I’m casually strolling through the airport, from Ireland, adorned in the official tracksuit of Team Ireland, heading to the Olympics in Paris. The usual indifference from those around me has turned into the star-like attraction, probably due to the iconic Irish tracksuit I’m wearing. People are gawking, clicking pictures, and even halting to engage in a conversation. A vacationing couple conveyed their pride in encountering an Olympian, highlighting the highlight of their trip, which is surreal!
As I arrive in Paris, I’m fast-tracked through the security checks onto an Olympic bus. While I was waiting, the Georgia team arrives, presumably the wrestling team, judging by their size, something I’ve never witnessed before. One of them, with his humongous hands resting on the rail in front of me seemed capable of skull-crushing, echoing the vibe of a circus act.
In comparison to most of my cycling mates, standing at 6ft 2in and weighing 80 kilograms, I feel fairly large. But next to these wrestling giants, I seem underfed. This clearly is a whole new world.
Thursday, a casual encounter with Andy Murray
Waiting for my turn for dinner at the Olympic Village which more or less resembles a large school cafeteria, I examine the diverse gathering, with every team donning their team tracksuits, quite enthralling. Inadvertently, I stumbled against the gentleman in front of me and he turned back, visibly annoyed.
Damn! It’s none other than Andy Murray.
Although we’re in France, there’s no sight of their famous cheese boards or confit de canard. What we have on offer is an athlete’s diet – pasta, rice, tomato sauce, chicken – nothing fancy. The setting is professional and devoid of any holiday vibes. Even the desserts seem healthy with offerings such as rice pudding, granola, Greek yoghurt, and fresh fruit.
I confess, the presence of a Krispy Kreme or even a McDonald’s would be welcomed. I heard rumours of a McDonald’s in the previous Olympic Village in Tokyo. Perhaps it’s better this way.
Friday, experiencing an ‘anti-sex’ cardboard bed
Sleeping on a cardboard bed was a first-time experience for me. It’s assembled by a white cardboard frame and a base perched on two cardboard boxes, constructively aimed at sustainability. Jokes about these beds being “anti-sex”, given the Village’s reputation for hookups, are doing the rounds.
I’ve never given it a thought – I’m delightfully hitched. Actually, I’m more fascinated about the comfort level of the mattress, which, unexpectedly, is delightful.
The majority of athletes are thrilled about the inaugural ceremony, where they’ll be cruising alongside the Seine on a barge, witnessed by a host of spectators.
One downside of scheduling my event the following day is my inability to attend it. I’m set to participate in a time trial through Parisian streets and, a week onwards, the road race.
I mostly stay isolated in my room, dedicate some time to stretching, verify my bag, and unwind by watching a Netflix movie called ‘Hitman’.
Foolishly, I start analysing my data and the course route, trying to envision my most promising performance. Usually, it’s around 2am when I finally manage to drift to sleep.
Saturday arrives, a day of rain, drains and agony.
It’s the day of the time trial and it’s raining heavily, causing the roads to become slick and dangerous.
I’m more anxious than usual. 15 years of training could amount to nothing due to even a single miscalculation, a slip on oil from a police bike or over-braking.
The cheering from the spectators creates a wall of noise in the heart of Paris. Balancing between the desire for speed and retaining control is a challenge. I’m reaching my edge. I’m acquainted with the pain but it continues to irritate. With the incessant challenges of cobbles, drains and rain, it feels like I’m being bombarded with adversity.
When I reach the finish line, I’m excited to see I’m the provisional leader – though this lasts for only 88 seconds.
I’m the seventh out of 34 participants, and subsequently, I slowly descend down the leaderboard as time-trial experts commence their part. Eventually, I secure 12th place, narrowly missing out on my ambition of a top-10 finish by just one second.
Though I’m proud of my performance, it’s mixed with a slight feeling of regret. Overall, I’m extremely grateful for having the chance to test my abilities.
Sunday: A journey with Peppa Pig.
In the midst of my travels, I find myself yearning for my little lad, Gino. Even though he’s only two, he’s my entire universe. Whilst it’s tough seeing him grow up via a screen due to my constant travels, his comedic antics never fail to put a smile on my face.
Every once in a while, I manage to return to my training ground in Yorkshire for a brief period. It’s far more suitable than the Paris streets for training, and it’s more delightful to collect him from his daycare.
There was an instance where he forgot his much-cherished Peppa Pig toy at my training site before the Olympics. Since he can’t get enough of it, the toy travelled with me as a keepsake. I found amusement in taking photographs of his Peppa Pig toy with various athletes and celebrities. I wonder how many Peppa Pig toys have had the privilege of going to the Olympics?
A picture with Taoiseach Simon Harris was secured; Snoop Dogg is next in line. I’ve heard he is wandering around the Olympic Village.
Tuesday brought a moment etched in gold. The victory of Daniel Wiffen brought significant delight to me. He’s a good fellow, I met him in a lift a few days prior. He’s a big lad, but not as gigantic as one may assume. Realising that he’s a gold medallist still feels surreal;
“I’ve received good reviews about you,” I informed him after he introduced himself. We engaged in chat about our respect sports and training before going our separate paths.
Thursday meant pasta for all meals. The traffic in Paris is famously horrific. However, special lanes designated for Olympic athletes and staff are a blessing, enabling us to buzz through, while the remainder of the city stands still in traffic.
Living in the Olympic Village, I share a room with a fellow cyclist, Ben Healy. As cyclists, room sharing isn’t unheard of, as opposed to Premier League footballers who enjoy the luxury of solo hotel rooms. Over the years, I’ve seen an alarming number of naked buttocks. Snoring isn’t a problem for me, as long as I am the first one to fall asleep. There have been times when I’ve shared a room with cyclists whose snoring resembled chainsaws, leading me to consider summoning priests for possible exorcisms!
Ryan Mullen, at 29 years old, is representing Ireland for the first time in the Olympic Games, set to participate in the time trial and Saturday’s road race. He’s due to contend in the 270-kilometre road race this Saturday. A pre-race analysis of the track is one of our preparations. His role is primarily to assist his teammate, who presents Ireland’s greatest hope of succeeding in this intense, single-day race.
Mullen enjoys aiding his fellow cyclists. It is inherent in him to support others. Helping another person claim victory brings him as much joy as winning on his own. Nutrition plays a huge role as well – the diet is primarily pasta, with some rice thrown in for variety.
Mulled over, he realizes the profoundness of the title – Olympian. It took some time for the reality to settle, triggered by a stranger’s inquiring gaze at his tracksuit and the subsequent question. This title, ‘Olympian,’ sincerly made him feel honoured. His thoughts immediately went to his supporters, the individuals who enabled his journey to this point, namely his father Kevin, an ex-racer with the Navan Road Club who introduced him to the sport, and Bran Nugent from Cycling Ireland, the person who first mentored him professionally.
Despite the outcome of this race, reaching this point itself is a colossal accomplishment, marking the end of a 15-year long journey, and cementing his status as an Olympian.