That was the weekend that was

Ah, the mini-break.  Mrs O and I spent this weekend in Belfast, watching The Tour of Italy bike race kick-off.  We flew out of Heathrow on Friday evening and returned Sunday afternoon.  A fleeting visit, then, but even so, you always return to the homestead with the batteries fully-charged after a weekend away like this.

Belfast has changed so much over the last few years.  I first visited the North in 1997, on honeymoon.  That's how you keep the nuptial magic alive, incidentally: take your newly-minted bride to a war zone for two weeks.  In fairness, Mrs O does hail from Ulster originally, so it wasn't the wanton act of cruelty it might otherwise appear.

On that first visit we drove up from the Republic, and I remember the real fear crossing the border engendered in me.  In those days, you had to be searched and then cross 500 yards of no-man's-land to enter the North.  And this no-man's-land was straight out of Le Carré: armed observation towers, razor wire and armoured personnel carriers.  I covered the terrain at walking pace as I genuinely feared being bazooka-ed for driving too fast and being mistaken for a dangerous insurgent.

And when we reached NI, things didn't improve much.  Each village and small town we drove through was staunchly Loyalist or Nationalist, the flags and coloured paving stones left you in no doubt about that.  As we drove into each new conubation (again at 8 miles an hour), my mind would be doing cartwheels trying to work out how we might go down with the locals.

The reason for the mental contortions was that we are a heady and contradictory mix, Mrs O and I, at least in Ulster we are.  She's a protestant from the North, and I am a London Irish catholic.  I have a very Irish (for which read very catholic) surname.  I have an Irish passport, and she a British one.  And we were driving a British registered car.  We'd left no sectarian offence stone unturned.

Everything, but everything in the North in those days was hugely symbolic and significant: where you went to school, where you went on holiday, your name etc.  Unfortunately, we were screwing with the religion gardar, which made us suspect to both sides of the divide.  Eventually we settled on staying only in the large town and cities, which are mixed and therefore tolerable.

We've been back to Belfast several times over the years since then, and every time you visit, it seems more relaxed and normal than it did before.  The scars are still there of course, but they have an historical feel about them now.  It doesn't feel like the place could tip back into madness (I pray to God - the Catholic one - that I won't have occasion to eat those words).  There's a generation of young adults in Northern Ireland now that has only known peace.  You'd hope they look upon the actions of their forebears and think Just what the fuck was all that about then?

I suspect they will.  Northern Ireland - it's the future.

That would be an ecumenical matter

Mrs O and I are off to Belfast this evening.  We're off to another bike race, the Tour of Italy this time.  The organisers traditionally kick-off il giro outside Italy and get the riders to thunder into the boot, so to speak, after a day or two abroad.  To be honest, though, Northern Ireland's probably pushing the tradition a little far.

Having a stage in Belgium or The Netherlands is one thing; the people there are familiar with bike racing at least.  But the inhabitants of NI are about as familiar with road racing as they are with kabaddi or that Basque version of squash you play carrying what looks like a wicker bidet.  Consequently some of the publicity bumf is pitched at the cycling semi-literate.  No harm in that of course; they can't help it.

The problem with hosting races in countries with no sense of the sport is that the spectalcle is wasted on the herd.  Road-racing is rich with intrigue, plots, bluff and bravura.  That's why the Italians are good at it, and why the public there loves it so much.  All these atributes are considered admirable in Italian manhood.

The one aspect of the sport that separates it from all other endurance events is the premium placed on maintaining one's aplomb and deportment whilst suffering like a dog.  Athletes look fairly ragged when they're charging around the track in their vests and ill-fitting shorts.  Vests, for Christ's Sake.  But even the world's most medicre pro-cyclist will refuse to start a race until he looks a million dollars: bike and kit spotless, legs shaved and oiled and sunglasses in situ irrespective of the weather.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why it's the greatest sport in the world.