Colm O'Regan: I have made my debut as one of 'those' weirdos on the road

The neck of Google Maps sending me up an angry hoor of a road, though

I did it! For the first time in decades I cycled an Irish country road. 

Not a greenway, not a picturesque tourist loop. A road between places. From Mallow to Dripsey. 39km. 

I commuted, like your grandfather did when he went to the county final in 1945. The R619. A road, as I have mentioned here before, that makes no allowances for others. A classic R-Road. One that is layered over the landscape like a ribbon on a blanket, with 80km/h speed limits that are hilarious in places.

First I had to get out of Mallow. Whatever way I went, Google Maps was insisting I take the "N20 Ramp to Cork." The Limerick Cork Road. 

“In 500 metres, make a U-turn." 

“I will in my shite, Google Maps,” I said. “I am not going onto that angry hoor of a road.”

It's uphill out of Mallow. I was ‘aware’ of that before. Now I feel it. I can’t find the meaning of the high halfway point Bweeng, but it better be the Irish for ‘Well done Colm, you made it.' 

Crossing the line and collecting my King of the Mountains points, I half expected a lunatic Tour de France fan in underpants to run — okay walk — alongside me.

The surface of a rural road is not the same as that of a street. It’s tar and chips which gives you that slight growl as you cycle along. It’s the equivalent of vinyl while tarmac is digital.

If that’s the case it was an Old 78’ that proved to be my downfall near New Tipperary. I decided to listen to Google Maps for once. It said to bypass the steep hill out of New Tipperary. I had mixed feelings. New Tipperary is the promised land, where you can be free to have whatever religion you want, not like the oppression of Old Tipperary.

But the suggested road had recently laid loose chippings. Dada always said it would be a great name for a band. But it’s not great as a cycling surface. 

Apart from the shrapnel from oncoming cars and the schnaky piles of gravel at the margins, there must have been one renegade sharp loose chip. The back tyre exploded. SNAP! I felt like I’d torn a muscle. The tyre was tubeless. I had the kit for tubes only.

During everyone's lifetime, a little bit of humiliation must be endured. Luckily, very few people were on the road to notice me travelling the last 10km into the village of my birth, on what was left of the tyre. Marking my speed on the frequency of the thunk-thunk of the valve as it hit the ground.

But whatever speed I was doing, drivers were way more courteous than I expected. They waited until it was safe to pass and gave me a wide berth. I waved to say thanks. 

Normal driving shouldn’t be praiseworthy but I know how much I LIVE for getting a wave when I’m driving. 

The man in the bike shop in Mallow where I bought my spare tube promised me that drivers around would be sound, before going on to mention places they are not. (DM me for deets.)

There was one nob with italicised number plates who roared past too close but I heard him coming a mile off because of his apparent inability to go above second gear.

Blown tyre or no, I have now made my debut as one of 'those' weirdos on the road. A rural cyclist. 

I met two others on the road. Not ambling on a tourist route or racing on a Sunday. Just going somewhere. 

Hopefully, as time goes on there will be more, with legs and arms and some with batteries. Look out for us. Take it handy. We’re a bit round the bend.