“It’s a poorer Rás for Pat’s absence, and indeed a poorer world” – Brian McArdle’s Rás Diary

Stage 7 – Dungarvan to Baltinglass (155kms)

“There are some men who should have mountains to bear their names to time.”

For most riders, today’s stage was about Mount Leinster. For me, today’s stage was about a man who should have a mountain named after him. I was up Mount Leinster only once before, two years ago to the day nearly. It was Slaney CC’s Mount Leinster Challenge, and they put up a jersey for the fastest ascent of Mount Leinster. Pat O’Brien took the glory, though he’d never have told you.

My first experience of stage racing was with Pat, in Wales in 2011. I was a lowly A4 out of my depth in the Ras de Cymru, but Pat along with Dave and Declan showed me the ropes in his friendly, smiling manner. It laid a foundation for me, and I still use those lessons in each stage race I do.

This morning the team were feeling under pressure, so I stay toward the back to keep an eye on them. They’re hanging in okay, up and over the first Cat 3. I stop for a quick leak on the ascent, which is being ridden fairly steadily. Back on through the cars afterwards, and we’re onto an uncategorised lump where the pace is ratcheted up.

The guys are going backwards. I’m up to them, encouraging, pushing, try to see if they have an extra gear.

I’m back in the Pyrenees with Pat. We’re on a week long trip with 25 from the club, and have spent the second day tearing each other’s legs off up the Tourmalet (he won). It’s Pat who suggests that we spend the rest of the week taking it handy and helping the slower riders. We had races pushing other riders up the climbs, or sang songs to keep the spirits high. That was Pat’s nature, always ready to help.

Today though, there’s no helping the lads – the legs are gone and they’re in the grupetto for the day. Manuel tells me to push on. I fire up to the next group, but there’s nobody in sight after that. A fitful chase, but I can tell this group isn’t going anywhere, so I push on. I’m in the mood for some suffering. I work with an Asea rider for a bit, but he disappears on the next climb.

I’m bridging to the break in the Rás Dhún na nGall 2013, sitting on the yellow jersey. Pat’s up the road, and I get an armchair ride across. There he tells me not to do a tap, he’ll do all the riding for Orwell, and I’m to save myself for a late break for stage glory. It turns out exactly as he predicts – I dig deep up Glengesh, suffering, suffering. And I win. It’s Pat’s win too, there’s no way I would’ve had the belief nor the ability to do it without him.

The comm is up beside me, “there’s a big group about a minute behind you”. I must be a pain in the arse for the race organisers, one rider in no man’s land. No lead car. But I don’t want the group, I want Pat.

I’m onto the slopes of Mount Leinster. This is Pat’s mountain. He’s an Enniscorthy native, a proud son of Slaney CC as well as Orwell. I’m on my own still, I don’t want to share this journey with anyone. I spy Sean Rowe ahead, another Wexford man. A smile, a shout of encouragement, onwards and upwards.

I’m heading up the Healy Pass in Rás Mumhan 2014, just off the back of the bunch. I follow the wrong wheel into a bend. He overcooks it and saves it. I don’t. I go straight over the lip of the road, still upright as I freewheel down the grassy slopes. A rock, a tumble. I get up and clamber back to the roadside with the bike on my shoulder. Pat’s out of the team car, he checks me over then sticks me on the spare bike and pushes me off. Between sticky bottles and drafting, he gets me back to a group. I’m safe for another day.

I’m over the top of Mount Leinster. The crowds are roaring at the top. I hear people shouting my name. But I only want to hear Pat’s name. I’m down the other side. A couple of lads pull up and offer me a tow. But I want to do this right – no sticky bottles, no bumpers, just a solid ride.

Matteo Cigala hops on my wheel as I pass. He had a mechanical early on and is cruising home. We work together for a while, until he does the smarter thing and waits for the group behind. I wish him well. Today’s not my day for being smart, I just want to ride.

The miles are counting down. I’m not being very successful in holding back the tears as I come inside the final 15km.

I’m inside the final 10km of the Shay Elliot 2014. After spending too much time trying to hold the wheels of McCrystal and McKenna in a chasing group, I’m nearly totally empty. Pat and Fionn are in the team car right beside me, yelling encouragement. I’m close to tears, but Pat won’t let me stop. I cross the line, completely spent but happy to have left it all on the road thanks to him.

I’m into Baltinglass – a moto marshal comes alongside and gives me the thumbs up. There’s nobody else in sight either on front or behind, and I sprint over the line solo before collapsing in a heap.

Tomorrow I’ll cross another finish line in Skerries (all going well), and Pat won’t be there. He crossed that finish line himself in 2012, a Man of the Rás. In 2013, we were out on the Shay Elliot and the Wicklow Gap painting slogans and names on the road for our club mates who were doing the Rás. In 2015, he shepherded me and the team around Ireland as a manager of the Rás. That day in Skerries is a treasured memory.

It’s a poorer Rás for Pat’s absence, and indeed a poorer world. He’ll always be remembered by those who loved him, which was everyone, because how could you not love Pat?