A few weeks back, the call went out to enter the Ras Maigheo two-day cycle race. Most of us hadn’t raced in over ten years—some had never even ridden a stage race. So, why did we sign up? Two reasons: First, two fathers in our group wanted to race with their sons while they still could. And as the saying goes, misery loves company. Second, we heard the race was struggling to get numbers. With eight of us signing up, we hoped to help.
Now, cycle racing isn’t like entering a marathon, an Ironman, or a leisurely sportive. It’s a different beast.
Cycle racing explained: you need to be tough, hard, and unpitying. It requires great sacrifice. As Jean de Gribaldy once put it: “One plays football, or tennis, or hockey. One doesn’t play at cycling.”
- You need a Cycling Ireland license.
- You’re assigned a race category.
- Good bike-handling skills are essential.
- Your bunch-riding skills need to be sharp.
- You need a need for speed—race pace can hit 80kph.
- You must be able to suffer; a lineout at 60kph in a crosswind is agony beyond words.
- You must be prepared to ride three stages in 28 hours.
- Your recovery powers need to be exceptional.
- You need to eat like a horse.
- You must have the resilience of a honey badger.
And so, with perhaps more enthusiasm than sense, we—Raceface—lined up. We’re a rare breed, a collection of old men who exceled in different codes from various clubs around Connacht who thrive on punishing challenges. Climbing mountains one week, tackling 300k gravel events the next, or toeing the line for ultra-long road races. Some of us even dabble in extreme marathons like the Marathon des Sables. A few are eyeing an Atlantic rowing challenge. Are there egos in the group? Absolutely. But that only adds to the post-race craic. Our motto? “Do it while we can.”
Racing the West
Charging through the wild roads of West Mayo and Connemara was an experience like no other. The local club, Westport Covey Wheelers, ran a slick operation—everything on point, a true showcase of cycle racing in Ireland. Nearly all the top riders in the country turned up. And the winds? Relentless. No hiding, no shelter, just pure, raw suffering as we played chess on two wheels.
So, how did a bunch of lads well into their armchair years fare against the semi-pros? Predictably, we got our arses handed to us—but in the nicest way possible. The organizers were kind enough to give us a small handicap at the start of the road stages. That meant we got to enjoy a few brief moments of hope before the real racers arrived and reality hit like a sledgehammer. 50, 60, even 70kph on the flats—it felt like Ras Tailteann speeds. Before long, most of us found ourselves in the Gruppetto, embracing our fate. Our wily manager John Halloran another ex pat promised us a few sticky bottles if we needed them, but for whatever reason it seemed to skip his mind leaving us to fend for ourselves…
The Dads did their Dad thing—rode like dogs to stay ahead—but their kids still flew past them with the kind of effortless power that makes you question your life choices.
Then came the time trial, the “race of truth.” It gave us a chance to dust off old TT bikes that hadn’t seen daylight in years. There’s nowhere to hide in a time trial—just you, your bike, and the clock. It’s a brutal but strangely beautiful discipline.
Stage racing is rare in Ireland, and experiencing it on our doorstep, battling through the rugged West of Ireland roads against the country’s rising stars? That was special. We got to rub shoulders with a future champion, and, who knows, maybe we inspired a few other old-timers to dig out their race licenses. Some told us they wouldn’t have bothered entering if not for us—and they had a blast.
As we rolled across the final finish line, battered but beaming, a thought crossed my mind: “Tis no country for old men.”
So, What’s Next?
All we can say is: watch this space. And remember—“Do it while you can.”
Final overall results after 3 stages:
