My perfect bike ride starts in Maghera – in a car.
First, I head to the bottom of the town for Stephen Downey. Stephen is ready. He always is.
Then it’s over the road for Craig Gibson. Craig is ready too. The man was born ready.
Craig’s now living in Vancouver Island, Canada with Harry and Meghan. We miss him. But no matter. He’ll be back.
Bikes loaded. We’re ready to go. But first, we stop. Takeaway cappuccinos. It’s tradition.
We hit the road. Destination: Dunloy. We’re going to the Glens.
At the staggered crossroads in Dunloy, we see Adrian McGregor is already in the car park.
We pull up beside his spotless blue van. Philip McGuigan rides up from his house.
As we set off, it’s downcast and grey. I feel the same way. I never enjoy the start of a bike ride, even my perfect bike ride.
On the way to Orra, the first climb of the day, we meet Niall O’Hagan on the road.
It’s still cold. Niall isn’t wearing gloves. Niall doesn’t wear gloves. This never ceases to amaze me.
Niall will already be full of chat. Some men just have to see a bicycle to be happy. Niall is one of those men. His energy lifts me.
When we first started coming over to Dunloy, we used to always ride Torr Head.
The late Noel McIlfatrick was on those rides and he helped with our induction to the Glens. Noel was such a great fella. A true bike lover. He was a founding member of Dunloy Cycling Club. Noel died unexpectedly last May after what was supposed to be a routine heart operation.
The first time we went over Torr, we had no idea of the horror that awaited us.
Noel was coaxing big John O’Connor over the series of climbs. Noel was about 10 stone. John was closer to 16. Noel was chatting away, barely out of breath, encouraging John to keep going.
John was a study of physical torment, head bowed over the handlebars, a steady drip of sweat bouncing off his front tyre.
Having managed to heave himself over yet another exhausting climb, John was close to breaking point.
It was then that Noel breezily informed him: “That’s great John. You’re halfway.”
John pulled the brakes and stepped off the bike.
After Orra, we do Gault’s Road.
There are three long climbs out of Cushendall. Gault’s Road is one of them. It’s the least picturesque of the three. But it’s a great training road.
Because of its steady gradient, cyclists use it to conduct their 20-minute threshold test.
Thankfully today, we’re not doing the test. We’re just going to ‘tap it out’.
At the top, we always wait on Philip (okay, that’s a joke) before descending into Cushendall.
Like the Glens, Cushendall feels entirely dislocated from the rest of the North. It’s a place apart. Just over 20 miles from Larne, it might as well be in a different universe.
By the time we head out of Cushendall under the arch towards Waterfoot, my mood has transformed. The air. The sea. The mountains. It’s all here.
I’m coasting along now and my legs are feeling strong (well, it is my perfect bike ride).
The last climb is majestic. Glenariffe. The Queen of the Glens. Five miles of natural splendour – and a waterfall.
There is some division among Derry and Antrim cyclists over their respective mountain ranges. Both parties lay claim to having the prettiest girlfriend.
I agree with Philip McGuigan’s stance on this thorny issue. Philip says the Glens are the Alps (long, steady climbs) and the Sperrins are the Pyrenees (shorter with steeper gradients).
As with brunettes and blondes, there’s no need to have a preference.
From the top of Glenariffe, we begin the journey for home.
The adrenaline kicks in now and it’s fast and furious all the way downhill towards Martinstown.
This is when Adrian McGregor comes into his own. McGregor is part man, part motorbike.
He can go up Gault’s Road well inside 20 minutes. A really strong bike racer, Adrian hits the front for this stretch of road and we gratefully tuck in behind, all of us strung out in single file, whizzing along.
Now, you’re flying. Now, you’re fully alive.
Clough. Cloughmills. Over the dual carriageway. Dunloy.
And finally, the best part of the day: Pappy’s.
After a three-and-a-half-hour bike ride on a cold, spring morning, Pappy’s is absolute paradise.
It’s always packed on a Saturday. But this morning, just as we stagger through the door, the group sitting on our favourite seats get up to leave.
I get my spot. The corner. Back to the wall.
One of the waitresses takes our order. It doesn’t matter what you get. It will taste great.
Depending on the scales and mood, it will be poached eggs and toast, an omelette, or a fry. Today, it’s a fry with a pot of tea.
Then, as we’re cyclists, we start poring over the stats. Strava. Training Peaks. Average power. KOMs. The blue line.
Data analysis completed. Fry finished. Niall O’Hagan suggests buns. I agree. We get a plate of pastries.
Oh, I do love Pappy’s.
Then, more stories, more slagging, more bragging. And it will go on, and on, and on.
Now, we are no longer in Pappy’s, or Dunloy, or the Glens of Antrim.
We are in a world of our own.
And it is perfect.
