Long before Stephen Roche pulled on his rockstar cycling britches to the breathless enjoyment of frustrated Irish housewives throughout the Pale; long before a Tour de France prologue through Wicklow inspired young chislers to strip the reflectors off their ten speeds “fer aerodynamics, like”. Long before any of that, Tubberfeck had embraced cycling as the town’s true sport. Frankly, they we’re shite at ‘the Gah’ (that’s Hurling and Gaelic Football to the uninitiated – have a google at the two sports), not having produced a single inter-county footballer in 50 years. So, cycling is far and away the superior source of our municipal pride.
The focal point, then – THE event of the year – is the Tour de Bog.
You probably know The Tour as a fine day cycling through the headlands with the family. If ye’ve yet to enjoy the simple competition and camaraderie of Tubberfeck’s Pageant of Cyclery, here’s what you need to know:
The official record of the First Tour de Bog is buried in the Tattler archives somewhere: “Decades ago, at McGillicuddy’s roadhouse adjacent to the Tubberfeck bog, five Sons of Ireland gathered to debate the merits of Eire’s fledgling republic and De Valera’s call to serve it. Inspired by the heroics of the founders of the Republic and by the terrible beauty of our own mountains, sea and boglands, Declan McGee, Seamus Mulvaney, Terrance MacNeil, John Connolly, and Hans Frickenbauer, decided to demonstrate the mettle of Irishmen, both native and adopted. They set out into a fierce Atlantic storm to ride round the bog bringing a message of spirit and pride to the people of Tubberfeck. In celebration of their historic ride, the town organized the Tour De Bog, a semi-annual race around the village bog. In years past, the “Tour” has attracted notable celebrities: Daniel Day-Louis’s personal shopper, the drummer from the Commitments, Bishop Eamon Casey out for a family day.”
That’s not entirely accurate.
Like so many grand ideas, the Tour de Bog was born out of an all-day session on the pint by its young, restless founders many years ago. Staring out the pub’s leaded glass window on the expanse of bog across the road blurred by sheets of rain, a young Declan McGee took a quaff of stout and the fully formed thought came to him as if by divine parcel post. He turned to his university comrades-in-arms:
“We’re 6 pints to the good, lads. It’s lashin’ out. There’s no birds here. We’ve nothing better to do, like. I say we race around that feckin’ bog.”
And so it came to pass. Six sturdy riders . . . well, six riders anyway . . . mounted their bicycles and lunged out into the gale. Three would return to the pub several hours later triumphant, drenched and painfully sober. Another two would wake up the next morning in the Garda barracks on the other side of the County. And one wouldn’t be found for days following a half-hearted search for his mortal remains. As it turned, he couldn’t be arsed to race in the rain and simply went home instead. Sensible really, but such sensibility ensured his name would not be remembered.
In commemoration of the exploits of the five young fearless riders so many years ago, the Tubberfeck Civic League organized the Tour De Bog – a 30-mile race around the very patch of oatmeal and porter-colored sogginess that attracted old Declan McGee and his telegram deliveryboy’s bicycle and alleviated the collective boredom of his birdless mates.
tubberfecktattler.com 