Cycling: Cow's blood and raw meat kept the incredible Mick Murphy at the top

ON a Wednesday afternoon in August 1958, I stood amongst the massive crowd of spectators lining the streets of Killarney awaiting with great expectations the arrival of The Ras Tailteann, Ireland's great eight-day cycle race. The crowds had been building up from early that day, and the feeling of excitement and expectation was something that has remained etched in the memory.

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, came a surging, speeding, flashing kaleidoscope of colour as the main bunch or riders raced past us, up High Street and, as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone.

Mick Murphy Kerry 1958

However the crowd was restless. There was something wrong. The race leader s yellow jersey was not in the main bunch, but minutes later there was a huge roar as a lone rider, sporting the coveted yellow jersey, came tearing around the corner of Main Street. Here was the man we had all come to see, Mick Murphy from Caherciveen.

The whole country was talking about Mile A Minute Murphy and the headlines at the time read: The Iron Man, The Iron Hard Light Weight From Kerry, Mick Murphy the Ras Tailteann Sensation, Murphy Tears The Form Book To Shreds.

He had taken over the race leader s jersey from his team mate Mick Ahern on the second day and he would go on to retain it and stun the sporting world, coming from nowhere to win this most gruelling of races. His ride to victory has been described by Tom Daly in his superb book on The Ras as one of the truly epic feats of Irish sporting history .

43 years later, on a raw December day, I sat opposite this Kerry legend, in The Daniel O Con-nell Hotel in Caherciveen. This was the man I had been told would not talk to me as he always kept to himself and had been almost forgotten until Tom Daly re-discovered him for his publication on the story of Ireland s unique bike race.

Mick had sent word to me with the renowned photographer Don MacMonagle that he would like to tell his story to Terrace Talk as he is an avid listener of the show.

Needless to say, I was greatly flattered. Caherciveen friends Kieran McCarthy and Eileen Driscoll arranged our meeting and there in that hotel I was to listen to one of the most amazing sporting and life stories, bordering on the unbelievable, that you are ever likely to hear.

The Mick Murphy that sat in front of me was a far cry from the man whom I had been told about. Here was a wonderful, warm person with laughing mischievous eyes, small, sturdy and barrel-chested.

Despite what I had been told Mick would talk for Ireland, and I was to spend the most captivating four hours of my life in his company as he recalled for me his extraordinary life and times. This is his story, told for the first time for radio, and, yes, it is all true. And remember, the truth should never spoil a good story.

The Tyrone 1958 Rás Team Left to right Paddy Campbell Dungannon, Seamus Devlin Coalisland,Stage winner 1958, Joe McIvor Dungannon, Stage winner 1954 Tommy Drumm Dungannon and Ned Devlin Coalisland trainer.

Mick Murphy was born in the town land of Sugrena, a few miles from Caherciveen. His earliest memories were of great hardship as his father and mother struggled to survive in their small hill farm that supported a few cows.

He had little or no schooling and his mother, whom he remembers with great affection, taught him how to read and write.

Life was terribly hard, he was working on the farm at seven years of age, on what he described as the mean and bad land of our region . He also earned a few pounds for the family drawing turf from the bogs with a donkey and creel during the war years.

My mother was a great women, he reflected. She would sew our clothes, knit our jumpers and there was always food on the table. But times were very hard, because one winter all we were eating was bread and gravy and another winter we had no sheets.

But mother made sheets out of potato sacks. She was a great cook. There was me and my brother, he died when he was just 15. He ran away from home and joined the Cistercians. He got sick, cycled back home and died later, Mick recalled.

The visiting circus was to play a huge part in the developing life of the young Murphy. A neighbour, Joe Bourke, introduced him to the touring circuses and Mick learned to juggle, how to walk on his hands, fire eating and how to balance ladders and wheels on his chin, often with a monkey perched on top.

I learned a various heap of tricks, he said. The circus people were very good to him and indeed it was from here that he learned the benefits of weight training, something that was to stay with him all during his life. They also supplied him with books on training and created an awareness of eating the right foods.

One of the books contained the training methods of Dr Roger Bannister, the first man to run the mile in under four minutes, and from this Mick devised his own gym and training routine.

I started training behind the house, from Cumar to Cumar. It s a big ravine or stream in the land. I would run, back and forth, back and forth, non-stop, and that was the cornerstone of my victory in the Ras.

You could take me to the line for a sprint and I couldn t even attempt it, but give me 400 yards, or a half mile or a mile, and I surged, and when I went they couldn t hold me. I was gone. I was like a trotting horse, ready to bolt.

All my savage training gave me almighty strength. I had fierce strength. I would jump to the front of the pack, turn on the power and wear down the other fellow no matter how good he was.

I got addresses from the circus and wrote away to Russia and learned more, especially about my diet, raw meat, eggs, vegetables, cheese, and I drank cow s blood three or four times a week. I d take about a whiskey glass full.

Then I didn t want to blackguard the cows, so I d get two cows. It was simply done. I had read books and manuals and studied how the Africans of a thousand years ago used to do it. The African warriors would file down something to razor edge, just put it into a vein, in the legs, in the neck, or the thigh. You would get a lot of veins, especially in the legs.

The African warriors would have little bowls of clay, I would have a cup or a water bottle or something, and to stop the bleeding you just squeeze the skin together. There was no problem.

When I began cycling the first years I looked worn out, thin and drawn and the blood would give you a sheen and a different look. When I look at the Tour de France riders, I look at their faces and know they re on good stuff. I used to look at my self in the mirror, that was my barometer. I never drank the blood once I stopped cycling.

I eat raw meat because it s the blood in the steak that does you good. There were a lot of people dying of TB at that time and the raw meat helped prevent it. I bought mail-order remedies for ailments and injuries.

When I was young I fought a heavyweight boxer in a bout in Cork or Clonmel and got badly injured. In the morning my pillow was wet with blood. My mother told me I was worse to her than the death of her son. I wrote away for a cure and it saved my life .

Next week I ll outline the second instalment of the amazing Mick Murphy story, how Mick qualified for the Kerry team, his falls, concussion, a fractured collarbone and how spectators gasped when they saw his shoulder heavily strapped.

He will also tell about the stealing of a farmer s bike to stay in the lead, jumping out through the window of Tralee hospital, living in the Cork woods, stealing a Kilgarvan goat, enjoying a drink of blood after a stage finish, riding to victory and a hero s welcome.