Tan Lines in Ireland

A bus, a plane, a taxi, a train, a taxi, and we reached Oughterard, the start of our 7-day cycling tour. We carried nothing but a backpack and a couple of plastic bags, just enough to fill the panniers of our rented bicycles. Fortunately, we’d left our camping gear back in FoCo, so we had a good excuse to hit the sack at B & B s rather than tent it.

Day 1 on the bike proved a bit of a wake-up call as we pedaled toward toward the Aran Islands. We’d clocked in for some cardio at the Bristol gym in the months preceeding the trip, and purchased – albeit with hesitation – a pair of obligatory cycling shorts, yet neither was enough to stave off the discomfort that accompanies 6 waking hours of sitting on a bike. Andjie would later suggest that we hadn’t put in enough ass time, which I’m assured is a technical term. Casey said we’d need time to develop our calluses. They were both right.

The next day was a breeze. And by that, I mean that we hit a headwind. We cycled across Inishmore to Dun Aengus, the site of a prehistoric monument atop a 90 meter escarpment. We watched people crawl to the edge of the cliff free of guard rails and peer at the merciless depths below. Seated near the edge of the abyss, I had an overarching fear that a synapse would misfire and I’d decide to jump.

Day 3 involved a slog across the bog road to Clifden. Cycling along a road free of cars, pepped up on adrenaline goofballs, we discussed our next potential cycle destination: Vermont. Just hours later we ran into a guy wearing a “Bike Vermont” t-shirt. Fate had intervened, so we accosted the man, and only minutes later Casey discovered he knew him.

Day 4 began like any other cycle day, with Casey eating two full Irish breakfasts and me loading up on soda bread. He is Protein Boy, and I am a Carboyhyrate Girl – together we are the Nutrition Wonder Twins.

By Day 5 we’d acquired a couple of braces for Casey’s spavigned knees, just in time for the 47 mile cycle to Leeane, a wee little town situated at the edge of a fjord. We held up at the Convent, an old – um, er - convent with spectacular views of the water.

By Day 6, we had developed bizzare tan lines on our hands (from the gloves) and ankles (from the socks). Our legs looked like partially dipped Easter eggs. How strange it was, for we encountered little sun along the way. Instead our days were filled with wonderfully overcast and melancholy weather, much different from the oppressive orb that beats down upon Colorado.

Day 7 brought our trip to a close, and the swift realization that in 24 hours we’d be home in the US. We took one final spin on our bikes, passing Patrick Crough, Ireland’s holiest mountain. We stopped at the National Famine Memorial across the road and were gutted by its simple beauty - skeletons holding on to a “coffin ship” during the famine period. Within 3 years, 1 million Irish died, and 1 million emigrated Ireland. Hard to imagine the potato as a key historical figure.

Goodbye, Emerald Isle. Thanks for sharing the road.