Last Friday somewhere on the road between Garvagh and Macosquin, as violent gusts of wind were blowing my bike all over the road, a line by Little Bill Daggett entered my head.
"I don't deserve this… to die like this," says Little Bill before William Munny puts a bullet in him.
Like Little Bill, I didn't want to die. And I really didn't want to die on the road to Macosquin.
And yes, I'll admit it. It was a mistake. I shouldn't have been on the bike at all. The night before, the weather forecast predicted a northerly wind of 20mph. While unpleasant, a 20mph headwind is manageable.
Then, the next morning on UTV Frank Mitchell said it was definitely a day to stay indoors, but Frank didn't go into specifics. I just assumed Frank was referring to the general population - not me.
Anyway, as I rode towards Swatragh, the thought struck me that the wind seemed a little stronger than 20mph. I was practically crawling. 'No matter, push on to Garvagh,' I urged myself.
Maghera to Garvagh normally takes about half an hour. Last Friday it took me 45 minutes. That's when I knew that Frank was right. I should have stayed inside. Turns out it was a 40mph wind.
Shaken by the ferocity of the gusts, I decided to get off the main road and head for Macosquin.
You'll not know where Macosquin is. Only people who live in Macosquin know where it is.
And it was while I was out there, being buffeted and battered on the Boleran Road, that I had my Little Bill moment. That's how rough the weather was.
Why do I do it? Why ride a bike on a day you wouldn't put out a milk bottle? I used to ask myself that question a lot. No more. Today, I understand.
The Irish champion marathon runner Stephen Scullion put it brilliantly in a tweet he posted last month.
Scullion wrote: "There is no luck in running, great results aren't lucky. We earn great results, repetition of little details, recovery, form, nutrition, training camps, gym, physio, psychology, cross training etc. Week after week, month after month, often tedious until it's beautiful."
The last line, "often tedious until it's beautiful," is truly poetic, both in its resonance and profundity.
It applies to anyone involved in competitive sport. The fact is, if you want to experience those exhilarating moments that linger for a lifetime, then you must embrace and endure the tedium of training.
There is no other way. There are no shortcuts. And that's why I do it. The bike racing season starts in 12 weeks' time. Anyone who wants to enjoy a good spring must first endure a hard winter. Those are the rules.
However, there is a wider question which I have often asked myself and the answer has largely eluded me.
The question is: why am I like this? None of the rest of my family suffers from the same affliction.
When our gym opened five years ago, my late uncle Pat Heaney, visiting from Canada, called to see me. Pat would have been in his seventies at the time.
As he surveyed the racks and weights, Pat said to me: "You know, this is the first time in my life I've been in a gym."
Once asked if he walked a lot, Pat replied: "Only to places I can't drive."
My father was a bit more active than his brother. He was in a gym – once. While working in the Shetland Islands, Charlie and his great friend, Peter Friel decided to go for a workout. I'm told they went at it with extreme gusto. They did a bit of everything – weights, treadmill, bike, rowing machine – the lot. The next morning neither of the boys could move. That was the early 1980s. There is no record of either man being in a gym since.
My mother's side share possibly even less enthusiasm for gyms and training. However, my mother has always insisted that I am like my grandfather, Frank Gillen, originally from near Greencastle in Co Tyrone.
My grandfather's sister had a son, Dan McCrea, a fishing fanatic. Also born and raised near the banks of the Owenkillew River, Dan wrote a fishing column for The Daily Mirror.
I also only recently discovered that he also wrote a book Fisherman's Forum, first published in 1961.
Reading the book has been like watching an episode of 'Who do you think you are?'
Like myself, my great uncle Dan enjoyed solitary pursuits. "It does not bother me if I do not see a sinner like myself all day," he writes in the preface.
And Dan's commitment to his hobby was resolute. Dan said he'd stop fishing "the day the undertaker comes to measure me for a shroud".
In the acknowledgements, Dan paid tribute to his "angler widow" wife. During the fishing season, he was on the river bank. When the season was closed, he was at his typewriter, turning out articles and stories about his days at the river.
Last week, I did 288 miles on the bike. I'm not on the road today. This is a rest day. I'm writing this column today.
Dan McCrea. I never met you. But I know you.
