I got the memo that it's honesty week, so I wanted to 'fess up like everyone else (and let you all get to know a great man).

I got the memo that it's honesty week, so I wanted to 'fess up like everyone else (and let you all get to know a great man).

When I was a little kid, I had just the one grandfather, John Redmond McCann (aka Johnny-boy). He was far-sighted, 6’6” and full of energy.

Sometime back then, I don’t remember when, he started a ritual with me for our greetings and departures: he would bend down til we were eye level, grip my shoulders tightly, kiss me on both cheeks and proclaim with great authority, “France is proud of you!”

My grandmother would sigh and roll her eyes, weary from yet another theatrical move from the effervescent man who wasn’t born in France, nor qualified to speak on behalf of the French.

Still, I loved it.

He would beam down at me through coke bottle glasses and wink, the way only a 70ish year old man smelling of Old Spice could do.

The next thing we started doing (perhaps to further irritate his wife of over 50 years) was to sing a duet of “We’ll Meet Again,” the WWII song made famous by Vera Lyn to farewell the diggers on the train platform as they went off to war.

Again, it was incongruous given that he’d not been able to serve in the RAAF in the War because of his appalling vision. But Johnny-boy was all about the effort.

The man was an indefatigable showman. He’d grown up in poverty, with a terrible stutter that he’d overcome thanks to the help of some Dale Carnegie books about confidence. He went on to become a philanthropist, fundraiser, husband, father of 6 and very enthusiastic grandfather of 8.

Since being in the US this season, I’ve been surrounded by enthusiasm. Say what you will about Americans, but never doubt their positivity. And though it hurts me a little inside to admit it, I think some of it is rubbing off.

I was suspicious at first. After being screamed at by volatile Italians directors or being judged for every poor failing in a peloton of professionals, it was disconcerting to have strangers, my director, or even teammates yell “AWESOME!” or “WAY TO GO!” let alone actually thank me for my contribution…

And that’s where my confession needs to be made (and an apology to all the Nuns at my Catholic School whom I refused to confess to):

I am a pathological perfectionist.

Man, it feels so good to say it out aloud. I have crazy, high, sometimes unrealistic expectations. I’m constantly battling disappointment.

When I transferred over to road cycling from a background in endurance sports, I was 33 years old. I said to my family, friends and coach, “I want to be Road World Champion.” Seriously, what a douche bag!

Even though I had not endured the endless kms and hours on the pedals that comes along with getting a bike in your teens, I figured I could achieve my goals in triple-time with a science, a plan, great people around me & a healthy dose of impatience.

An awesome combination had I been maybe five years younger, independently wealthy and not too much of a thinker.

Of course, being an impatient athlete with a strong work ethic had a few fatal flaws. The most vital of which I am only just coming to realise: I missed out on the wonderful discovery, play and the essential FUN that accompanies riding a bike.

That freedom, riding for the heck of it, racing buddies for invisible sprint lines, mountain biking, track racing…there was none of that. I chose to have very specific goal-oriented training and I applied the same discipline and focus that got me into and through Med School: hard work = results.

Guess what? It doesn’t.

This is professional road cycling. There are hundreds of women more experienced than me. Fitter. Faster. They have pro teams with staff who aren’t alcoholics. They cruise through fast moving pelotons of 150 women without breaking a sweat. They don’t think about it, it just comes instinctively to them.

After two seasons racing in the National team, and a fair chunk of personal stress, I departed for my first pro contact aged 36 riding in an Italian team for the World Champion. It was thrilling, terrifying, crazy hard and an amazing opportunity. But it wasn’t fun.

The following season I rode in another Italian team. It was harder, more abusive, isolating. I was a little better but I still wasn’t actually enjoying what I was doing.

When my only point of contact with ‘home’ was the National team staff, I was pretty horrified at the end of 2011 to be informed I was too old, too fat, too slow, too lacking in talent and unlikely to be useful to ever represent Australia again (at least, not on Barras’ watch).

That made me pretty angry. Here I was, trying to be great. Trying to prove my theory of hard work yielding results while everyone with any power was telling me I was worthless.

Actually, I lie, I wasn’t angry. I was devastated.

Sure, the people in charge aren’t there to hold my hand and acknowledge my hard work, they’re there to win medals by casting their eagle eye over our pool of talent in the hope of discovering potential greatness.

Athletes strive to win for all manner of reasons: to gain love and acceptance; to fulfil dreams; to do as they’ve learned to do; some to fit in or others to stand out; and then there are those that need to annihilate the opposition and prove to the world that they’re invincible because NOT winning is unthinkable (I’m paraphrasing Armstrong’s psych review here).

If I think about why I want to be a great athlete, I suppose it’s because I want people to be proud of me. I want my hard work recognised and my loved ones, my coach, and my teammates to acknowledge that I have all the qualities I so desire.

Fortunately for me, I have extraordinary people in my life. Supportive, hilarious, kind, generous, motivating and intelligent people who allow me to do my best. They also remind me that this is all I can ask of myself.

Lately, I’ve reminded myself of the importance of actual fun and joy in what I’m doing. The enthusiasm and positive vibes that circulate around the US racing scene is certainly unlike anything in Europe, and I’ve been lucky enough to see a lot of this enormous country and benefitted from the generous hospitality of friends in many towns.

Today, after finishing reading Hamilton & Coyle’s book ‘The Secret Race’ in all its gory, grim detail of lies, ruthlessness and athletic self absorption, I headed out in the Californian sunshine for a long solo hilly ride.

I noticed I was just riding. Feeling my legs, hearing my breath. No session plan or target wattage, not even a medium term goal that I had to achieve. I felt so happy.

I thought about Johnny-boy, the night before he died of oesophageal cancer.

We went to see him in hospital that night, expecting the worst. But there he was, sitting up in bed, like an impractically tall skeleton, his glasses held together with celotape and not quite straight.

He was chugging down some yoghurt, the only thing he could swallow and announced vehemently “I’m building myself back up!”

Indefatiguable.

As we left, he grabbed my wrist in his bony cool hand and pulled me to him with what energy he had left in his exhausted cachectic body. Staring me strongly in the face with pale blue eyes, he said “France is SO proud of you!’

The next day he died.

At the funeral, I managed to sing “We’ll Meet Again” interrupted by streams of tears and we celebrated his extraordinary life in fine style.

I may be a slow learner, but I’m working out that there is enough pain, sadness and disappointment in the world of elite sport without me contributing further with my own personal self-loathing.

I’m still trying to be great and make people proud, but I hear it’s possible to do that while smiling, laughing, bringing joy and having fun. I’ll let you know how that goes.

In loving memory

John Redmond McCann 1915-1995

‘All his beauty, wit and grace Lie forever in one place’