Yesterday we covered 43 miles. It was horrendous. To be fair my cycling companions adopted a very encouraging attitude as we trundled along the highways and byways of Loyalist East Antrim. I felt a little abandoned and isolated if I didn’t see a Union flag every mile or two but in fairness the locals invariably obliged.

In small settlements every lamppost is well and truly marked and there isn’t much doubt whose ‘territory’ you are cycling through. What some of the brethren would think of the merry band of GAA enthusiasts cycling through their district makes me LOL.

My sister in law Schira must have been a mountain goat in a previous life. She led us up a succession of climbs, some gradual, some insidious, some just pure bastards. The road from Moss Side to the main Bushmills to Ballycastle line was a route of pain for me. All my considerable weight was pressing down on the base of my spine and for whatever reason this caused more discomfort than ever.

When we finally made it across to White Park Bay, Schira led us up to the Viewing Point. ‘It’s only half a mile up the road’ she cheerily explained. ‘Up’ was the operative word in that explanation. I cursed her every pedal of the way and when we got to the ‘Viewing Point’ I was quite the sight lolling about panting on a raised ditch. Sweat flying, backside in bits. At one stage I almost rolled of the bank down the slope onto White Park Bay. Had I done so I would have gladly dragged my sorry ass across the sand to dip it in the tempting blue seawater.

Having crossed the twenty three mile point at this stage, we pointed our tyres for the Port. The way of fewest hills our request to our leader. I don’t think I’ve ever tucked into Bushmills – either the drink or the village- the way I did on the downhill descent. One and a half miles of freewheelin. I actually felt like jumping off, just for the craic. Schira remarked that I could fair get the speed up on the down hills, but the opposite applies in that I can fair slow the speed down on the ascents. It’s a like a metaphor for life, what goes down must go up and vice versa. So for the exhilaration of tearing into Bushmills, I soon realised that all roads out lead up the hill. Long slow and painful.

At this stage less than ten from home my fellow travellers gradually disappeared over the hill. Even Martin who had covered the distance on his wife’s shopping bike complete with the shopping carrier on the back. He looked like something out of an Adam Sandler film perched on the curious women’s bike with a pair of cycling bib shorted. However, no matter what he looked like, he still bate me home. I limped in, totally and utterly fucked. No other word for it.

When I arrived back to the house, I keeled over on to the sofa an immediately fell asleep for half an hour. When I got up a bath followed by a shower restored a semblence of life, as did some beans on toast and four Jaffa cakes. The only redemption in the day was offered by Lar Corbett and his henchmen followed by a decent run out for the girls on Sunday night.

Arse in flames, spirits in the doldrums. 43 miles I think it was. Well out of my comfort zone. Big time. Soon be time to get back on the bike… and I’m dreading it.

Today I got two bits of sad news in quick succession. I’ll leave the second for again but the first made me sad.

Bob Allard, former Reprographics Manager at the University and a guy with whom I worked closely died last week. He had cancer. I only heard the previous week he was unwell, but as is often the case I didn’t realise how unwell he was.

Bob and I had as much in common as a Muslim and a pork processor. He was as English as could be. He referred repeatedly to going to Londonderry. As a former RAF man he was loyally British. He proudly talked of the visit by Her Majesty for the campus back when it was still the plain old NUU.

His background in the armed forces made him quite certain that black was black and white was white. Never the twain did meet. I know of staff in the University that would rather not do something than incur the wrath of Bob. He was unreconstructed old school. Big time.

Although he was the Reprographics Manager, he had another name for himself and a badge made up to match. Logo Cop. He was charged with maintaining the integrity of the University of Ulster’s logo following its introduction and subsequent roll out. He had a device that he would whip out at the slightest provocation to view the dot spread of the logo and would robustly point out any errors in sizing or printing. He could give chapter and verse on the logo, frequently did and it didn’t matter whether it was the Vice-Chancellor or a secretary, Bob made exceptions for no-one.

Once we commisssioned a VAT consultant to come in and advise us how to claim back VAT, what was exempt etc. With this guy, Bill was his name,the first ten minutes were free and then he charged by the fifteen minute block. And boy did he know how to charge. As a former VAT inspector now gamekeeper turned poacher his advice was excellent. Expensive but excellent. He was also prone to bullshit about two other topics. Manchester United and Golf. He met his match though.

When he came to see us in my office, Bob was ready for him. After the pleasantries were completed (very quickly I might add) Bob whipped out his list of pre-prepared questions followed by a dictaphone which he placed on the meeting table. As the meeting began he proceeded to interrogate Mr VATman – in detail! Not only did he get VFM for his paid for slot, he also covered a fair bit of our ground in the free ten minute slot. The meeting didn’t last long at all. And it was all there on tape too so there could be no confusion and we could listen again to the specific points at our leisure. I think we recovered about twenty grand.

He was a canny wee bollocks. Old school, difficult, cussed and contrary. He also however had a good sense of humour, although he was quite sexist in a Sid James sort of way (to whom he also bore a slight resemblance). He wore driving gloves when driving and it was easy for us to imagine him in his flying gear, up there taking pictures.

He had previously served in the RAF as a photographer and on his wall hung a picture of an RAF Spitfire. He had been given the picture as a gift by a Polish airman who’s life he had saved. He was vague on the details but the picture had special significance to him.

Once when his office was relocated to the Cavehill building – in effect the graveyard of the University – he suffered a break in and was visibly distraught when he learned the burglars had stolen his Spitfire photograph amongst other things. It was of immense sentimental value and he was deeply upset at its loss. The people that stole it of course had no idea of its value and no doubt dumped it somewhere unaware of the stress they caused. It was never recovered.

Bob finished his time at the University and enjoyed a number of years retirement, doing some work for the RAF on its history in the North West.

Although we had little in common we worked on a good many projects together and he was a loyal and dedicated colleague whose work and opinion I and others valued. Those who knew what he did knew it could only work if done Bob’s way. Otherwise, it was the highway. His name still brings a smile among those of us that worked with him.