At 80 kilometres per hour, there’s little room for bravado. On a cold descent in the Comeraghs, a familiar road, a new pothole and a moment of clarity reveal why experience often teaches us not how to go faster — but when to slow down.
Eighty kilometres per hour is not the time to be asking yourself philosophical questions.
But that’s exactly what I was doing on the descent of Powers the Pot earlier today.
There’s a section of road there — a slight right-hander followed quickly by a left where the tarmac drops away beneath you. If you don’t touch the brakes and you get your line exactly right, you can glimpse 80 kph on the Garmin just as you pass the gate of the campsite.
The road was slightly damp.
My lines were good — not perfect — and I was right on the edge of my bike-handling ability, fighting to stay on my side of the white line. I remember feeling a brief flicker of relief that nothing was coming uphill.
Then the thought landed.
What are you at?
I don’t use Strava much. No one was going to see the number. There was no prize money waiting — no €1,000 reward for hitting 80 kph on a cold January afternoon in the Comeragh Mountains.
There is, of course, a rush to speed. A tightening in the chest. A brief sense of mastery that comes from letting the bike run free.
But the question lingered: what was I really gaining?
I backed off slightly for the next section of the descent, down Tickincor — a road I know as well as any in Tipp or Waterford. On the exit of one corner, a new pothole had opened up, carved by weeks of relentless rain.
I avoided it.
Had I been travelling ten or fifteen kilometres per hour faster — which would have been very possible — there’s a fair chance I’d now be on the other hill in Clonmel.
The one that leads up to the hospital.
Cycling has always made sense to me as a metaphor for life.
In your teens and twenties, the road feels wide. The bends sit comfortably in the distance and mistakes are usually forgiven.
In your thirties and forties, the road begins to narrow. Corners arrive more often. You begin to read the surface more carefully.
By your fifties and sixties, the margins shrink again — the bends sharper, the consequences heavier.
On the bike, this is when you learn the value of feathering the brakes.
Not grabbing a fistful.
Not stopping altogether.
Just easing off enough to stay in control.
Off the bike, the lesson is much the same.
Whether it’s training harder than recovery allows, working without pause, eating too richly, or drinking a little too freely, there comes a point where constantly pushing to the limit stops making sense.
Longevity, it turns out, isn’t about riding faster.
It’s about riding smarter.
Feathering the brakes.
Controlling the pace.
So you can keep making it safely around the bends —
for as long as possible.
Barry
