I’m walking through the airport in my Team Ireland tracksuit en route to the Paris Olympics. Normally, nobody bats an eyelid at me. But with the Irish tracksuit on, I feel transformed. People are pointing and taking photographs. A couple on their holidays stops to chat. “We’re so proud to meet an Olympian, it’s made our trip,” one says. It’s mad!
I get fast-tracked through security in Paris on to an Olympic bus. While I’m waiting, Team Georgia arrives. It must be the wrestling team. I’ve never seen anything like the size of them. One guy puts his hands on the railing in front of me. It’s so large it could crush skulls – it’s like something out of the circus.
I’m a fairly big fellah in cycling compared to most others – 80kg and 6ft 2in. Compared to these wrestlers, I look malnourished. I’m really in a different world now.
Thursday: stumbling into Andy Murray
I’m queuing up at the Olympic Village for dinner in the “restaurant” – though it’s really like a vast school canteen. I look around – every country in the world seems to be here, all in their team tracksuits. It’s kind of cool. I accidentally clip the heels of the guy in front of me. He glances around, not looking too happy.
Oh, sh*t! It’s Andy Murray.
It may be France, but there’s no sign of cheese boards or confit de canard. It’s athletes’ fuel: pasta, rice, tomato sauce, chicken – nothing too exotic. No one’s on holiday – they’re all focused on their needs. Even the dessert stall looks healthy: rice pudding, granola, Greek yoghurt, fresh fruit.
A giant Krispy Kreme stall might be nice or even a McDonald’s – I’m told there was one in the last Olympic Village in Tokyo. Maybe it’s for the best.
Friday: sleeping in an ‘anti-sex’ cardboard bed
I’ve never slept in a cardboard bed before. There’s a white cardboard frame and base and it sits on two cardboard boxes. It’s part of a sustainability drive. There’s a joke going around that they’re “anti-sex” beds, playing on rumours that the village is a hotbed for hookups.
It hasn’t even crossed my mind – I’m happily married. I’m actually more interested in whether the mattress is comfortable. Surprisingly, it’s lovely.
Most of the athletes are excited about the opening ceremony, sailing down the Seine on a barge in front of hundreds of thousands of spectators.
A downside of having your event the next day is that I can’t attend it. I’m competing in a time trial through the streets of Paris – and, a week later, the road race.
I stay in my room in my little bubble, do some stretching, check my bag and disconnect by watching a Netflix movie – Hitman.
I stupidly start going through my numbers and course in my head, trying to figure out what my best possible performance might look like. It’s about 2am by the time I finally drift off to sleep.
Saturday: rain, drains and pain
It’s time trial day. The rain is pelting down. There’s not much grip on these slippery roads.
I’m more nervous than usual. It’s taken 15 years to get here – and it could all be thrown away in one second by misjudging a corner, slipping on a drop of oil from a police motorbike or grabbing too much brake.
There’s a wall of noise and the crowds are four-deep in the centre of Paris. It’s a fine line between riding as fast as you can and not losing the run of yourself. I’m riding on the limit. I’m familiar with the pain, but it still sucks. Between the cobbles, drains and rain, it feels like they’re throwing f**king everything at me.
I cross the line and I’m thrilled to see I’m virtual leader – for 88 seconds.
I’m the seventh of 34 riders and, slowly, I slip down the leader board as the time-trial specialists do their thing. I end up in 12th place, just one second off my target of a top-10 finish.
I’m proud of the ride, but a little disappointed. On balance, I’m delighted to have had the opportunity to give it my best shot.
Sunday: travels with Peppa Pig
I really miss Gino, my two-year-old boy. He’s the centre of my world. It’s hard watching him grow up on screen because I’m on the road a lot. He’s a proper little comedian and always makes me laugh.
It’s nice to get back to my training base in Yorkshire for a few days – the roads around Paris aren’t great for training – and to pick him up from nursery.
Just before the Olympics he’d left behind one of his Peppa Pig toys at my training camp, so I brought it with me as a memento. He’s obsessed with Peppa Pig.
For a laugh, I got some pictures of his Peppa toy with athletes and celebrities. How many Peppa Pigs have made it to the Olympics?
I get one with Taoiseach Simon Harris. Next on my list is Snoop Dogg; I hear he’s sniffing around the Olympic Village.
Tuesday: a golden moment
I’m delighted to see Daniel Wiffen’s win. I’d run into him in the elevator a few days before, he seems a lovely guy. He’s big, but not as huge as you might expect. It’s still kind of crazy to think he’s a gold medallist.
He introduced himself to me. “I’ve heard good things about you,” I say. We talk about our sports, training and then we’re off on our separate ways.
Thursday: pasta, pasta, pasta
Traffic in Paris is notoriously bad. Thankfully, there are special Olympic lanes set aside for athletes and staff, so we whizz along, while the rest of the city is in gridlock.
I’m back in the Olympic Village and rooming with cyclist Ben Healy. In cycling, we’re used to sharing rooms – it’s not like the Premier League footballers, who get hotel rooms to themselves. The number of bare-arse cheeks I’ve seen over the years is quite worrying. Snoring isn’t a problem for me, provided I get to sleep first. I’ve roomed with cyclists who snore like chainsaws. I’ve nearly had to call in priests to perform exorcisms!
We’ll be competing in the 270km road race on Saturday. We do a recce of the course route. My job will be to support him. In a punchy, one-day race, he has the best chance of winning for Ireland.
I like helping other riders – naturally, I’m that way inclined. I get as much of a kick out of supporting someone else to win as winning myself.
Meanwhile, it’s all about fuelling up. It’s pasta, pasta, pasta – some rice – and more pasta.
Friday: Olympic dreams
It’s funny how it takes a while for things to sink in.
A stranger sees me in my tracksuit and asks me if I’m an Olympian.
An Olympian.
I hadn’t really thought of it like that. I feel proud. I think of the people who’ve got me here: my dad Kevin, who used to race with Navan Road Club and got me into cycling; Bran Nugent in Cycling Ireland who was my first proper coach.
It’s taken 15 years to get here. Regardless of what happens, I’m an Olympian.
Ryan Mullen (29) is competing in his first Olympic Games for Ireland in the road cycling time trial and Saturday’s road race
