And when it all makes sense

A great race – The Traders’ Cup back in the day

Driving to Dundalk in his van, Dylan Rafter and myself were in good form. We were supposed to ride the Shay Elliott to support Brian Lennon that morning, but an injury had ruled him out. Without too much debate, the two of us quickly opted for the Traders’ Cup instead, writes Andy Lakes.

Feeling more nervous than usual and in an effort to confront my inner demons, I suggested that we go from the gun. Dylan agreed. Singletons that we were, the pair of us had taken some time off work for training and only a few days earlier did a lovely 100-miler (which included a nice chowder in Aughrim). Dylan actually did 100 miles while I only managed 98 miles. With typical dedication, he cycled a few loops near home to get to the magical figure. We had been training well and felt fit. Shay Elliott’s loss was Dundalk’s gain.

Sure enough, rolling out of the carpark at the start of four 15-mile laps, I made my way to the front of the bunch. The minute the flag dropped, I attacked. Dylan, who had been chatting with one of the lads, excused himself and set off after me. About 20 riders in total made it into our break and we set off at quite a gallop. We got ourselves organised and rode hard. At one stage, I was spinning out due to our high speed and an agreeable tailwind.

What quickly became apparent was Dylan’s strength. He was riding very strongly and could effortlessly cover any moves, but he still made sure I didn’t get too carried away and encouraged me to keep refueling. At one stage there was a small break, but he didn’t ride until he was sure I could get across. In fact, he dropped back and gave me a helpful push to help me close that final gap.

With about 40 miles gone, the pace went up again. A pal from the BH racing team was fading, but his final effort was to help me close another gap before dropping out. As the race entered its final lap, we made a number of efforts to get away. We broke with a chap from one of the northern clubs. The three of us worked well but were brought back by a concerted effort from our breakaway companions.

Once we were caught, Dylan sat on the front with me on his wheel. He dug deep and pulled away. One metre quickly became two and he rapidly surged ahead. A few riders tried to close him down, but I diligently sat on the wheel of each attacker to upset any momentum in the group. If the truth be told, Dylan was more powerful than the rest of us combined and kept increasing his lead. Covering for him made me feel like I was contributing.

We thundered into Dundalk for the finish, and I’ll never forget the thrill and joy of seeing his distant figure raising his arms in victory. It was fantastic.

Still buzzing, I led out the sprint for second. I was worn out at this stage and lads kept flying past me. Fully realising I wasn’t going to be in the prizes, I decided to let my companions know I wasn’t even trying (which I was!). I sat up and raised my arms in salute to the deserving winner. I was so tired that I’m amazed I didn’t cause a pile-up as I trundled across the line. Our 60-mile breakaway was a tremendous success.

Dylan got his points to move up to first category that day and went on to much bigger and better things. I took the chat show, public appearance route and gradually faded into obscurity and bitterness. I’ve had some fantastic days on the bike, but that day stands out as one of the very best.