the Cliffs of Moher in darkness, oblivious to their
dizzying heights and stunning beauty. Instead, we
climbed to our highest peak, the 1,500-foot Conor
Pass, and had a parade lap around the craggy cliffs
and sandy beaches of the Dingle Peninsula, all
in broad daylight and blue skies. We stopped for
photos, made small detours, and met the locals. We
were peppered with “Hullo, lads!” from weathered
old Irishmen who seemed caricatures of weathered
old Irishmen. Half joking, we found ourselves think-
ing that we would be a lot faster if Ireland were
uglier. It was a sublime day. Rare for the Dingle
Peninsula. And an ominous calm before the storm.
IN THE MIDDLE OF AN EVENT LIKE THE TAW,
everyday things like the news or the weather or
reality take a back seat to riding, sleeping, and
eating. So when we rolled out of Milltown with an
ambitious 400km on tap, we were wholly unaware
of what was in store. At first light, as we plodded up
the Gap of Dunloe, the first drops of rain began to
fall. The wind picked up as we descended the Gap.
Rain lashed and temperatures dropped. Circling
the Ring of Kerry, we ran headlong into Storm
Hector, which brought gusts as high as 125km per
hour. On the climb up Ballaghbeama Gap in Kerry,
wind-driven sheets of rain made forward progress
near impossible. Bookended by Moll’s Gap, we sur-
vived the Ring of Kerry—barely. We descended into
Kenmare, soaked and shivering. Stumbling into a
large grocery store, we bumped into another racer,
who stated cheerfully in his Scottish brogue, “I’ve
been drier gone swimming.”
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