In which Cycles makes an imaginary enemy

I slept last night with my knees drawn close to my chest, my legs twitching, trying to pedal. I dreamt of rolling hills and a phantom triathlete on a giant Giant orange bike. I catch him on every climb, he drops me on every descent. Each time he passes he reaches awkwardly yet eerily to shift and then powers away. Never a word between us as through a night of misty rain we exchange this pointless lead.

I awoke to the realisation that, having willed it, it was no dream. No dream but my life for 40 kilometres the day before. Kilbride. Oldcourt. Ballyknockan. Hollywood. Just the two of us and the occasional quickly passed straggler. On and on. Once I shouted. "Yes, you're faster than me! But not on the hills! Not on the hills!" But I shouted when he was in the distance and kept my peace when we met on the next incline. Out of respect.

The brief descent to Donard meant my triathlete was not in sight when I turned into the town. I stopped at the checkpoint. He did not. And now, despite the dreaming and the waking, I'm not entirely sure that my skinsuited adversary was real.

Practise makes perfect misery

Friday? Glorious sunshine. Saturday? Ditto. How's about Monday? Well, what do you know, once again a stellar body will be splitting the proverbial canopy. But Sunday? Or tomorrow, as the cool kids are calling it? As it happens, when Cycles and 1999 others roll out for a lengthy and climby day in the saddle it's going to lash, it's going to take a slash., and it's going to go all purple rain. Woo bleedin' hoo.

Clearly I am more than slightly unhappy about this development, however there is an upside of sorts. It justifies all the stupid riding in obscene weather conditions that I've done in the last few months. The insanity of Good Friday is made meaningful. The snowy 6am commute too. Even last week's downpouring now has a retroactive purpose. Of course none of these excursions topped the two hour mark and tomorrow's rolling time will most likely be in excess of seven. So now that I think about it, all those rainy rides were completely pointless and I am looking down the barrel of a shotgun full of miserable wetness, extreme extremity numbness and potentially fatal descents. If the organisers can only find a way to add some mud, my Stage 7 Giro fantasy will be complete.

In which Cycles is faced with three options but a single choice

Although as yet unfitted on my new bicycle and still mentally unprepared for the exertions that await this Sunday, I am choosing to focus my energies on a much more pressing question, viz, just how super cool can I look as I ascend Slieve Mann? And thus I present you with three bicycling jersey options (as modelled by my First Born) and ask that you take a moment to register your vote in the sidebar and should you so wish, your reasoning in the comment section.

Option 1: Boards.ie

A present from a most generous (and mildly famous) spin participant, this boards.ie jersey causes people to shout 'Boardsie!' at one in the street and to ask questions like 'What's your handle?' and 'Do you know Lumen?'

The colour 'brings out' my eyes, but like the first born I will most likely be wearing shades.

Option 2: Nuclear devastation.

This jersey doesn't really know what it wants to be. Is it anti- pollution? Pro holocaust? The words 'Nuke 'em' written down the side and a skull and crossbones motif across the back pockets suggest the latter. These pockets are also annoyingly tight, but don't let that affect your vote. I care not one whit for comfort or convenience. I just want to look like a badass.

Option 3: Almost retro Pro Tour

My first ever bicycle jersey from the team that became Caisse D'Epargne. Once worn by Alejandro Valverde, which doubtless lends it something of the bad boy if not bad ass, and a mere five years old which may not quite allow it qualify as retro, this is still a Pro Tour top and Pro Tour tops should really only be worn by pro riders or complete losers. I am, I hope not, yet hope, neither.

Thank you for your time and vote.

In which Cycles listens to Dylan's 'Slow Train Coming' while opening his bike box

My top is in indeed very fragile. The grin is one of anticipation and well, fear. Would the bicycle be intact ? Would I be capable of putting the handlebars on? Would I, in fact, be worthy?

There's my leg at Killakee car park, being worthy. I am aware that there are many, many problems with this photo. You can't see the bike. I should have spent at least a day on a sun bed before inflicting said leg upon my four readers. And the picture was snapped by an axe murder. Really. Or he certainly looked, sounded and acted like an axe murder. He had stopped at the car park to have a quick smoke before continuing on about his dismembered body secreting activities and we fell into conversation as I took stock of the magnificent climbing experience that my latest ride had provided. He was then kind enough to not steal my phone or gut me. So very kind.

Marcin the Magnificent will fit me tonight and I intend taking the inadvisable step of making the first proper ride on my first proper carbon fibre bicycle 200 kilometres of Wicklowness. Will Cycles tweak a knee? Herniate a disc? Break a face? All will be revealed.

In which Cycles dreams of chasing the chubby

There's Bert now, the big fatso, storming his way to another accidental victory. While I share the venerable Shane Stoke's concerns that Alberto has been eating all the pies, I remain confident that, given that the Dauphiné is plenty hillsome, there is no one in a field of also cycleds capable of taking this one from the squeaky Spaniard. I mostly look forward to the Alpe d'Huez stage of next Saturday as it will be the first time I will watch a pro race up that particular incline in the knowledge that I too will soon tackle its bumps. I may not dance up the switchbacks like Alberto, but I can at least follow slowly in his wheel spins, running a Sean Kelly commentary in my head.

July 20 - 24. Cycles Goff hits des Alpes.

Riding in a full body puddle

Difficult to see but it is truly bucketing down here as Newbie Phil pulls in to the meeting point, wryly smiling. Hoping for a postponement text that never came, he later sent me this:

Which sounds a lot saucier that I suspect he intended.

Just 60k for the day plus a fairly full on spin class and I have shedified all the bikes in my determination to begin a taper for next Sunday's Wicklow 200. Just the 20k commute and a single class tomorrow. My legs are already humming their misguided gratitude.

Just another ride

119 today. Mostly climbing and full of incident. I love this game. Today I loved the view at the top of Howth at 7am. I loved that guy on the ancient Colnago who accompanied me up the Stocking Lane climb. I loved passing the SUV with its waving little girls as I dropped at 71kmh into Tallaght. I especially loved the triathlete who refused to return my 'Hi' as I passed him on the back way up to Sally Gap. Triathletes, huh? No matter how many times you drop them they still maintain their air of innate superiority.

Easy day tomorrow. About 80 probably, 50 with a newbie from spin. And then I'll teach spin. Newbie's not coming.