of home – then 16.0 appeared on the dial. Eureka! Unlike U2, "I Had Found What I Was Looking For" and unlike the Stones, "I Can Always Get What I Want...."
A warm shower and cold beer awaited but first there was a trip to the bathroom scales which showed 73.9 Kilos – yippee, I wanted to shed some excess weight (Lose Weight Now – Ask Me How – Ride a 100 miles in 23 centigrade and lose 2Kgs.) As I lay in the sun content with my days work I listened on my radio to one of the stupidest ever questions I had ever heard about my beloved sport.
The presenter on Saturday Sports was asking the North West's Triathlon Star Aileen Morrison about her fantastic rise at the World Rankings (22nd in the World Cup Race in Korea) there weeks previously and the interviewer asked "Is putting on the wet suit a timed part of the competition?" Oh dear Lord give me strength. There was also the usual anon dying questions "Gosh, Swimming AND Cycling AND Running – is that not awfully tiring?" Oh come on guys, it's an Olympic Sport, and no endurance event is ever easy, be it Marathon running (which actually lasts longer than our Triathlon) or Sailing or Boxing or Canoeing etc. When are we going to break into the main stream? I read in the Observer Sports Monthly magazine on Sunday that Triathlon is "The World's fastest growing sport" Well, it that's true it's about time our friends in the media "Saw the Light" and did a wee bit of research on our sport. Maybe they just want to focus on ball sports?
I decided to rest on Sunday but dragged young Hannah Jack for an hour's hike round the Springwell Forest as part of her Duke of Ed training. I made sure of course that she was carrying the heavy rucksack. It's all for her own good! So when I filled in my training diary for the week I realised I had biked 170 miles in the previous 8 days taking part in two races, I had three runs, two swims, shifted some weights and I clocked up nearly 14 hours. When a cricketer scores a Century he waves his bat in the air – I can tell you when I made it back to Ruskey Lodge I certainly was in no fit state to wave my bike in the air.