Due to the fact that somewhere in the family tree some Great Grandfather left Ireland in the 17 or 1800’s, flash forward a few hundred years and… you guessed it, you’re looking at me! I was heading home in some sense.

My trip had a basic plan, I was young… well in my 20’s. I had some (not much) money, a British Passport (Thanks Dad.), A airline ticket and a wish to get out there and do something different, so on the plane I go.

In no time I had a job, was meeting… you guessed it, a ton of Aussies and Kiwi’s… oh and the odd Irish. Not that you can work out what the hell they are talking about for the first few weeks when you arrive.

At this point I’d like to add that my Irish housemate had been turned into a translator. I’d come home and start asking what the hell… let’s just say “How’s your man” mean? The kind translator turned it into…”that means how is [insert friends name here]”. Well with this ammunition you’d think you could follow the conversation the next time I was asked the question… I never did! Every time I was asked it… I wouldn’t know who the hell they were on about!

Back to Leg meets rock, I shipped over my Cannondale F500 MTB a few weeks after I was settled in. This had two main functions: 1^st was to get me to work, 2^nd was to MTB around the place.

I was at work one day asking where I could go riding, my workmates  asked if I had ridden up the Dublin Mountain? With a puzzled look I ask where was this “Mountain”. After being told I soon worked out it was the large hill close to where I lived in the village of Lucan.

The Dublin Wicklow Mountain “It not a Mountain”

Well the next day I had concurred the so called Mountain, trust me it’s a big hill… hint “Don’t tell the people of Dublin this… they never took it well whenever I mentioned it.”

A few weeks after taking on and destroying “The Dublin Mountain” I was off up there again with a kiwi mate I had met through a friend of a friend (this is how all that have travelled will know… the antipodeans meet.) you tend to gravitate to people you can understand.  Kiwi knew a longer ride so off we went. It was a dry day and the ride was good. We went as far as we could and then headed home. Now here is where the day changed… well for me that is. I’m glad to say that this time I didn’t knock myself out like with When Head Meets Pavement.

We were returning via the same path we had taken. There was a rocky section that we had to push over on the way up. When we reached it and did our calcs, it was a given that we would ride it on the way down. We lower our seat so as not to take out the crown jewels and started over the rocky section. It was about 500m of large close packed rocks that were like huge rounded grey stones. And the width of a fire trail… there was no way around!

What some of the tracks look like, this is not the rocky seation, I’ve been unable to find a picture of it.

Off we went, I was feeling a bit cocky and took off bouncing around to the point the eyeballs where rattling around in their sockets but I was taking on and beating the rocks. Well with about 50 meters to go… you guessed it. It was an over the handle bars moment, with me landing on the flat on the  rocks. Not a face plant (thank god my good looks where saved) but my right upper thigh took a direct hit with a rock. I was down and not about to get up too quick. I managed to drag myself clear into the long grass with more rocks to assess the damage. Lets start the list… can’t breath (optional extra) so I’m a touch winded, can’t stand up (another option extra). The right leg is in serious pain the brain is reporting!

Kiwi finally catches up and says “That looked like it hurt”. Gasping and grabbing the leg I agree! Finally I suck it up and get to my one good leg. Kiwi point out that it’s a long way to the car so we best get moving before the leg gets too cold. Not liking this idea, but I had to agree, so on the bikes we get. Right leg is not willing to work but it’s downhill most of the way back until a steep long climb to were Kiwi’s car was parked.

The downhill was easy in a standing position. The climb to the car was a killer. I had planned on riding home from Kiwi’s house but he kindly gave me a lift home (top bloke). I didn’t make the pub that afternoon with the boys as I couldn’t walk by then.

The injury to the Right leg was as follows. “corked thigh” is internal bleeding or a haematoma of my “Vastus Lateralis muscle” and “Rectus femoris muscle”. I went home and rested. Rode to work for the next few weeks with one leg (that was fun on small, walled village roads in the wet), people at work thought I was a nut. I didn’t seek professional advice and to this day I have lost some muscle mass and have a ding in my leg where the muscle didn’t quite recover. It’s at pocket height so on a positive note is allows a touch more space for the wallet.